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charleygirlTitle: Strange Bedfellows
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2092
Characters involved: Sarah Jane Smith, Mr Smith, Sherlock Holmes
Genre: Fluff
Disclaimer: The Sarah Jane Adventures are copyright to the BBC. Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Author's Note: Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wytchcroft for the suggestion which gave me this idea and woke up the muse. :) This fic makes reference to my Sherlock Holmes/Doctor Who story The Hand of Seth.
Summary: A temporal leak results in a strange encounter in Sarah's attic.
STRANGE BEDFELLOWS
In retrospect, Sarah realised, she should have guessed that today would be one of those days when at breakfast she discovered that all the eggs in the box were broken, the bread was stale, and there was a small puddle of temporal energy lurking by the back door.
It was mid-morning before she had the chance to retreat to the attic to ask Mr Smith how best to deal with said energy, and about another half an hour after that when she definitely knew that the world was going to hell in a handcart.
What should have been a simple manoeuvre, to open the door and leave the attic, walking down the stairs to the hall where she could pick up her bag and car keys and go outside into the fresh air, proved to be somewhat problematic. To start with, the door refused to open. This was odd in itself, as there had been no trouble with the handle just a few minutes earlier. However, it didn’t seem to matter how much she pulled or twisted, it simply would not budge. In frustration, she kicked at it, earning herself no more than a stubbed toe and treating the empty attic to a few choice curses.
“Great. Now what am I going to do?”
Luke was at school, and no one would be stopping by who actually had a key to the house and might be able to let her out. She checked her watch and swore again: eleven twenty-seven. At least four hours before she had even a hope of rescue, and that was only if the kids came straight home and didn’t dawdle at the shops or were – worse case scenario – abducted by aliens on the way.
“I can’t stay here all day; I’ve got an appointment at one o’clock! An important interview!” she shouted at the ceiling. Unsurprisingly, the ceiling didn’t reply. Goaded beyond belief, Sarah threw herself at the stuck door and tugged on the handle with all her might. “Come on, come on, don’t do this to me, please…”
Maybe it was the cajoling, maybe it was sheer coincidence, but quite suddenly the handle turned and she was almost thrown into the middle of the room as the door flew open much as if it had some force of nature behind it. Sarah stumbled, just about kept her feet and then found herself staring in disbelief at the tall, gaunt figure who was impossibly, incredibly, but very definitely there in the doorway. To her credit, she wasn’t the only one staring, but the stranger recovered himself quicker than her and said in a deep, authoritative voice,
“I had no idea I had a client, Mrs Hudson made no mention of anyone waiting. I am sorry to have kept you – there was a little difficulty with the door.” He looked at her curiously. “Are you in need of a doctor, Miss…?”
Sarah straightened, now recognising him. They had never properly met, but there was no mistaking the piercing grey eyes and the hawkish nose, the look of keen intelligence in his face, familiar to almost the entire population of the world since the end of the nineteenth century. For the moment he lounged quite comfortably in the doorway, one hand in the pocket of his brownish-grey dressing gown, the other holding a cigarette between his long fingers. “Smith,” she said, “Sarah Jane Smith. And, no, I’m fine, thank you. I do have one question, though – what are you doing in my house, Mr Holmes?”
He frowned. “Your house? My house, surely! This is 221B Baker Street - you are in my sitting room.”
“Not quite. This is actually 13 Bannerman Road, and you are in my attic. Take a look,” she added when the frown became sceptical.
After a slight hesitation, as though he feared she might be mad and raving, Sherlock Holmes, private consulting detective, stepped into the room. For a moment astonishment flashed across his face before he covered it with a blank mask – Sarah however did not mistake the mix of curiosity and excitement which danced in his eyes and which he could not hide. His gaze swept the room, taking in the paperwork, the photographs; all those odd and amazing alien artefacts she left scattered about. Eventually he swung round abruptly to face her and pointed a finger under her nose. Sarah jerked her head back just in time to avoid being stabbed.
“You,” he announced, “You seem familiar to me, and yet I am unable to deduce the first thing about you. How can that be so?”
