literature

The Curse of the New Heart

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The events that took place on the roof were still a bit of a blur to Sherlock. He could remember his fear, the hopelessness that had engulfed him as he called John to say goodbye. He fell, and everything turned black. Then he woke up.

The next few days had been worse than his panic in Dartmoor. He had found himself alone in an old sewer tunnel, lost and without his phone. All he had was his blood stained clothes and a pocket watch.

He was unscathed, but everything felt off. His mind was working faster than ever, but at the same time he did not feel overwhelmed. At least not by the work. The new, random, impossible information flooding his head was the problem. He could not believe it, the whispers that he was not human, but an alien from a planet galaxies away.

Sherlock had wondered if he was in some sort of afterlife, despite his disbelief of such a thing.
The whole idea of life after death was to comfort those who needed it, and so he discarded that theory.

There was a simple test, but he could not bring himself to do it. He wandered the endless tunnels for days, trying to ignore the golden wisps that escaped his mouth every few hours, blaming his fatigue for giving him hallucinations.

He discovered an old bomb shelter and halfheartedly picked at the cans of food, wondering if any were still edible. In his head Sherlock knew exactly which were and weren't, but as a bit of rebellion against his situation he ignored this knowledge. He locked the doors to his mind place and hid the key.



Two weeks latter Sherlock gave into the whispers, still lost in the maze of tunnels. He sat with his back against the brick wall and removed his jacket. With a sigh of resignation he pressed the palm of his hand against the left side of his chest. He felt his strong heartbeat. His strong, slightly irregular heartbeat. He slid his hand down and to the right and felt the beating of a second heart.

He snatched up his jacket and fished the fob watch out of his pocket. He knew that it had caused this...this change. It ticked softly in his hand, its golden case gleaming in the dark. Sherlock listened to the hypnotic rhythm before unlocking his mind palace, allowing the information to stream through.

Sherlock stood up suddenly. He knew exactly what he need to do. He was going to get out and find John. He knew the way out of the sewer, he had always known, but before leaving had not been allowed. Something in his mind had changed, and he walked swiftly despite the darkness.

He emerged a few blocks from Scotland Yard, the sunlight burning him. Sherlock had adapted to life underground, and he let out a low hiss at the assault.

The stares from pedestrian made Sherlock painfully aware of his rugged appearance. He ran his hand through the stubble on his face and frowned. Deciding he should clean up before confronting John he turned and headed to a nearby gym.

Sherlock snuck into the men's changing room of a rather posh workout center. He had specifically chosen this place because it had individual shower stalls, and he hurried to the largest one. The door locked with a satisfying click and Sherlock set about cleaning his clothes.

Realizing he should clean himself as well he stuck his head out off the stall. The room was empty and he carefully selected a locker that had been untouched for months, possibly years. The door slid open after some work with a paper clip and Sherlock smiled smugly.

He removed the contents and laid them out on a bench. Neatly folded gym pants and a plain t-shirt, never worn. A few bottles of expensive shampoo and conditioner. Shaving cream and a sharp, old fashion razor. A crumpled membership card with one stamp, March, six years ago. And a fluffy towel embossed with a navy ‘MH’ and a tiny umbrella.

Sherlock laughed manically, leaning against the wall for support. He felt the stress of the last few weeks disappear as he sunk weak kneed to the ground. He had given Mycroft the membership as a joke, and now he saluted his past self. Hearing voices approaching the locker room Sherlock quickly scooped up his findings and scampered to the shower.

He sighed, trying to repress his giggles as he turned the tap. He relaxed under the stream of warm water, letting his mind wander.

His mind suddenly snapped back into full gear as he heard a voice outside.
“Why do you reckon they aren't having a funeral?”

Sherlock frowned and reached for the shampoo, then froze when he heard his name.

“For Sherlock Holmes? That man does not deserve one. You have heard of the things he did, pretending to be a hero. He was idolized, but if you look back at the interviews you can see his true nature. He was rude to the point his assistant had to talk for him. And he shot a man, the one who was interview for that paper, what was his name?”
The other man grunted halfheartedly and started talking about talking about how his father had been a mortician.

