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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9. More Doppelgangers.

What seemed like years later, Sherlock woke up again. The first thing he noticed was his discomfort and numbness of his limbs. He was sat on a wooden chair, with what felt like rope tightly binding his arms behind him chair at the wrists.  Moving them slightly, he hissed as the rope burned into raw flesh. He must have been conscious before, struggling and trying to break free. His heartbeat was pounding in his head and he felt like it was about to burst through his skull. His eyes were worse, fuzzy and unfocused, so it was difficult to see the room he was kept in, with only a few candles in the corners to illuminate it.

Sherlock noted that there were two other chairs with slouching men tied to them either side of him, one of them being the doctor. The rest of the room was empty, minus a few wooden boxes propped up against a stone staircase. In fact, the whole room was made of stone, the crumbling walls supported by rotten wooden beams giving Sherlock the impression that they were in a basement somewhere.

The two other men were still unconscious, so Sherlock tried to clear his foggy mind by observing the unknown hostage. He had dark shaggy brown hair that brushed past his ears, probably with matching eyes. Stubble was spread across his jaw, but because of the uniform length and angle at which it was cut Sherlock decided it was a fashion statement rather than showing how long he’d been held down there. Grey suit trousers and bright, intricate silk waistcoat and cravat were worn under a long fitted black coat. Scuffed black shoes were tired to his chair, much like Sherlock’s own. Well worn, the clothes screamed expensive tailor, so this man must be earning good money in order to purchase them, but maybe preferred to spend it on other things rather than buying a new set when one became dirty. It was quite similar to what Sherlock did with his own money in order to fund his experiments.

Before he could see anymore, a door at the top of the staircase creaked open, and Sherlock dropped his head and half closed his eyes to appear still unconscious. John; or the man calling himself John, as Sherlock was sure no man sharing the name of his closest friend could be so evil, closed the door behind him, carrying a lantern downstairs and placing it on one of the wooden boxes. He glanced over to the three men, not noticing anything different, and turned his attention to the boxes. He carefully cracked the lid off one, trying not to make a sound. Whatever was inside, it glinted menacingly in the light of the lantern.

‘John’ chuckled to himself, picking up one of the objects and twirling it around in his hand. As it passed by the light, Sherlock got a good look at what it was, and his heart stopped in his chest. A polished, slender blade attached to a black and gold handle, both edges and the tip were sharpened within an inch of its life, and could probably cut flesh with the slightest of pressure put on it. It looked like the box was full of more, ranging from swords to daggers. Is that what every box was full of? Is that what was planned for him and the Doctor?

After checking what was is the first box, ‘John’ chuckled to himself, replaced the lid, and walked back upstairs with his lantern, once again making Sherlock adjust his eyes to the dim room. He suddenly thought of using one of the knives to cut his ropes, but it didn’t seem likely. If he tried standing, he’d fall on his face. If he tried dragging the chair along, it would make a terribly loud sound. And even if he opened the box, how would he pick up the knife and break the rope? Another thought occurred to him as the probability expired from his last plan. The Doctor’s Sonic Screwdriver. He had seen it many times as a child, and knew how it could be used for almost anything. No one’s coat had been taken away, so there would be no reason for the screwdriver not to be there. The distance between the two men was much shorter, so Sherlock started shuffling towards him at an angle, so his hands would be able to reach the Doctor’s jacket.

It took forever to reach him without making a noise, but Sherlock gave a small laugh of triumph when his hand felt the tweed of the jacket. Unfortunately, he could only tug at the sleeves because of how low down his hands were tied. And if ‘John’ came back downstairs, there’d be no time to move back and pretend to be asleep again. While Sherlock had been doing this, the third man had woken up, and was watching him with curiosity. After Sherlock had given up and began shuffling back to his original place, the third man whispered,

‘You know, in my trouser pocket there’s a small knife that could cut through rope. I can’t reach, I’ve tried. But if you can, we can help one another and your friend over there, yes?’

Sherlock jumped at the sudden break of silence and turned to the man. While from London, this man’s voice was well articulated, so he must have been of some importance in middle or upper class.

‘Yes, thank you.’ The two began moving their chairs, meeting halfway Sherlock began fumbling around for the knife with his limited hand movement.

‘Steady on, I normally take someone out to dinner before they have their hand in my trousers. I don’t even know your name.’

Sherlock snorted as he finally got hold of the knife and began to saw through his bonds.

‘I’m not really from around here, but know of London very well, so maybe it would be more beneficial if I knew yours first.’

The man didn't seem bothered about getting asked his own question, and simpy replied with ‘Well that’s obvious. I’ve never seen a man dressed like you before even though your friend fits in here fine. If you must know, the name is Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.’

Oh not again. Out of all of the eras in London the TARDIS could have landed, why now?

Sherlock sighed, thinking this situation couldn't get any worse ‘I don’t know how you’ll take this… but my name is also Sherlock Holmes. I can’t imagine it’s very common, but I’m not lying.’ He had made swift work of the rope, and was now working on his legs. His arms and back felt extremely sore as they were moving again, and he noticed red rope burns around his wrists.

‘Oh I know you’re not lying. The way you were looking at me earlier is exactly how I look when deducing something, and I've never seen it on anyone else. Zoned out but still focused. Believe me, this city has seen stranger than this. Judging by your clothes, you’re from a forward time, so as the original Holmes, I get the right to say I prefer to be called by my last name. You can be Sherlock. That’s an easy way not to get confused when your friend wakes up.’

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at how calm Holmes was taking this as he stood from his chair. How did he know about time travel, and what did he mean by ‘stranger than this’?

He stretched his back, wincing as the bones clicked into place, and started work on his other self. Soon both of them were freed, and Sherlock was about to start on the Doctor when another question sprang into his mind.

‘Do you know who that man is, the man who brought us down here and looked in the box of knives?’

‘Oh yes, he’s been a pest for quite some time. My rival, if you will. His name is James Moriarty.’

Oh, of course it was. At this point Sherlock half expected Mycroft to stroll in.

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