“Because you have been removed from your natural environment,” Sarah said, knowing that fish out of water feeling intimately from her travels in the TARDIS. “You have no data upon which to base your deductions.”
Holmes nodded, moving the finger to rest against his lips. “That would certainly make sense,” he agreed. “I have seen you somewhere before, however. Have we met?”
“Not exactly. You remember the affair of the Hand of Seth?” She hoped that whatever temporal disturbance had brought him here plucked him from a time after their paths had crossed – it would make life so much easier.
For a long moment he stared at her, as though trying to read her thoughts, before recognition dawned and he sighed, a not-quite smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “Of course. Watson always did say he thought there was something…unusual about that case.” The mention of his friend caused him to gaze about the attic again, his eyes drawn to the open door through which Sarah could see a dark and untidy bedroom, the walls covered with photographs of unsavoury-looking individuals. “Watson! Where is he?”
“Back where you should be, I assume. This must be something to do with that temporal energy in the kitchen – I was going to deal with it when the door fused.” Sarah crossed to the middle of the room. “Mr Smith, I need you!”
With its usual fanfare, the supercomputer rolled out of the wall on her command. This time Holmes did not even attempt to disguise his amazement – Sarah made a mental note to ask Mr Smith what they could do about…adjusting his memory before he went home. If they managed to send him home, that was. She didn’t like the crafty expression which came into his eyes at the sight of Mr Smith one bit, knowing that, given the chance, he would be wanting to ask about all sorts of things that Victorian detectives should not know.
“Hello, Sarah Jane. What can I do for you?” Mr Smith enquired smoothly, lights flickering.
“Run a scan for recent temporal activity, please. We have something of a localised problem.”
“Very well. Scanning now.” The computer beeped and blooped for a minute before announcing, “There is a temporal anomaly standing approximately three feet to your left, Sarah Jane. Were you aware of that?”
Holmes snorted and looked rather affronted at being described as a ‘temporal anomaly’ – to him it probably sounded like an insult. Sarah tried not to smile.
“Yes, quite aware, thank you. Can you find the source?”
“Temporal energy readings reaching the high end of the scale within this room, becoming dangerous in the vicinity of the doorway. I cannot measure the level of the disturbance, as it stretches beyond the reach of my search parameters.”
“In that case the vortex must be affected,” Sarah mused. “Is there any possibility of us being able to correct the problem without assistance?”
“Negative. The disturbance has stretched back through time. Only a Time Lord would be able to search out and neutralise the source of the temporal leak,” Mr Smith replied.
“Yes, it would be a bit beyond UNIT’s capabilities.” She paced back and forth for a moment, considering the options. There was no way of knowing how far the leak had spread – if it was affecting more of the house Luke might be affected on his return… They had only one choice. Decision made, she turned back to the computer. “Mr Smith, I think you know what we need to do.”
“Forgive me, Miss Smith,” said Holmes as Mr Smith began sending the distress call into the vortex, “I am aware of being somewhat at a loss, but I can gather enough to tell that some calamity has occurred to force us together in this way. My query is, how long is it likely to keep me from my work?”
Typical. Not fazed by a different century or finding himself without warning in someone else’s house, all that worried the great detective was being away from his clients.
“We’ll try and resolve it as soon as possible, I promise,” Sarah assured him. “I have work of my own to do.”
He looked at her again, the sharp grey gaze running over her face, her clothes, apparently taking in everything about her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Frustration made itself visible in the set of his mouth, his black brows drawing together in a line. “Nothing,” he said angrily, whirling round and stalking across the room, dressing gown flying behind him. “Nothing! Other than the obvious facts that you are in late middle-age, have never married and live with one adopted son, I can deduce nothing whatever about you.”
“For someone abruptly thrust into the twenty-first century, that’s pretty good going,” she pointed out, but it did not mollify him.
“Trifles, nothing more than trifles! If I am to be stuck here for long I must do better than that.” He sank down on a chair, suddenly looking a little dejected. Maybe he was more affected by the sudden removal of the familiar than he had been letting on, Sarah thought as he glanced up at her with something just a tiny bit lost in his eyes. “Am I likely to be here for long?”
“Not if I can help it.” She smiled, and he smiled slightly back.
