badwolf256

[badwolf256]

The Trip

Pairing: Severus/Lily

Rating: M

Genre: Angst, Fluff, AU-ish?

Chapters: 1/?

Word Count:

Summary: Distantly it occurs to her that whatever they are, they definitely shouldn’t be talking about it here.

Author’s Note: I had a hard time deciding if this was going to be put in as AU or not. Honestly? I personally have a hard time with something like this not happening at some point during the Marauders-era, what with all the field trips I had to take for school, so an event like this, even if it isn’t necessarily what I portray here, has always been canon to me. But I know that most people probably don’t have the same feelings about this as I do, so I’ve listed it as AU-ish. It’s up to you to decide.

She doesn’t know why he just calls it ‘the trip’. He’s packed meticulously for it, of course, Sev being Sev, organizing books and parchment and Potions’ ingredients into separate compartments in his trunk. She doesn’t see the point in all this needless preparation: She ends up throwing whatever she thinks she’ll need in willy-nilly, and when he comes to give her his ‘professional’ advice on whether she should bring her winter cloak or not, he wrinkles his nose.

“Like you’re one to talk.” She throws back at him, airing a pointed glance at his hair, earning a glower.

“Not all of us are gifted.”

“So what you’re really saying,” She picks up, three days later, “Is that not everyone’s mastered the complex art of shampoo?”

“Don’t you have other things to worry about? We’re leaving in a week.”

She takes her chances, flashes him a grin.

“Yeah. You should probably wash your hair first.”

And then she tears off across the courtyard, looking back to see him standing, sighing, with his head in his hands.

To be fair, they’re not the only ones getting ready for the trip. Ever since headmaster Dumbledore’s announcement that Beauxbatons would be hosting them to ‘aid in the understanding of different aspects of the wizarding world’(Or something equally academic and, by the students of Hogwarts, at least, equally ignored.) the castle had transformed into a frenzy of asking permission and getting ready and lamenting(Over what, Lily isn’t sure.).

One Sunday, a weekend after the announcement, a regal black owl deposits twelve- Twelve!- cardboard boxes from a high-end wizarding department store in London land in front of Lucius Malfoy at the Slytherin table.

“I don’t even know why he needs twelve. You should see his wardrobe.”

“Mm.” She hums contentedly against his chest, tempted to fall asleep in the warmth of him. “My parents didn’t even send me- You know what. Forget about it.” Then he does that Sev thing, the one where he looks down as if ashamed for having brought it up, and she takes it upon herself to do her own, distinctly Lily thing, and pulls herself up and embraces him. Tightly.

“Fuck them.”

His eyes widen. She feels it.

“Lily.”

“No, seriously. Fuck them. None of them are going to care one whit about Beauxbatons besides… I don’t know, besides, ‘look, there’s ice on the walls!’. I mean, it is going to be spectacular. But not because there’s ice on the walls. There’ll be like, a million books in the library for you, and probably a million different Potions recipes for you to try.”

“What are you doing in this scenario?”

“Besides annoying the fuck out of you? I don’t know. Reading up. It’s French, Severus! I’ll have an unprecedented opportunity to learn about French things, Petunia’s going to be so jealous.”

At this, he pulls back from her, and rolls his eyes- Literally rolls them.

“Of course you would think about that.”

(Dunderhead, he adds, silently. She hears it anyway.)

“Okay, though. It’s payback for last Christmas.”

“What happened last Christmas?”

“I thought I- Okay, so basically, my parents came and picked me up from the train station, and when I got home there were pentagrams drawn all over the door and salt lining the windows, and at the time none of us knew why, so we go inside, and find my sister performing some discount demon banishing spell she got off, I don’t know, a drug dealer or something. She sees me, and she screams, and then she turns to our mother and says, “I’m sorry, I thought it would work!��. And I was just standing there, right, and then I realize, I was the demon she was trying to banish. It was so Petunia, really, that I can’t even be mad at her anymore, but it… At the time, it hurt really badly.”