Sherlock frowned with this new information. As he shampooed his hair he turned the words over in his mind. He was not dead, and why anyone thought so was absurd. He had fallen from Saint Bart’s, but there would not be a body--and therefore not a funeral.

A voice in the back of his mind told him to keep hidden. He considered the risk of being recognized. Clearly someone was covering for him, making sure everyone thought he was dead. Mycroft? Lestrade? Molly? But why?

Sherlock heard the door slam as the two men left the room, and wrapping the towel around his waist he walked out carrying the razor. He studied himself in the mirror. His hair was a little longer, but not unmanageable. His eyes were strained, and his bones a bit visible, but otherwise he looked like his normal self. Sherlock started shaving his face when something on the bench caught his eye.

One of the men had left his membership card, and according to the stamp it was three days after his fall. Sherlock let out a yelp as the razor nicked his skin. He sat down pressing his hand against the small bleeding wound.

He had spent almost three weeks in the sewer, his physical state was proof of that. He tried to look look through the updates made to his mind, but the information was still processing.
It could have been some sort of time loop Sherlock mused. Do time loops exist?

Sherlock’s face stopped bleeding and he walked back to the mirror, careful to pay attention as he dragged the sharp blade against his skin. When finished he took a moment to inspect his work. Satisfied Sherlock walked back to the stall.

His clothes were still damp, and the voice in his mind reminded him to try to blend in. With a sigh he put on Mycroft’s t-shirt and sweat pants. He was going to look like a walking circus tent. Brilliant.

He nicked a backpack unwisely left on a bench and stuffed his clothes and everything from Mycroft’s locker into it. Sherlock slung the bag over his shoulder before slipping out a fire exit and starting off to 221b. He heard several people discussing him in low voices, and was grateful he had chosen to disguise himself. He did his best to block out the conversations, most of them were unkind.

Sherlock managed to snag a paper off an old man ranting about a cabbie’s price and wandered casually into an ally. Once he was out of view he flipped through the pages, desperate to understand what was going on. He knew papers were all glamor and sensationalism, but at the moment he did not have any other means to learn about his ‘death.’

He found an article and started reading. Sherlock tried to shut down his emotions, but he had felt extremely vulnerable ever since he had woken up in the sewer. Instead he read about another man. A man who lived to create trouble. How this man had masterfully gained the trust of the police force, resulting in the sacking of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and unpaid leave for William Dimmock.

Sherlock felt sick. Vicious anger was swelling in his chest. He wanted to rip the paper, to burn it. To burn down the entire printing company. He knew his anger was partially caused by guilt, because even though he had grown to care for Lestrade, he had taken advantage of the DI on numerous occasions. Sherlock had assumed his friends would be safe after he had jumped, and now panic was rising to join his anger.  

Over the course of six years he had discovered that Lestrade often suffered from depression. He had never used it to insult the DI, being able to relate. Sherlock had deduced that most of it was caused by childhood trauma, and Lestrade’s unfaithful wife did not help. Like Sherlock, work had been his distraction, but now unemployed he would have nothing. Sherlock was aware that Mrs. Lestrade only stayed in their marriage for financial support, another thing he never brought up.

Sherlock’s mind raced looking for a way save his friend. Mycroft had a soft spot for the DI, despite the fact he ordered him around. Perhaps he could ‘adopt’ Lestrade in Sherlock’s absence?
He would have to leave Mycroft and anonymous note, or else recorded a message and change the date to make it appear as a last request.

He forced himself to continue reading the paper. It mentioned the murder of Richard Brook. The fake genius detective’s revenge before suicide. Finally he found mention of John, the poor brainwashed victim taken hostage by Sherlock Holmes. No charges were being held against Mr. Watson, who had declined to comment.

Sherlock felt a surge of relief. He had hoped for John to get out with a clean name, and this was better than he had imagined. He wondered how John felt. Was he sad? Angry? Resentful?

Sherlock folded the paper and noticed a matchbox on the ground. With grim pleasure he lit a corner of the paper, watching it curl and blacken. He needed information from a dependable source. The homeless network was resourceful and the most accurate, but not entirely trust worthy. Before he talked to John he need some facts.