“You must understand, Miss Smith, that for one who has built his life upon the observance of the world around him, to have that world snatched away is to take his very reason for existing.”
“I understand. I’ve been to so many strange places in my life that sometimes the one in which I belong seems alien to me,” Sarah confessed. After her travels around the universe, readjusting to life back on Earth had been something of a culture shock.
Those intelligent eyes fixed on her again, but this time they were softer. “There is rather more to you than meets the eye, is there not? Watson always said so.”
Sarah patted his shoulder as she went to unearth the kettle she kept in the attic in case of emergency. “I think there’s rather more to all of us, Mr Holmes. That’s what makes us special, after all.”
He looked surprised for a moment before he nodded, sitting back in the chair. Sarah found the kettle under a pile of UFO magazines and filled it from a bottle of Volvic. The only sound in the room for some minutes was the bubbling of the boiling water - she hunted round a bit more and discovered a packet of chocolate hobnobs and a lone KitKat.
“Distress call sent,” said Mr Smith finally.
“Sugar?” asked Sarah at the same moment.
Holmes took the mug she offered him, looked askance at the KitKat but accepted one of the slightly soggy hobnobs. “What happens now?” he enquired, biting into it.
She shrugged, drawing up a beanbag and plopping down. “I’ve not really been in this kind of situation before, entertaining a nineteenth century detective. What do you want to do?”
“Well…” He cast a longing glance towards Mr Smith “…you could perhaps start by explaining how such a marvel is achieved. It would seem to be worked by electricity, of course, and possibly steam as well, but beyond that I cannot - ”
“No,” Sarah said, shaking her head. “Not on your life. There are some things you are most definitely not meant to know.”
He pouted slightly. “Do you have a better idea?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. Did the Victorians play I-Spy?”
***
Four hours later, Sarah Jane Smith could honestly say that, pleased as she was to properly meet Mr Sherlock Holmes at last, after playing a hundred and ten rounds of I-Spy with the world’s greatest analytical reasoner, she had never been so glad to see the Doctor in her life.
FIN
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2092
Characters involved: Sarah Jane Smith, Mr Smith, Sherlock Holmes
Genre: Fluff
Disclaimer: The Sarah Jane Adventures are copyright to the BBC. Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Author's Note: Thank you to
wytchcroft for the suggestion which gave me this idea and woke up the muse. :) This fic makes reference to my Sherlock Holmes/Doctor Who story The Hand of Seth.Summary: A temporal leak results in a strange encounter in Sarah's attic.
STRANGE BEDFELLOWS
In retrospect, Sarah realised, she should have guessed that today would be one of those days when at breakfast she discovered that all the eggs in the box were broken, the bread was stale, and there was a small puddle of temporal energy lurking by the back door.
It was mid-morning before she had the chance to retreat to the attic to ask Mr Smith how best to deal with said energy, and about another half an hour after that when she definitely knew that the world was going to hell in a handcart.
What should have been a simple manoeuvre, to open the door and leave the attic, walking down the stairs to the hall where she could pick up her bag and car keys and go outside into the fresh air, proved to be somewhat problematic. To start with, the door refused to open. This was odd in itself, as there had been no trouble with the handle just a few minutes earlier. However, it didn’t seem to matter how much she pulled or twisted, it simply would not budge. In frustration, she kicked at it, earning herself no more than a stubbed toe and treating the empty attic to a few choice curses.
“Great. Now what am I going to do?”
Luke was at school, and no one would be stopping by who actually had a key to the house and might be able to let her out. She checked her watch and swore again: eleven twenty-seven. At least four hours before she had even a hope of rescue, and that was only if the kids came straight home and didn’t dawdle at the shops or were – worse case scenario – abducted by aliens on the way.
