The Great Escape.

A Sherlock/Doctor Who crossover fanfiction set after the Reichenbach Fall. Doctor John Watson can't bare to live without his best friend, and Sherlock and the Doctor set out to stop John before he does something reckless.


Written by Chloe Smith and Becky Webber.

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5. Living Alone.

-Two days previously-

Sherlock sat up in bed, expecting to hear the gentle bubble of the kettle as John made his tea. As he had been for the previous six months, he was wrong, instead the stunned silence of 221B rung in his ears as Moriarty's bomb had. The light was slowly creeping in through the gap in his curtains, and he made a guess that it was, in those warm Summer months, around 6 o'clock. Another restless night, cumulating in 3 hours of a fitful sleep. Nightmares. Falling, arms waving... And then nothing. Waking up just before hitting the ground. A body left behind, blood spilling on concrete.. And John.

Mrs Hudson was audibly shuffling around downstairs, the whistling of her teapot peircing his early-morning half-slumber. There wasn't any point in delaying the boring routine that he'd been following for the past six months, so he dragged himself out of bed, yawning massively. Before all of this, before Moriarty, he'd never been tired. And then suddenly he started to get nightmares, sleepless nights of laying there, staring at the ceiling and thinking I could have died today. He had never told John this though, for fear of him worrying or losing focus on his blog or working at the surgery.

Sherlock sighed as he pushed open his bedroom door, dying for a mug of tea. He glanced around the room, noting where Mrs Hudson had cleared a path through the mountains of boxes from his constant undecided packing and unpacking so that she could get into his cluttered kitchen. A half-empty carrier bag had been placed on his table with care between his microscope and a test tube rack of blood samples. She had washed his abundance of used mugs, and left him alone. Why did she have to leave him alone? 

He needed a case. Something to distract him, but no one is going to let the 'dead' Sherlock Holmes solve a case. He had done the occasional office job for Lestrade so that he could pay his rent and food costs, but that always meant that he would have to be in the same building as Anderson, and that thought always made him shudder. 

The TV flicked on at the forceful press of a sticky button, and Sherlock sat in his chair. This had been how he had spent his months, withering away in front of an old television set. Silly little sitcoms that had begun to numb his brain into the runny mush that has everything in common with the brain of an ordinary person. Instead of watching the countless numbers of orange-skinned teenage girls claiming that a random man who looks as if he should be in the homeless-network got her pregnant, Sherlock began to count how many people knew he was alive. 

Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. Sally Donovan. Molly. 

Four people. There should be five, but Sherlock didn't know how to tell John that he was alive. He certainly knew that he couldn't try Miss Adler's idea; I'm not dead. Let's have dinner. He certainly wasn't going to type that out in a text message. He had typed out hundreds of text messages over the past few months, but had never had the willpower to click send and face the consequences of a former Army Doctor who had thought he was dead. 

Instead, Sherlock sat back dry mouthed, and watched the world live on. 

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