Hurry down back roads he located his destination. Sherlock popped open a basement window and slipped in, forcing the backpack after him. He scanned the room. It had been left mostly untouched since he had moved to Baker Street as requested. He noticed his stash was gone, but he was glad it was.

He climbed a ladder that lead to a small door in the ceiling and knocked three times. There was a crash of breaking dishes and the sound of heavy footsteps from above. A loud voice boomed and a door slammed. The small door was almost torn from its hinges and two strong arms reached for Sherlock, pulling him into a bone crushing hug.

Sherlock waited patiently to be released, the smell of cooking making his mouth water. He had never felt so hungry in his life. Angelo finally let go, and looked him up and down. “I never thought I would open that door again.”

Sherlock managed a weak smile. “Yes, I never expected to be down there again. I need your help.”

“You know me, ask for anything.” Angelo glanced at the shattered plates, “I assume you want absolute secrecy.”

Sherlock nodded, “I need you to send a note to my brother, claiming I gave it to you the night before I jumped. And...I need to know were John is. Also some food.”

“You know where the paper and pens are, I will go get you something to eat,” Angelo said gruffly. He left the room, locking the door behind him. Sherlock made his way to a desk piled with folders and selected a clean sheet of paper. He tapped a pen against his chin, trying to find words appropriate for the note.

He started with ‘Dear Mycroft’ and suddenly felt the words tumble from him, racing each other to appear on the page. He was shaking when he put down the pen and reached for an envelope. He questioned himself for writing the note. Why? He was going to reveal himself to John, and eventually Lestrade. Why was he acting like this? Why was he writing off everyone he cared for and tying up the loose ends?

His thoughts were interrupted by Angelo, who carefully placed a plate of bread and  pasta on the desk along with a glass of water. Sherlock snatched up the bread and tore at it savagely, eating like a starving wolf. He took a sip of water and started on the pasta with a little more grace.

Angelo watched him eat before clearing his throat. “John is at your service.”

Sherlock put his fork down and wiped his face with his sleeve. “I read that I did not get a funeral.”

“Your brother arranged a private one. Apparently you have already been buried, so I suppose this is just a mourning event. John and your landlady plan on visiting your grave afterwards.”

“I must meet him there,” Sherlock said rising from his chair and pulling on his coat, remembering with a bit of annoyance that he was still wearing his brother’s workout clothes. He handed Angelo the note and climbed back down into the basement. Sherlock grabbed his scarf from the bag, deciding to leave the rest of his meager possessions. He would get a change of clothes when he and John went home.

Sherlock pulled himself out of the window and hurried in the direction of an old cemetery. It had closed when he was a child, but his family had some ownership of it, and Sherlock was sure Mycroft would have chosen that place.

He spotted the new grave instantly. The black stone shined clearly from the other gray crumbling memorials. Sherlock walked to the tree that casted a faint shadow over the grave. He touched the bark, brow furrowed, searching with his fingertips. His hands found the place were the surface was scarred. He remembered when his brother use to take him to this tree, were they use to play pirate. He smiled at the initials carved into the dry wood.

A car approaching in the distance shook Sherlock from his memories and he quickly walked away, far enough to observe without detection. He watched Mrs Hudson and John walk to the stone and felt his hearts swell.

He let out a sad chuckle at his landlady’s outburst. When she walked away Sherlock made to walk to John’s side, but he could not move. His body would not respond. John’s words toyed with his emotions, and he tried desperately to join him. John turned to leave and Sherlock stopped struggling. He stared at the back of the blond head, and to his surprise John turned back to the grave.

John was pleading with him to come back. Sherlock wanted to scream. He wanted to run after his best friend. His body remained stationary. To think months ago he had considered a bit of fear as his body betraying him.

As John walked off Sherlock let out a low growl of frustration and despair. Once John was out of view Sherlock’s body began to take messages from his brain again. He walked over to his own grave and sat with his back pressed against the stone. Something was telling him that he was not allowed to see John. There was not rational reason why, but it was a fact. For three years.

Sherlock put his head in his hands. How was he suppose to last three years?






Almost two years after he had woken up in the sewer Sherlock returned to London, desperate to see John and wanted in four countries for an array of offenses. As if by some curse he was unable to contact or approach his friend. On the two year anniversary of John’s first visit to Sherlock’s grave he left the fob watch on 221b’s doorstep. It had been a dreary morning, and Sherlock sulked out of view waiting for John to find it.