“She crossed the line.”

He is completely serious when he says it, and she gets the uncomfortable, burning feeling that he wants to go to her house and punch her sister in the jaw.

“Like I said, payback.”

She leaves it there, but she knows, when she catches him looking at her with this mix of… A lot of things, that it isn’t over for him. Not that she was expecting anything different- Sev projects. Acts like everything bad that happens to her is an end-of-the-world crisis, probably to distract himself from the fact that his entire life is an end-of-the-world crisis. It’s one of his coping mechanisms. His best coping mechanism, actually, outside of the Dark Arts, so she’s more than relieved to see him leaning on it. Still, she can’t help but wish he didn’t look at her like that-

Like. Like she’s something that needs to be protected. Like he’s sorry for her. He should be sorry for himself. But she’ll never tell him that, because even though she knows, he’s made it clear to her that she isn’t supposed to know, or, at least, she’s supposed to pretend that she doesn’t know.

She keeps silent.

Keeps an eye out at the Gryffindor table, instead. Watches as Sirius gets Regulus to send the permission slip to some obscure relative who’s not his mother, because there’s no way in hell that Walburga Black is going to let her son go to some foreign country when he can’t even behave in his own. Potter, meanwhile, is bent over a list of what she strongly suspects to be pranks, mainly, pranks he’s planning for the visit. Remus sits glumly, looking off to the distance at something only he can see.

In the end, Remus is the one that she feels the most sorry for her. He reminds her a lot of Sev, sometimes.

She doesn’t talk to him.

Ravenclaw, as a whole, has decided to organize a foreign trivia competition. Kingsley tries to get her to join, but she declines. She hardly knows any trivia, and she’ll be busy with Sev the whole time, so there’d be no use in it. Surprisingly, a few of the Hufflepuffs decide to join.

Then there are the Slytherin kids.

It seems as though everyone in Slytherin house(Other than Sev)(Hopefully)is gearing up to advance their Dark Arts knowledge over the five days they’ll be traveling. She sees Bellatrix Black chatting with a sneer on her face about all the good curses she’ll be taught that will help her ‘deal with the Mudbloods.’ She sees, too, the slight clenching of Sev’s jaw when she says it, which gives Lily something like hope to take with her.

It’s a lonely week, that week before Beauxbatons. Without Sev. A productive week, but a lonely one, still.

Thankfully, having a best friend means unspoken rules, and unspoken rules means the third to last train compartment. Unspoken rules also meant that, as usual, Sev was there before her, for some amount of time long enough to get unashamedly engrossed in a Middle Eastern magical theory book while she was still dragging her trunk down from Gryffindor Tower.

“I got you Every Flavour Beans.” He says, by way of greeting.

“Bad idea, Sev. They are every flavor.”

“Yes, well. Have fun with them.” He turns a page, and Lily decides that, since they’re going to Beauxbatons and all that, he shouldn’t waste a minute of the train ride reading. Especially not something as dry looking as Middle Eastern magical theory.

She takes his book from him.

“Lily…”

“Come on, Sev! You can’t just get me Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans and not be prepared to be looped into a bean eating contest.”

“I don’t like Every Flavour Beans.” He says, as if he’s explaining it to an eleven year old- Funny, he explained it the exact same way when they were eleven.

“Then why did you get me any?”

Suddenly his gaze drops, and Lily curses under her breath. She’s landed on a we-don’t-talk-about it topic. She knows the answer already. Sev’s always done this, ever since he could. She thinks it has to do with the fact that nobody ever got him anything when he was young, that he feels like he has to get things for her.

“I’m sorry. I forgot- You’re right. I shouldn’t-”

“What’s the first one, then?”

“Sev-”

“The first bean. Hand it over, or forever hold your silence.”

Lily has the sudden urge to slap him for giving in so easily. Or do… Something. Press for more, maybe? See how far her luck will get her? But no. It’s never good to do that with Sev. She just has to take what she can get. And what she can get, she’s learned, throughout several years of playing this game with herself, is tricking him into eating a vomit flavoured bean, right off the bat.