“I can’t stay here all day; I’ve got an appointment at one o’clock! An important interview!” she shouted at the ceiling. Unsurprisingly, the ceiling didn’t reply. Goaded beyond belief, Sarah threw herself at the stuck door and tugged on the handle with all her might. “Come on, come on, don’t do this to me, please…”
Maybe it was the cajoling, maybe it was sheer coincidence, but quite suddenly the handle turned and she was almost thrown into the middle of the room as the door flew open much as if it had some force of nature behind it. Sarah stumbled, just about kept her feet and then found herself staring in disbelief at the tall, gaunt figure who was impossibly, incredibly, but very definitely there in the doorway. To her credit, she wasn’t the only one staring, but the stranger recovered himself quicker than her and said in a deep, authoritative voice,
“I had no idea I had a client, Mrs Hudson made no mention of anyone waiting. I am sorry to have kept you – there was a little difficulty with the door.” He looked at her curiously. “Are you in need of a doctor, Miss…?”
Sarah straightened, now recognising him. They had never properly met, but there was no mistaking the piercing grey eyes and the hawkish nose, the look of keen intelligence in his face, familiar to almost the entire population of the world since the end of the nineteenth century. For the moment he lounged quite comfortably in the doorway, one hand in the pocket of his brownish-grey dressing gown, the other holding a cigarette between his long fingers. “Smith,” she said, “Sarah Jane Smith. And, no, I’m fine, thank you. I do have one question, though – what are you doing in my house, Mr Holmes?”
He frowned. “Your house? My house, surely! This is 221B Baker Street - you are in my sitting room.”
“Not quite. This is actually 13 Bannerman Road, and you are in my attic. Take a look,” she added when the frown became sceptical.
After a slight hesitation, as though he feared she might be mad and raving, Sherlock Holmes, private consulting detective, stepped into the room. For a moment astonishment flashed across his face before he covered it with a blank mask – Sarah however did not mistake the mix of curiosity and excitement which danced in his eyes and which he could not hide. His gaze swept the room, taking in the paperwork, the photographs; all those odd and amazing alien artefacts she left scattered about. Eventually he swung round abruptly to face her and pointed a finger under her nose. Sarah jerked her head back just in time to avoid being stabbed.
“You,” he announced, “You seem familiar to me, and yet I am unable to deduce the first thing about you. How can that be so?”
“Because you have been removed from your natural environment,” Sarah said, knowing that fish out of water feeling intimately from her travels in the TARDIS. “You have no data upon which to base your deductions.”
Holmes nodded, moving the finger to rest against his lips. “That would certainly make sense,” he agreed. “I have seen you somewhere before, however. Have we met?”
“Not exactly. You remember the affair of the Hand of Seth?” She hoped that whatever temporal disturbance had brought him here plucked him from a time after their paths had crossed – it would make life so much easier.
For a long moment he stared at her, as though trying to read her thoughts, before recognition dawned and he sighed, a not-quite smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “Of course. Watson always did say he thought there was something…unusual about that case.” The mention of his friend caused him to gaze about the attic again, his eyes drawn to the open door through which Sarah could see a dark and untidy bedroom, the walls covered with photographs of unsavoury-looking individuals. “Watson! Where is he?”
“Back where you should be, I assume. This must be something to do with that temporal energy in the kitchen – I was going to deal with it when the door fused.” Sarah crossed to the middle of the room. “Mr Smith, I need you!”
With its usual fanfare, the supercomputer rolled out of the wall on her command. This time Holmes did not even attempt to disguise his amazement – Sarah made a mental note to ask Mr Smith what they could do about…adjusting his memory before he went home. If they managed to send him home, that was. She didn’t like the crafty expression which came into his eyes at the sight of Mr Smith one bit, knowing that, given the chance, he would be wanting to ask about all sorts of things that Victorian detectives should not know.
“Hello, Sarah Jane. What can I do for you?” Mr Smith enquired smoothly, lights flickering.
“Run a scan for recent temporal activity, please. We have something of a localised problem.”
“Very well. Scanning now.” The computer beeped and blooped for a minute before announcing, “There is a temporal anomaly standing approximately three feet to your left, Sarah Jane. Were you aware of that?”
Holmes snorted and looked rather affronted at being described as a ‘temporal anomaly’ – to him it probably sounded like an insult. Sarah tried not to smile.
“Yes, quite aware, thank you. Can you find the source?”
“Temporal energy readings reaching the high end of the scale within this room, becoming dangerous in the vicinity of the doorway. I cannot measure the level of the disturbance, as it stretches beyond the reach of my search parameters.”
