Title: What He Missed
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock/Doctor Who (Eleventh Doctor)
Characters/pairing: Implied John/Sherlock, one-sided John/Eleventh Doctor
Warnings: No beta and not Brit-picked because this was just a quick thing to keep me entertained at work. Apologies for any errors.
Summary: An old friend comes to visit John, but the good doctor has to decline his generous offer.

Notes: For this prompt at sherlockbbc_fic: Sherlock/Doctor Who crossover: Either Sherlock and Watson on the trail of the Master (and getting taunted every step of the way, of course), or Sherlock having to work with Eleven, or Watson being Eleven's companion. Or all of them, at once. TAKE YOUR PICK. I don't care what other details you throw in, so long as it turns out to be epically awesome. Possibly a bit angsty-er than the original prompter wanted. Feel free to point out any mistakes, since this was so hastily done.

Sherlock is bored. John is flipping through channels on the television while thinking that Sherlock's uncharacteristically quiet sulking is rather nice. They haven't had a case in several weeks, and Sherlock has finally run out of things to do. His latest experiment has been put on hold for a day and John had taken it upon himself to hide Sherlock's violin a few days ago.

He's honestly surprised Sherlock hasn't barged up to his room to rescue it from John's sparsely-filled closet. He must have worked it out by now. But for whatever reason, the instrument remains undisturbed for now and the two of them are enjoying crap telly. At least, John is.

And then he hears it.

Vworp vworp vworp...

It takes every bit of John's self-control to keep from screaming and jumping up. Instead he takes a deep breath and stands.

Sherlock hasn't moved from his position on the couch. His back is to John, and John can only assume he's finally fallen into a sulk-induced sleep.

"I'm going to the store," John announces, praying Sherlock is actually sleep and not just pretending. "Need anything?"

The back of Sherlock's dressing gown doesn't respond and neither does Sherlock.

John turns and races out of the flat, not even bothering to grab his coat. He's just closed the outside door as a familiar giraffe-limbed man emerges from the blue box that has suddenly appeared just outside of 221B Baker Street.

"John." The Doctor's grinning like the madman he is and wearing an alarmingly strange hat.

"Doctor." John's reply is more tense. "Interesting hat."

"Thank you. I think it's cool."

"Very cool," John agrees, but his mind is racing. He's trying to think of a way to get rid of the Time Lord before Sherlock's nap ends and he has to explain the Doctor and his hat. He doesn't even want to think about explaining the TARDIS.

("It's bigger on the inside, Sherlock."

"But that makes no sense. That should be impossible. And why does it look like a police public call box?"

"It just does. It used to be able to change it's appearance but--"

"But how? Technology like that doesn't exist. It's impossible."

"Well the Doctor's a really advanced alien--"

"Don't be preposterous, John. Aliens don't exist."

"Yes, well they do and he is one. A Time Lord--"

"I thought you said he was an alien. Make up your mind, John.")

It would be disastrous. Sherlock would despise the Doctor--or even worse, find him interesting and then he would try to kill him so he could dissect him and find out what made him tick.

John shudders, trying to get the image of a war between the two most brilliant men he's ever met out of his mind before turning his focus back to the Doctor. He's looking up, studying the facade of John's home.

"Sorry--what are you doing here?"

The Doctor turns back to John with a satisfied smirk. "I should think that would be obvious," he says, adjusting his bow tie. "I'm here to visit you and your...lovely little flat."

John's heart leaps into his throat. No no no...

"I don't think that's a very good idea." He swallows. "No, that's...a terrible idea. Worst idea you've ever had actually."

The Doctor frowns and John can see him mentally replaying every plan he's never made. "Well I think it's a brilliant idea. I come here, visit you in your boring little life, and then whisk you away for one last adventure. Don't you like the sound of that?"

No, he doesn't. Not at all. John doesn't want any more adventures in space and time, running for his life. He wants his nice, not-so-quiet life here in London with Sherlock. Go to the clinic, get the milk, rows with the Chip and Pin machine. Home in time to help with a case, chase a few criminals around, keep Sherlock from leveling the entire street all of the sake of an experiment. Nice, quiet life. That's what he wants. Not Daleks and Ood and Cybermen and--oh god, all of that running.