“That wasn’t fair, Lily.”

“You’re a sore loser, Sev.”

“Oh, so I’ve lost now?”

“First one to give away the fact that they didn’t like the bean loses. It’s wizard, isn’t it?”

“No. And really, ‘it’s wizard?’”

“You lot say ‘Merlin’ all the time.”

“You lot?”

“Sorry. Our lot. Guess Petunia’s rubbed off on me.”

“Merlin.” Severus says, and she laughs, knowing that she’s won.

Years later, when she looks back on it, it’s the train ride she’ll remember. How they laughed. How they were Lily-and-Sev, and how neither of them knew at all that they wouldn’t be, soon.

[badwolf256]

Five, Six, Eighty-Three

Pairing: Rose/Sherlock

Rating: T

Genre: Angst/AU, Crossover

Summary: In a world that confines them, they have become precisely who they were meant to be.

Author’s Note: First time posting fic on tumblr! Okay. That sounds aggressively overenthusiastic. But- I am excited, so, forgive me my exclamation point. Rose/Lock, AU/Crossover. Basically, everything up above this note. To anyone who’s reading this, I hope that you enjoy it.

The first time he sees her in seven years, she’s leaning over the north balcony, framed by mist and cigarette smoke and the starless midnight dark. Fifty degrees out and she’s wrapped up in violet blue, eyes trained down towards London.

“Don’ you dare say you missed me.”

There she is, then, whirling ‘round to give him her best stone glare.

“I didn’t.”

“Good.”

“I didn’t miss you. I was too busy being…”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“What do you see when you look at me?”

They’re running down an abandoned street in London, and he’s thinking how very much he’d like to know her, this echo of a girl who can blur into buildings in such a way as to give off the illusion of never having been there in the first place. She’s like Eurus, he thinks, a bit. From what he can tell, which isn’t much. Somehow he knows whatever he’s seeing in her isn’t true.

It should bother him more than it does.

“Five.”

“Six.”

“Eighty-three.”

“Civilian, then?”

“No.”

“Soldier?”

“Weren’t any soldiers at Canary Wharf.”

“There are always soldiers.”

“Oh please. They were Torchwood. Anyone calling Torchwood soldiers doesn’t have a clue what’s real.”

“Other than me, of course. I know everything about you.”

“Not yet.”

Three in the morning is too early to have Lestrade knocking on the door.

“What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing much. Can I?”

“It’s a case, then? Something you couldn’t solve?”

“More like, something she couldn’t.”

“Ah. The mysterious her.”

“Not so mysterious to you, I wouldn’t think.”

“We’ve met.”

“And what do you think about her?”

“She’s a good puzzle.”

“She’s a good puzzle, you mean, and you’re not quite up to the challenge.”

“I’ll figure it out eventually.”

He tells her, over chips on ratty green upholstery, utterly infuriated by her silence.

“I’ll figure it out eventually.”

She takes her chips drowning in vinegar, likes to glance out the window now and again. Unmistakable longing, like if she could just get outside, just get to where there’s earth and sky and him- That mysterious him who’s left her alone all her life, hasn’t he?-, it’ll all be alright.

“Who are you waiting for?”

“Someone.”

“Someone you loved?”

This is how they know she’s beaten him, that, him asking her instead of telling her. She shrugs at it.

“You’ll figure it out. Eventually.”

She looks out the window again.

Mycroft says he’s spending too much time on her. He has a file waiting that would put it all to rest, if only he’d take a look. Mrs. Hudson says it’s a beautiful thing to see. John says he’ll be over at Mary’s, tonight, ring me if you need anything. No, actually, you know what, don’t bother. Because I know you won’t. Ring me, that is. She’ll have you too busy to be ringing me.

Eurus says nothing.

Today she’s slow and it’s gentle when she plays.

“Why did you come here?”

“I need your help.” 