“In that case the vortex must be affected,” Sarah mused. “Is there any possibility of us being able to correct the problem without assistance?”
“Negative. The disturbance has stretched back through time. Only a Time Lord would be able to search out and neutralise the source of the temporal leak,” Mr Smith replied.
“Yes, it would be a bit beyond UNIT’s capabilities.” She paced back and forth for a moment, considering the options. There was no way of knowing how far the leak had spread – if it was affecting more of the house Luke might be affected on his return… They had only one choice. Decision made, she turned back to the computer. “Mr Smith, I think you know what we need to do.”
“Forgive me, Miss Smith,” said Holmes as Mr Smith began sending the distress call into the vortex, “I am aware of being somewhat at a loss, but I can gather enough to tell that some calamity has occurred to force us together in this way. My query is, how long is it likely to keep me from my work?”
Typical. Not fazed by a different century or finding himself without warning in someone else’s house, all that worried the great detective was being away from his clients.
“We’ll try and resolve it as soon as possible, I promise,” Sarah assured him. “I have work of my own to do.”
He looked at her again, the sharp grey gaze running over her face, her clothes, apparently taking in everything about her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Frustration made itself visible in the set of his mouth, his black brows drawing together in a line. “Nothing,” he said angrily, whirling round and stalking across the room, dressing gown flying behind him. “Nothing! Other than the obvious facts that you are in late middle-age, have never married and live with one adopted son, I can deduce nothing whatever about you.”
“For someone abruptly thrust into the twenty-first century, that’s pretty good going,” she pointed out, but it did not mollify him.
“Trifles, nothing more than trifles! If I am to be stuck here for long I must do better than that.” He sank down on a chair, suddenly looking a little dejected. Maybe he was more affected by the sudden removal of the familiar than he had been letting on, Sarah thought as he glanced up at her with something just a tiny bit lost in his eyes. “Am I likely to be here for long?”
“Not if I can help it.” She smiled, and he smiled slightly back.
“You must understand, Miss Smith, that for one who has built his life upon the observance of the world around him, to have that world snatched away is to take his very reason for existing.”
“I understand. I’ve been to so many strange places in my life that sometimes the one in which I belong seems alien to me,” Sarah confessed. After her travels around the universe, readjusting to life back on Earth had been something of a culture shock.
Those intelligent eyes fixed on her again, but this time they were softer. “There is rather more to you than meets the eye, is there not? Watson always said so.”
Sarah patted his shoulder as she went to unearth the kettle she kept in the attic in case of emergency. “I think there’s rather more to all of us, Mr Holmes. That’s what makes us special, after all.”
He looked surprised for a moment before he nodded, sitting back in the chair. Sarah found the kettle under a pile of UFO magazines and filled it from a bottle of Volvic. The only sound in the room for some minutes was the bubbling of the boiling water - she hunted round a bit more and discovered a packet of chocolate hobnobs and a lone KitKat.
“Distress call sent,” said Mr Smith finally.
“Sugar?” asked Sarah at the same moment.
Holmes took the mug she offered him, looked askance at the KitKat but accepted one of the slightly soggy hobnobs. “What happens now?” he enquired, biting into it.
She shrugged, drawing up a beanbag and plopping down. “I’ve not really been in this kind of situation before, entertaining a nineteenth century detective. What do you want to do?”
“Well…” He cast a longing glance towards Mr Smith “…you could perhaps start by explaining how such a marvel is achieved. It would seem to be worked by electricity, of course, and possibly steam as well, but beyond that I cannot - ”
“No,” Sarah said, shaking her head. “Not on your life. There are some things you are most definitely not meant to know.”
He pouted slightly. “Do you have a better idea?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. Did the Victorians play I-Spy?”
***
Four hours later, Sarah Jane Smith could honestly say that, pleased as she was to properly meet Mr Sherlock Holmes at last, after playing a hundred and ten rounds of I-Spy with the world’s greatest analytical reasoner, she had never been so glad to see the Doctor in her life.
FIN
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no subject
Date: 2009-01-04 03:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-04 06:20 pm (UTC)Now I just need to get my brain back into gear for proper Holmes fic...