Remember that wholock thingy? Yeah, here it is.
Just another case, a dull one. The son of some rich and influent person had been kidnapped, and as Sherlock supposed at the very beginning, the author of the crime was his nanny, who apparently wished some days of quietness without the spoiled brat around wracking her nerves.
So, Sherlock and John were heading back to 221B Baker Street for another quiet evening of blogging, and playing the violin and yelling at the telly, wasn’t it for a little inconvenience.
A big black hole opened beneath Sherlock’s feet, and he saw nothing else but darkness.
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When Sherlock opened his eyes, he was lying on the cold pavement of London. There were no cars in sight, nor people, when he sat up and looked at his clock to see what time it was. Ten p.m.
How was it that John let him faint like that in the middle of the street without taking him back home? Did something happen to him? Most unlikely, since there wasn’t traces of fight anywhere and he, in the first place, was unharmed.
He stood up, founding his legs trembling ever so slightly, and he took in a couple of deep breaths into the cold December air. He looked up at the sky when he noticed some snowflakes falling to the ground, and frowned.
How was that possible? He had been lying there for what must have been less than thirty minutes judging by the time, and there were no clouds when he fainted. Moreover, there was no wind, so it was improbable that they gathered all together in that short amount of time.
Sherlock brushed his coat and decided that it was better to go back home, speeding his pace so that he could get to the flat in the shortest time possible. Once he got there, he produced his key from his pockets. Usually he would have knocked and waited for someone to open, but since he wasn’t sure that John was there and alright he had to do things this way, the “common” way.
The door opened and Sherlock stepped in, quickly going upstairs to their shared flat. There he found the second door strangely closed, and with a irritated huff he took his keys out again, opening it.
“John, why did you lock the door?” he asked, annoyed when he entered, founding the army doctor sitting in his usual armchair beside the fireplace, wearing a pair of glasses and a newspaper in his hands.
But he also noticed that the flat was oddly tidy, and that none of his things was there, not even the skull on the mantle. But he had no time to question it, as the other man had stood up to approach him, looking quite angered.
“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house, how did you get in?” he yelled at him, and Sherlock’s mouth went agape in surprise.
“Because I have the keys to my flat, like any normal person!” he replied, still confused.
At this, John seemed to calm down and he nodded as if he was getting something. Then, a female voice came from the kitchen, followed by the figure of a slender, blond woman who crossed her arms as well. “Is this a friend of yours, dear?” she asked, confused, but with a kind smile on her face.
Sherlock eyes widened when John nodded and grabbed him by his arm, pushing him out of the door. “Yes, an old friend… But he was leaving, don’t worry!” he says, closing the door behind him.
“John, what’s going on?” the detective asked, brows knitted together in confusion.
“No, I’m asking you, who exactly are you?” came the angered question.
Sherlock’s mind went blank at that, hands trembling out of shock. He wasn’t serious, was he?
“What kind of question is it? John, what’s going on, who’s that woman?” Sherlock yelled, pointing his finger towards the door of the flat.
He only obtained a puzzled look.
“That’s my wife, Mary Morstan and I would appreciate it if you could stop yelling, you could wake up our son.”
For a moment, Sherlock’s world stopped and he looked at the doctor as if he wasn’t really seeing him. Wife, son, what…?
“If you’re a former renter and you’re here because you left something here, you could just tell me what it is and…” John started, but Sherlock stopped him abruptly by grabbing the sides of his face, staring him right in the eyes.
“John, what is going on?” he asked, threatening. But the smaller man didn’t seem threatened in the last. He just shook the other off himself and stepped back.
“I don’t know who you are, but this is Doctor Watson to you. I am a primary to Saint Bartholomew’s and you are probably just a drunk bloke with this ridiculous prank in mind.”
“No, I’M NOT!” Sherlock just roared, unable to contain himself. “We are flatmates, John, we both live here! I’m a consulting detective, you are a former army doctor and we solve crimes together for Scotland Yard!”
The only think he got back was a scowl and that pout he knew so well, followed by a shook of the other’s head as he withdrew in the flat.
“Yes, sure. Now go back home to mommy kid, before I call Scotland Yard to let you solve crimes with them.”
With that, he closed the door in his face, and Sherlock for the first time in his life had no idea about what was going on, nor what he was going to do.
His mind was blank and his chest throbbed as if someone stabbed his heart.
“You are my friend…” he whispers to the closed door, before backing toward the staircase, stopping right before the first step. He then turned and rushed out of the building, almost running to get away from there, the snow swirling furiously around him as if he was in the middle of a storm.
When he stopped he found himself in a dark alley, leaning against the wall, frozen trails of waters on his face as he stared hard into the pavement. He let out a sob, just one, before roughly shaking his head, feeling a couple of tears falling onto the ground. What happened?, he thought to himself.
Then, a voice came from behind him. A woman’s voice, who startled him and almost made him jump.
“Are you alright?” the voice asked, and when Sherlock turned he found himself facing a blond girl, a twenty years old probably, with a Tesco’s bag in her hand.
“Go away.” Sherlock growled, not wanting to talk to some random stranger. But the girl didn’t leave, and approached him.
“You know, the first thing I noticed when I got to this world is that there was no you - no Sherlock Holmes.” she said, causing Sherlock to spin his head so fast that his vision blurred for a moment.
“What do you mean?” he asked, puzzled, standing upright again.
“I mean what I said.” the girl didn’t add anything, and Sherlock approached her with an angry expression on his face.
“Explain yourself! What did you mean by ‘this world’?” he asked, angered.
“What I said. I’m not from this world, I was never born here, as you never were.” she said quizzically, causing the detective to laugh out loud.
“Are you trying to say that this is some sort of parallel universe?” he said bitterly amused, but the girl remained serious.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. My name is Rose Tyler, and I come from the same universe as you do.”
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OK, SO, I’LL HAVE TO STOP NOW BECAUSE IT’S LATE, BUT KNOW THAT WRITING THAT SCENE JUST BROKE MY HEART, OK? OK.
Tell me what you think about it, and if I should continue (otherwise my laziness won’t let me)!