Never mind that it’s dangerous, that it always goes the same way in the end.

“No you don’t. You’ve never needed my help with anything.”

No, he thinks but doesn’t say, I haven’t. But I think I might, now.

Eurus says kill her, but she’d kill him if he tried.

It’s nothing in the way she says it, just in the pull of her on him, this magnet in the middle of London, so he goes when she calls for him, finds her under a tree somewhere, or in the middle of this building with junkies passed out on the steps, giving the nearest one, (And his broken guitar), a look borne out of something in between hatred and pity.

“He reminds me a bit of my old bloke’s the thing.”

“Your old bloke was an addict, then. Most likely cocaine, judging by his occupation, which you’ve admitted.”

“He left me in a hotel.”

“For another musician, and they moved out of country. He took all your money, too, probably more than that. You went back to your mum’s, because there was nowhere else to go, and then you got a job. Nothing prominent, because you left school for him, a shop, or a chippy, maybe.”

“Jimmy Stone.”

“Shop or chippy?”

“Shop. It could’ve been worse, I s’pose. I mean, it could’ve been… He could’ve stayed. ‘Cos I would’ve. I really would’ve. I’d’ve stayed with him. If I could.”

He gets things right, sometimes, about her, but they’re not talking about Jimmy Stone anymore. They’re just two not-quite-strangers on the trail of a murder, and he knows better than to ask.

“Sherlock!”

John could want anything, when it comes down to it. Probably just for him to get the eyes out of the frying pan, but it could be anything.

“I’m measuring the percentage of-”

“You’re not measuring anything, actually, because Molly’s invited us out.”

“Out? What would Molly want with us at this hour?”

“It’s seven on a Friday, Sherlock.”

When what he means is, How are you so bad at this?

“We’re going out.”

“You’re going out.”

“With Molly. At the pub. Both of us.”  

“If you want to have sex with her, John, be my guest.”

“I don’t want to have sex with her.”

“Oh, I can see it in your eyes. You’re wearing a new jacket. You’ve ironed your jumper. You’re asking me to go out with you, and Molly, on a Friday, and you already knew perfectly well what my answer would be.”

“You’re not good enough for her.”

“No. No I’m not.”

“Not- I’m not talking about Molly. You’re not good enough for her. Your mystery woman. What’s her name, again? Irene Adler? No, it’s not, because Irene Adler’s dead, she was killed because of you, Sherlock, and that’s why you’re not good enough for her!”

“No it’s not.”

“Sorry?”

“That’s not why I’m not good enough for her. Everything about me is why I’m not good enough for her, John, you know that.”

“I-”

“I’d tell you not to do it in my bed, but there’s no use in that, is there? Didn’t think so. Try and have a good time tonight, John. I’ll just be…”

“Out. With her.”

“Checking up on a case.”

The worst part about it is that he’s too good a liar. It wouldn’t matter either way.

They meet in alleyways. In crowded streets, on planes bound for other countries, on the sidelines of  swimming pools in the summertime, and his fingers reach for a gun that he doesn’t need anymore while she looks at the sky, eyes wide and fearful. They meet when it’s safe and they meet when it’s dangerous, and sometimes, when the world is pressing down too tight around them, they meet at midnight, somewhere halfway across the city and different every time.

It’s not enough.

“Five.”

“Six.”

“Eighty-three.”

“I’ll not be coming home tonight. I’ll not be seeing you again. Ever.”

“You could though. If you wanted. There’s nothing holding you in this city but me.”

“What, London? There’s plenty holding me in London. Just none of it’s strong enough, is all.”

“Aren’t they the same thing, in the end?”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll not be seeing you again, and I don’t think you want me to say sorry for that, but I’m going to anyways.”

“So.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll just- I’ll just walk you home, then.”

“Sherlock. ‘M sorry, you ‘ave to understand, ‘m sorry.”