"Well?" the Doctor pushes. "What do you say? You and me, all of space and time. Doctor Watson and the Doctor again. Just like old times."

John knows him well enough to see that his crooked grin was being used as a front to mask something else--nervousness? loneliness? hope? Probably some combination of the three.

"Are you alone then? No one else about to come out of the TARDIS looking for you?"

The Doctor deflates a bit. "No, just...me."

"Oh." John suddenly feels overwhelmingly guilty. The Doctor is alone. Again. He needs someone and instead of picking up the first bright young thing unfortunate enough to all head over heels in admiration with him, he had come back. To John. Because he needs him.

But Sherlock needs him too. And while the Doctor is the sort who could connect with people wherever he went, Sherlock isn't. The Doctor's brilliance attracts people to him; Sherlock's brilliance repels. The Doctor could find a new friend--much more easily than Sherlock ever would.

"Sorry. Can't. Would love to but...you know." He pats his leg. "Fought in a war after you, trying to find some excitement. Got shot at. Don't think I could keep up anymore. All that running."

The Doctor's face falls. It's a shit excuse and they both know it. John hurriedly tries to lessen the negativity of his response.

"Do you still want to come up? We could have some tea or something. Catch up, talk about old times."

"Sure, just let me get something from the TARDIS and I'll be right up. And then we can talk." The Doctor is grinning again, but John has heard the excuse enough times to know that he won't be having tea with the Doctor today--if ever.

"You're not coming back out of the TARDIS and we both know it, Doctor."

"No, I'm not."

John swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. "Just promise me something Doctor."

The Doctor considers for a moment before answering. "Alright, John."

"Take care of yourself."

"I always do."

"No you don't."

John has to look away suddenly. He thinks about all of the times he had looked up at the sky, wondering where his Doctor was, wondering if he'd ever come back for him. And he did. His lonely Doctor, and he needs John. But it's too late. He can't go.

John struggles to explain. He needs the Doctor to understand that no matter how much he wants to go, he just can't.

"I've got this flatmate, you see. He needs me. Not that--I mean, he's brilliant. But so stupid. Bit like you that way. He forgets to eat. Doesn't always sleep. If anything happened to me when I was with you...if I just disappeared one day. It would...he would. Well, it wouldn't be good.

"He's a lot like you," John continues. "He does this thing, he can just look at you and--he's brilliant. And he's not nice, but he does help people. He cares. About everything--even when he pretends he doesn't. And I can't just leave him." He stops himself before he babbles on any further.

"I'm sorry," he says finally.

"I think I understand," the Doctor says, and John feels sick because he's pretty sure the Doctor doesn't understand. He wonders how many other times the Doctor has had this conversation with his other companions. He's not abandoning the Doctor. He just can't abandon Sherlock.

"You should come back," he says. "Sherlock--that's my flatmate--Sherlock is asleep right now. But you should come back later. Meet him."

The Doctor's mouth quirks upward. "Come on, John. You know how I feel about domestic--"

John laughs. "Oh, it won't be domestic. I can promise you that. It'll be anything but domestic. So far from it, it'll make leaving Jack to have his fun on Risa look so domestic you'll be sick."

They share a laugh then, and for a moment John feels like he really could run off with the Doctor again to see the universe.

But then the Doctor glances up and his laughter dies, John's stuttering to a stop shortly behind it.

"Good bye, John."

"Please come back," John begs, and he isn't sure if he means it or if he's just verbalizing the emotion scrawled over the Doctor's entire being. "Good bye, Doctor."

"Good bye," the Doctor repeats. "Doctor Watson."

John doesn't wait for the Doctor to shut the TARDIS' door before he turns and walks back inside. He can hear it taking off as he climbs the stairs.

Vworp vworp vworp...