To Sherlock’s surprise John seemed to recognize the watch. John’s face had cleared for a second, the weariness slipping away. He had grabbed the watch, but then his face fell. John hailed a cab and sped off. Sherlock did the same and pursued him, his driver somehow hitting every red light. John was clearly headed for the cemetery, and Sherlock impatiently fidgeted in his seat.

When Sherlock finally arrived he headed straight for his grave, but hit an invisible boundary meters away. He clambered up a maple tree and was able to get a clear view of his friend. John was sitting in front of the grave, clutching the fob watch. He stood up suddenly and looked like he as going to hurl the watch at the stone, but instead he put it in his shirt pocket and walked away looking devastated. Sherlock felt his hearts break.

He slid down from the tree and straightened up to see a tall man watching him. Sherlock was slightly distracted by the police box the man was leaning on. How the man had gotten a police box into the cemetery was a puzzle the old Sherlock would have jumped on, but now he turned to walk off.

“You need a distraction,” the man called after him. When Sherlock turned back to him  the man continued, “I am the Doctor.”

“The only doctor I care to grace with my company just walked off,” Sherlock said, cursing his voice for trembling.

“But you can't follow him,” the Doctor said walking to stand next to Sherlock, “waiting here any longer will destroy you.”

“What do you suggest I do?” Sherlock muttered not meeting the other man’s eyes.

The Doctor gave him a sad smile. “Travel with me. I would be honored.” He walked to the blue box and unlocked the door, then motioned for Sherlock to open it.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “You expect me to travel with you, in a police box.”
Then something in Sherlock’s mind clicked into place. The Doctor felt, familiar. The blue box, it wasn't really a blue box. He stepped forwards and pushed the door open.

“A Tardis, this is a Tardis?” Sherlock asked stepping inside, the ship emitting a happy purr.

The Doctor entered after him frowning and shut the door. “How did you know that? Did you ever work with a man called Captain Jack Harkness on a case? Or a group called U.N.I.T.? They have a base in South Devon called Baske-"

“You must be a Timelord,” Sherlock interrupted as if he had not heard the Doctor speaking. He walked up to the Tardis controls and on instinct rotated one of the levers. The Tardis let out another purr and the Doctor stood dumbstruck.
“I am a Timelord too.”

The Doctor looked stricken, “That is impossible. The Timelords died, Sherlock, all of them. I was there. I condemned them.”

Sherlock studied the interior of the Tardis. He had basic information, but his mind craved more. He stopped suddenly. He had forgotten John. How could he have forgotten John?

“This is a time machine,” he said steadily, “please take me a year into the future.”

The Doctor, still recovering from the shock of finding another Timelord, responded weakly, “I can't. It doesn't work like that.”

Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look and the Doctor continued, ‘“Three years, no exceptions, things are no different if I take you forward, you will still need to wait and John will have to wait even longer.”

“How do you know about this three year deadline?” Sherlock angrily spat, “is it some sort of rule? You wake up a Timelord, and you need to be separated from those you...you love for three years?”

“The Tardis scanned you,” the Doctor said sliding the screen hanging from the controls towards Sherlock, “it recognizes you as a Timelord, and it had a little note.”

Sherlock glanced at the text glowing softly and wearily put his head in his hands, “Do you know why this is happening? Am I cursed?”

“I do not know, but I will do my best to find out,” the Doctor said in a gentle voice, “will you travel with me?”

Sherlock slumped onto a seat he suspected was ripped from a car and tied onto the floor. “Yes,” he said quietly, promising John he would be back as soon as the final year was up, and not a second later.
Part 1:The Empty Watch
Part 2:Here
Part 3:An Involuntary Vacation
Part 4:The Child in the Woods
Part 5:Dreams
Part 6/Mostly Likely the Last Part:Returning Home

Sorry if it started a bit dry.

I am assuming you read the whole thing if you are reading this

Thank you, you beautiful person


All due credit to BBC Sherlock and Doctor Who
© 2013 - 2024 DragonHaven42
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Banana-Baa2012's avatar
This is great :D

APPROVAL.

GERONIMO!