“It’s-” You never told me that you spoke with an accent. You’d not have learned to stop with it at a shop, no one at a shop would care that you spoke with an accent, they wouldn’t have any reason too. You only ever wear one jacket, this one jacket. It obviously holds sentimental value to you, but it’s not formal enough for government, and your trainers are white but there’s hardly any scuffs, it’s almost like you used to run but stopped running, a long, long time ago, and when did I start saying ‘almost’ beforehand anyways?

“You’ll make do, yeah?”

“I have John. And cases. I have… Cases.”

“Righ’ then. Do me a favor, will you? Forget me. ‘Cos there’s nothin’ about me you’d believe if you figured it out.”

What can he say, that this promise she’s asking for is too much for him, now? That he can’t, after this, and everything, that he wants to and he can’t?

“I will figure it out, you know.”

“Eventually.”

“You don’ act like you used to. There’s feelings, now, an’ you’ll ‘ave to learn to deal with them same as the rest of us, ‘f you’ve got this far. How is it that we used to know each other so well, when you didn’ know the firs’ thing about me and I knew everything without even havin’ to look? Or is it the other way ‘round, now that you’ve figured it out?”

“I haven’t, though. I haven’t figured it out at all.”

“Liar.”

“She left you, is what happened, and now you’re obsessed with her because you, Sherlock Holmes, fell in love without meaning to. It doesn’t take a genius to know that.”

“I don’t love, John.”

“You do now.”  

“Prove it.”

“What you want me to say, there’s no proof. You knew that all along, didn’t you?”

“Are you asking or telling?”

“Telling.”

“No. You’re not. You’re askin’ me, ‘cos you don’ wanna ruin the person I was, to you. She’s not real, y’know?

They have him on a case and he smells it on her, smells the experience and the mystery and the faintest impressions of ‘lost’ ‘traveler’ ‘estate girl’ ‘idiot’.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

“How many of them were there?”

“Five.” “Six.”

She looks up almost lazily, and her eyes tell a different story, shot through with gold and amber. He can see the pain in them, pulsating through every part of her body when she meets his eyes. She’s more than what she betrays about herself.

He hates it.

“Eighty-three.”

“You never knew the person that I used to be, you never even began to know her, why do you think I never told you my name?!”

“Because, Rose Tyler, you weren’t strong enough to bear to know that this is what you’ve become!”

“Oh, what I’ve become! You were a character in a storybook!”

“Five.”

“Six.”

“Eighty-three.”

“Was it actually eighty-three?”

“Would they have been able to tell, if I’d lied?”

“Lestrade? Maybe. Anderson? Not a chance.”

“You didn’t, either.”

She never did come back for him, and he never did forget, but for her sake he stopped looking, going back to John and cases, two things that he can’t afford to lose anymore, maybe never could afford to lose. John notices, though. He notices that sometimes now he lets people cry on his shoulder, and sometimes when Molly comes inside and he knows she’s had an awful day, exactly why she’s had an awful day, he doesn’t mention it. And sometimes he hugs his brother, a gesture that leaves Mycroft so utterly horrified that he slams the door on his way out the flat. 

“I rather think,” Mrs. Hudson says, while he pulls the kettle off the stove, pouring her tea in a swift, efficient motion, “That girl of yours did you some good.”

The teacup slips from his hands and shatters when it hits the floor.

“A storybook.”

“I… Oh God.”

“A storybook. Well, since you’ve so clearly explained where I come from, why don’t I return the favor, Mrs. Tyler from a parallel universe. Tell me, did your Time Lord lover ever forgive you for being a shop girl?”

“Yes. Rassilon, Yes.”

“Liar.”

“What’s wrong with him, John? You must know something.”

“Well, Molly, he was in love.” “But it wasn’t with me.”

“Why are we still doing this?”

“Say hello to him for me.”

“Okay. Okay, I’ll say hello to the man you loved, while we were going out, who wasn’t me. While you sit there and not answer my question.”

“It wasn’t just- It was a long time before that.”

“Good to know.”

“John-”

“Just tell me… Was there even a chance for us?”

