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.


3. The Man in the Pinstriped Suit.


Sherlock looked at the man in his raggedy clothes with the fading red bowtie, and frowned. Everything about this man confused him, almost as much as Irene Adler had confused him almost a year before. This man was bouncy and young, smiling like a child at Christmas, and yet there was an air to him that didn’t sit right, didn’t match up to his youthful appearance. There. In his eyes. The irises were a gentle hazel, the sort of colour that can only be achieved with age. Somehow, this man was old.

His hands were smooth and completely still as his arm retracted from Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock deduced that this man was used to working outdoors, especially from the state of his clothes; well-worn and weathered, some frayed threads here and there on the sleeves and the shoulders. The smile that was still plastered on his face bothered Sherlock.

He didn’t need another doctor in his life. He had John.

‘Hello,’ Sherlock said hesitantly, abandoning his usual confidant demeanor in the shadow of losing his friend. ‘I don’t believe that we’ve met.’

‘No, no, of course not, Sherlock. How silly of me,’ The strange man, the Doctor replied as he stepped back and looked him up and down. ‘Oh wow, you have grown. It was only yesterday that I saw you and Mycroft with your tiny little swing sets and detective games in your mother’s back garden. It was always so overgrown. I seem to remember you calling it-’

‘Our little jungle,’ Sherlock reminisced, before snapping back in reality, his expressionless mask re-attaching itself when he was so suddenly taken aback. ‘How did you know that? Who are you?’

That was when the blue box came into focus behind the Doctor, the words ‘Police Box’ illuminating the slowly dimming forecourt of Scotland Yard. Sherlock’s reaction could only be compared to that of a man convinced he had just seen the ghost of his dead mother. That blue box had been haunting him, a single niggling sensation at the base of his skull that he refused to disengage, for fear of forgetting the man in the pinstriped suit.

‘It’s you… But… How?’

‘I never lost you, Sherlock. I’ve just been waiting for the right moment.’

The tension between the two men heightened in that moment, Sherlock searching desperately within the folds of his mind to find where he had stored the precious memories of John Smith. He then realised that Doctor’s face had fallen, as he glanced down at the paper Sherlock had folded neatly into his palm despite the creases. Sherlock’s heart sank, and remembered why he was here in the first place. He silently hoped that the Doctor didn’t ask what was wrong; he had always despised revealing emotion, it was almost like exposing a weak spot in an otherwise impermeable suit of armour. Luckily, the Doctor already knew what had happened. 

'How about we go inside?' He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder again, this time guiding him towards the blue box. 'I think the kettle's just boiled...' 

Sherlock took one last look at the Doctor, glancing up at his pushed-back hair and down at his scuffed shoes before giving up on deducing for the time being. He let the raggedy man push him gently towards the door that had swung open at a click of his fingers without exclaiming or even blinking. It was as if the tall, black-clad private detective was in a daze, which was extremely out of character for him. It was only when a steaming mug of tea was shoved into his left hand - the right one was clenched around John's note -, did he pay attention to his new surroundings. 

'What do you think?' the Doctor called from what sounded like below him. 'She's not much, but she's home.'

'We're still inside the box?' 

'TARDIS,' the Doctor corrected Sherlock, much to his irritation. 'But yes, if you must call her a box, we are inside the blue box which is currently stood outside of Scotland Yard. I'm quite sure that I also saw your friend Lestrade staring through the crack in his blinds a moment ago, too. Now, I'll ask again. What do you think? I need a critical eye's opinion.' 

'Sentimental, Doctor. I feel flattered,' Sherlock's sarcastic tone was slowly creeping its way back into his voice, and as he cast his gaze around the room he sipped on his tea. 'Alien technology, I'm guessing. The core is of course in the centre, with what seems to be a control panel, a telephone, and... Is this a toaster?' 

'Oh, yes! I love toast. It's a brilliant idea.' 

'Obviously. What else is in here? I'm quite sure that it's much bigger than just this room and where you are down there. Am I correct?' 

'Exactly,' the Doctor's head appeared from behind the coat rack, and he smiled. 'I have a swimming pool, several bedrooms, wardrobes, and other necessities my companions may need... The TARDIS is a very efficient ship, she seems to have an ifinite number of rooms. I haven't seen all of them, and I've lived in her for nearly 1000 years.'

'Interesting,' Sherlock sipped his tea soundlessly, pacing around the control panel. 'So, what exactly are you doing here, Doctor? And don't leave out any details, or bore me.' 

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