An Eye for an Eye (Doctor Who/Sherlock Crossover)

What's Lost is Lost

Author's Note: It's been two months. I am SO, so sorry! The reason why I haven't posted is two-fold. One: I had no idea where to go with this idea. But I did some plotting, and now I know! Two: COLLEGE. And senior year. Applications are tough! But I've gotten most of them in and I should have plenty more time.

AND, to make up for not posting in eons, I'm writing the fifth part right now and it should either be up tonight or tomorrow morning. But thanks so much for reading and commenting and voting! I promise I'll be more consistent now!

~

The Point of View of John Watson

    “You’re always so predictable, Doctor. You make this so easy. I appreciate it, I do.”

    The Doctor turned from the window and looked at Moriarty, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m here to please,” he said tightly. “Jim.”

     Moriarty grinned, and even though he had a different face, John knew that sneer. He saw it in his nightmares – whatever was going on, whether it was aliens or plastic surgery, this man was certainly James Moriarty. And it only stirred up months of bitter resentment and anger.

     “I don’t know why the hell you’re here, but I want you out of this flat,” John said, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw hurt. “And I don’t ever want to see you again.”

    The consulting criminal looked surprised, as if he hadn’t expected to see John standing there in his own flat. “Mr. Watson, what a pleasure,” he chirped. John’s blood ran cold.

    “Get out,” he said.

    “Oh, so touchy. John dear, stop taking things so personally. This has nothing to do with you. But our lovely Doctor is bound to show up anywhere there’s something amiss ,aren’t you, Doctor?”

    The Doctor glared at Moriarty with such intensity, John could tell immediately that the two had history. And John knew that look on the Doctor’s face – it mirrored his own. It was the look a person gives when staring in the face of a murderer; the murderer of a friend. John suddenly felt a strange kinship to the strange man he had tried to kick out of the flat just moments ago. Moriarty had clearly taken a loved one from both of them. And now he had to pay.

     Moriarty ignored the glares. “Oh, it didn’t have to be you, I suppose,” he said to John. “But really, it’d be plain rude if I didn’t send a message to our dear friend Sherlock.”

    “Sherlock is dead,” The Doctor said, so quickly John didn’t even have time to consider saying the same thing.

    “Is he, though?”

    “Of course he is,” John responded, his stomach clenching. How dare he show his face here, and mock a dead man? “I saw him fall, I went to his funeral. I buried him.”

    “Sure you did. Oh, poor little Johnny,” Moriarty chuckled, stepping into the room. “I was dead too, remember?”

     The words sent a chill down John’s back, something he was used to in this particular psychopath’s presence. But even after he looked away from Moriarty, the hairs on the back of his neck were still raised and his stomach still churning, for some reason he couldn’t quite place. His gut never failed him. Something was wrong.

    And then he remembered – Moriarty had been walking with another man. Where was he?

    “Doct –”

    Before John could even finish the word, there was an explosion from outside the window. It knocked all three men to the floor, and John winced as he felt his bad leg spasm on impact. There was glass everywhere, imbedded in the carpet. John could feel some of it in his hair. He raised his head slowly, only to see the room filling with smoke that clogged his lungs and stung his eyes.

   They had been attacked.

    Through the smoke John could make out Moriarty sneering at him as he lifted himself up off the floor, as if the explosion hadn’t affected him at all. Standing in the midst of the destruction, Moriarty brushed off his suit and rolled his neck. Then he approached the Doctor’s body, across the room.

    John tried to sit up or shout something but his head was spinning, his vision taking on colors. He could taste some sort of chemical in the air, and before he could try to figure out what Moriarty was doing, his eyes rolled back and he fell unconscious.

 ~

The POV of Sebastian Moran

    Sebastian was memorizing the tile pattern on the outside of 221B from the apartment across the street when he heard Moriarty coming in through the door, humming some foreign tune that sounded like something out of Titanic.

    “As always, Sebastian, your timing is impeccable,” Jim crooned from just behind his shoulder. “Perfect aim. Perfect shot. It knocked them out cold. And I got what I came for.”

    Sebastian turned and looked Moriarty up and down. He was expecting some sort of prize or evidence that they had been successful, but he saw nothing. “And what, exactly, did you go there for?”

    “This.” Jim reached into his jacket pocket, never breaking eye contact with Sebastian. In-between his two fingers was what looked like a rusting, common-place house key.

    “A key. Since when do you need keys to get in anywhere, Jim?”

    Sebastian looked back out the window and exhaled. He had been tolerating his boss’ idiosyncrasies since he “regenerated”, but sometimes they were too much to take. It was as if everything Moriarty was before – brilliant, a master thief, a definite sadist – were being overshadowed by his general insanity. The things he talked about, the way he acted…it seemed as though he had finally gone over the deep end.

    And stealing a key? James Moriarty didn’t need keys. He never had. They had even broken into the very apartment they were standing in, so Seb could shoot the gas into 221B. Clearly, Jim was insane.

    But Jim just grinned, twirling the key between his fingers. “Not just any key, Seb. This is the most important key in the universe.”

    “Of course it is,” Sebastian said in a monotone. “Well. What’s it the key to?”

    Moriarty leaned in close to Seb – so close that he could feel his breath, labored and heavy. “The TARDIS.”