“Of course there was.”

“You, Molly Hooper, are a worse liar than Sherlock.”

“It was worth a shot, though. For your sake.”

“For someone’s sake. Maybe.”

“You know I thought that it wouldn’t be true.”

“‘Cos you don’ believe in aliens?”

“Scientifically it’s almost impossible that they wouldn’t exist. However the probability of a species being close enough to Earth to be able to reach us in the first place or willingly initiating first contact with the human race is slim to none. As for the Time Lord part… There’s a picture that you keep in your jacket.”

“It fell out one night, yeah, an’ you picked it up an’ gave it back to me.”

“After reading it. The Doctor, Time Lord. A rather scientific title, but then, that would be standard for someone who works in Torchwood. Mycroft gets on with the director. While I knew immediately that he was the man you had lost tragically in the battle of Canary Wharf, I didn’t think that the Time Lord part meant anything; Probably just a nickname used by close friends and family. Did you think it would work? Telling me to forget about you? Did you think that it would actually work? Of course you did, I know you, you’re the kind of person who doesn’t do anything for the reason that anyone else thinks you’re doing it. That’s how I knew. When you said that, that I should forget you, it all clicked into place in that moment. You walked away and I figured you out.”

“Did you?”

“You met him when you were nineteen. You were working at a shop and you met him, it doesn’t matter how. Probably a threat of some kind, alien, and he asked you the same thing that you asked me, demanded it, actually. That’s why you didn’t, no one can demand anything of you. They never could when I knew you and they never could back then. He asked you to travel with him, you said no, the first time. He asked you twice, the first time you said no because you were smart, but the second time, when you learned that it traveled through time as well as space, your wonder won out. It would have had to travel through time,  what kind of a name is Time Lord otherwise.You traveled him for two years, based on your age and manner- He broke your heart when you came here, obviously not by your own choice, as you kept working with aliens, which would indicate that you had no desire to give up the stars. Now. Did I get anything wrong?”

She’s standing there, one moment, slapping him the next.

“Not yet.”

If he blinks he can catch a glimpse of what she must have looked like, that first night on her own in a strange universe, devastated and lonely, blood matted in her hair and smeared across her reflection in a cracked mirror.

“I love you.”

And when he blinks again he sees her headed back the way she came, that last night after she left him, feeling her tears run down her face while they mix with the rain, hailing a cab with a cabbie who wasn’t a murderer but was no less ignored, crying herself to sleep in the hotel room, and when he opens his eyes he can hear her thinking, loud as her heartbeat, that she hates him so much for it, so much more than she ever hated him, because at least he never said it like that.

“I promised myself, y’know, that I never would again. ‘S jus’, when I make promises, they end up broken, like. Forever, I told him, when he asked me, ‘f I was gonna stay with him, I looked him in the eyes an’ I said forever. Couldn’ even have kept it ‘f I tried, he had a longer forever than I did, ‘nyways. Nine hundred years old when we met, with this trick to cheatin’ death.”

“I’d ask to kiss you, if I had the slightest idea how to go about it.”

Her steps are sure, measured, shaking. She’s nervous, and it’s all to do with him, but then, it’s been a long time since she kissed a man. Or Time Lord. Or whatever it was that she kissed, when it was time to do the kissing.

“Oh. ‘S not too terribly hard.”

As if the moment that their lips touch he isn’t drowning in a sea of his own creation, lit on fire by this indescribable feeling that he was right to hide from himself, so very, very wrong. Like he doesn’t lose every coherent thought he’s had in the past seven years of his life, before that even, as if he can think of anything to say that she hasn’t said first, words don’t mean anything until he hears them from her.

As if he doesn’t take them and throw them back, because half the feeling is seeing himself as she sees him as he sees her see him, down and down forever, as if he doesn’t see that that one word, that singular defense she’s been using all night is meaningless in her eyes, because words don’t mean anything to her if she doesn’t hear them from him.

“You’re a liar. Still.”