When he re-enters the living room he finds Sherlock still asleep on the couch, which is a miracle in itself. He sighs, and then crosses to the kitchen to make himself some tea. When it's finished, he shoves aside the remnants of an abandoned experiment and sits at the table.

"Come with me."

The plea had been obvious on the Doctor's face, John could read it even without Sherlock's powers of deduction.

There had been times when he had wished the Doctor would come swooping back into his life. Mostly it had been when he was in the hospital, recovering and without much else beyond pain killers and therapy to keep himself entertained. But it had been a long time since he'd last thought about the Doctor. Not since the showdown at the pool between Sherlock and Moriarty.

How convenient, he'd thought while strapped to vest of explosives, it would be if the TARDIS were to materialize just now and the Doctor were to emerge, ready to save the day once again.

He'd needed him then. He doesn't anymore. Now he has Sherlock.

In his pocket, his phone sounds.

Bring me tea.
-SH

"You could come in here and get it yourself, you know," he shouts even as he stands and crosses to the stove. The most brilliant mind in all of London and he still can't manage to get off the damned couch to feed himself.


Later:

Sherlock almost misses it because a lorry has parked across the street, blocking most of his view of the other side. But he spots it out of the corner of his eye and the shock of blue jolts his memory of John on their stoop trying to get the Doctor to leave.

He hadn't been able to hear much through the closed window, but it had taken only a quick internet search to turn up information on the Doctor and his blue box. He didn't care much for the rampant

And now here it is. The TARDIS.

Sherlock crosses the street. POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX, the sign reads. John had clearly wanted Sherlock and the Doctor to never meet. Sherlock needed to know why. He reached for the door and pulled.

It was locked.

Scowling, Sherlock turns and stalks off, intent on return after retrieving his lock picking kit from the flat. He's vaguely aware of Mrs. Hudson speaking to him about someone doing something because of someone, but it isn't relevant to the TARDIS parked across the street so he deletes her words even as she says them.

His kit isn't on his desk or the kitchen table. Counter--no. Not under the chair. The fireplace yields nothing but mail and the fact that Mrs. Hudson has once again made off with his skull. There's something he's missing.

John must have moved it. He'd said something the other night. About things and places and Sherlock hadn't thought it was important, because it wasn't.

Where does John put things?

John's room--no, that's for John's things. He doesn't like Sherlock's things in there. He'd made a fuss when Sherlock had left that leg in there. Where then?

His room! He bursts in there and finds his bed cluttered with papers and empty test tubes and his lock picks. He shoves the entire leather-bound kit in a pocket and stalks toward the door. He's lost precious time.

His foot hits the first step down. He's missed something. Is it important? Surely it isn't if he can't even think of what it is.

Halfway down--no, it is important.

Mrs. Hudson is standing at the bottom of the stairs. Speaking. Saying things. Unimportant things. There's something he's missing and he needs to think--and why is she still talking? His mind goes back to the flat. In the door, papers where he had left them when he'd gone to Bart's earlier. The knife was still holding his mail. His skull was not in place, stolen by Mrs. Hudson. As were the several jars of jam that he had used for an experiment the night before. There was the man on the couch. The kitchen was as he had left it. His room--the mess on his bed, all items that John had been complaining about although he couldn't see why.

Stop.

Man on the couch. Seated. Legs crossed. What was he doing there?

Why was Mrs. Hudson still talking?

"--leaving your guest when he came all this way to meet you."

Oh. A guest. Coming to meet him, must know John.

He turns and bounds back up the stairs.

The man is still sitting on the couch. He smiles at Sherlock before standing and extending a hand and saying,

(Older than he looks, trying very hard to look young. Traveler. Long way from home, or at least where he was born. No intention of going back. Lonely. Hasn't spoken or seen John in a long time but recently enough that he knows of me. Reaching out now because he's feeling--what? Guilt? More loneliness? Nostalgic? Need more info. John hadn't mentioned anyone visiting. Surprise visit. Worried John might not want to see him perhaps? Did they part on bad terms. Again, need more information. Tired, sad--and something else. But what?)

"Hello, I'm the Doctor."

Oh.