John still runs a blog. Every time he sees them together he whistles, not quite believing that she’s come back, not quite liking it that she has. The blog gets hits, anyway, which is how he ends up meeting her, Mary, and being astounded that Sherlock lets him see her, Mary, without texting or crashing or somehow getting in the way. Mary, it turns out, is one of the nicest girls he’s ever met, one of the only ones at least who’s not afraid to speak their mind and have a laugh at his expense if he does something too funny to ignore.

Rose takes a shine to her immediately.

Fast friends, the two of them are, from the moment that he takes Mary on her first flat tour. John doesn’t know yet what they talked about that day. Sex, probably, so he tends to avoid thinking about it, even though he’s pretty sure Sherlock would have told him, if they’d had sex. He would’ve asked his advice, at least, it’s the kind of thing that Sherlock would be too smart to do on his own. Ergo- Lack of sex, probably.

“Rose. Hates everyone. Just so you know.”

“John.”

“She does. She hates everyone and it’s bloody. Bloody…”

“She seemed nice, from where I was standing.”

“She’s not, though. I’ve known her for a long time, Mary, she’s the exact opposite of that.”

“We talked.” 

“I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know what freaky sex things the two of you talked about. I don’t.” 

“She said that I should stay with you, John, because you’re a good man, and the fact that you’re a good man is the only reason she didn’t make a move on you when you first met. She told me that she would rather have you hate her than get dragged into a war on her behalf.”

“What’s Sherlock, then?”

“Someone who’s not good enough for her, if she’s half the person I think.”

“I told her that.” “Did you?”

“The time we- Well, it was more like- We talked. Once. It couldn’t have been very long before she left him, and I don’t even remember what started it, only that I told him he wasn’t good enough for her. He never said otherwise, though, is the thing I don’t understand about that night. He usually corrects me, if I’m wrong.”

“Maybe you weren’t wrong, then. About her.”

“Better than Sherlock, though. That’s not too high a bar.” 

“Talk to her.”

“I can’t.”

“Why, because you never have before? Talk to her.”

“Mary-” “Talk to her. I’ll wait.” He walks to the kitchen caneless, didn’t even notice she’d taken it, and he didn’t say that he’d never forgive her for this, and he’s not going to forgive her for anything, once he finds out. Oh he’ll find out.  

And Sherlock’s not good enough for either of them.

“I was wonderin’ when you’d come.”

“See you have an accent, today.”

“Sit.”

“Why do you do that? What’s the point in it? Sherlock told me it’s this power struggle between this version of yourself and another version of yourself that’s not supposed to exist. What does that- Sorry. What does that even mean?!”  

“Yeah, sorry abou’ that. He’s- He doesn’ know why I did it, so he made somethin’ up. Reached for the only conclusion there is, he’d say, whole ‘no more impossible’ ‘however improbable, ‘s true’ kind of thing.” She sets the cup down, slides it over the table until it almost spills out one side. “What it is, John, is bullshit. Jus’ thought you should know that, goin’ in. Everything Sherlock’s ever told you, abou’ me, an’ what I’ve been through- ‘S bullshit.”

“He doesn’t though. He’s never told me a bloody thing about you.”

“Your tea’s gettin’ cold-”

“I don’t care about my bloody tea, I want to know who you are!”

“An’ I don’, John, ‘cos I don’ like talkin’ ‘bout my past if I can help it.”

“Why, did you kill someone?”

“Not’s many as you did, prolly.”

“That was-”

“Harsh. Yeah. Saw it on your face. ‘Ave to, though. Protect myself, ‘f I can. ‘S hard, these days.”

“Because of Sherlock?”

“Smarter’n he lets on, him.”

“I-Sorry. Did I miss something?”

“What he’s tryin’ to be, when he talks to us like that, us… Ordinary people, he’d say, us ordinary ones, s’not smart. Knows he’s smart already, Sherlock, all he needs to do’s prove it. Goin’ for impressive, Sherlock is.”

Which makes more sense than it should, when he stops to think about it.

“Did it work?”

“Not with me. For us, it was the other way ‘round. Tea?”

“Good. The tea is-”

“A bit surreal?”

“A bit surreal. But good.”

“‘Cos I didn’ know how you took it. Funny, the things he’s never thought to ask you.”

“Are there many of them?”

“I’ve got a whole list.”

Which doesn’t surprise him as much as he thinks it does, when he looks past who he sees on her face.

“Well then. Try me.”

“John Watson. How long’s it been since you got on with your sister?”

“My sister?”

“Harry. The one I remind you of, ‘nough to hate.”

On the third day of summer they’ll drive out of the city, her with her sand-light braid flipped over one shoulder, him with his book, watching the signs and the sky from the back-seat window. They���d have liked a day or two more, for packing- Well. She would. Harriet’s lugged three suitcases with her- Pet projects, she calls them. Fills them up with plastic inserts, then the compartments with anything she can find. Rocks, seashells, forest lichen. Computer chips and stolen library books and white branches with dark chocolate scars. Pressed pennies and bottle caps.

Gran says they’re going to her soul place, and the soul waits for no one, not even you, Harriet, you’d best hurry up with those bags. Sneaking her gaze downwards to rest on him, settle one hand on his head, ruffle his hair. It’s a wonder she can lift those things at all. Where’s she find all that, anyways?

I’ve no idea. Hmm. Well. You’ll keep an eye on her, won’t you, when it’s time for all that?

Course I will.

Good on you, Gran will say, and then, perhaps forgetting that he never knew her, Your mother’d be proud of you, boy.

Hours later, on a country road:

I bet Gran used to ride a carriage out here, when she was younger. D’you think she’d take us, if we asked?

No.

It’s worth a try, though. She writes it down in a sketchbook-turned-notebook, cover pasted over with overlapping newspaper headlines(Gran would take the morning paper and a cup of coffee, John would read over her shoulder, ooing and aahing at the same ones that made Gran’s eyes sparkle, making faces at the ones that made her swear. Ignoring the ones that made her sign in nostalgic sorrow- He’d not know how to do it, anyway, and his Gran is glad for it, this one gift that God’s given her danger prone grandson. Bless him, now and forever. Gran would finish the newspaper, stack it on the table, Harry walking over with a pair of scissors and a bottle of glue, snipping out the ‘interesting bits’ in detailed, precise lines, crisp, straight, and perfect, humming ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’ under her breath.), bending at an angle to get the words out in her tight, cramped handwriting.

Idea #892- Ask Gran for carriage ride.

They spend the night in a shoddy hotel, Gran in the bar drinking scotch on the rocks. He’ll start unpacking, only knowing that she’s there when the things he let go of don’t fall.

Downstairs, Gran telling the bartend, They’re not half so bad’s you think, once you get used to those peculiar natures of theirs. I’ll tell you, it’s not anything from my daughter, she was normal as a tiger squirrel, that one.

Harriet’s found the latch on the window, she throws her head out, howling a fake wolf’s howl into the darkening night.

Downstairs, Something in that father of theirs. Said it myself, when we got out the car, we’re only staying a night, don’t get too sentimental, but they’ll have that room of ours full already- Drawers full and everything. They’ll have bloody decorated it, you’ll see.

She’s climbing back through the window with a handful of wildflowers when Gran comes in.

You came too early.

Oh, hush, you.

You came too soon! We nearly had it ready, you know you’re not supposed to come until we have it ready! You promised!

Gran goes back downstairs. Harriet puts the flowers into the vase, hands shaking, spills the water when she goes to fill it.

Downstairs, I’d have liked it to just be John. Such a good boy, John. I’ve never quite known what’s wrong with that sister of his. Harriet. Gran pauses, sighs to herself, a sigh born of nostalgic sorrow.

I’ve never liked the name Harriet.

“I want you to tell me something, first. One thing, that’s all I want to know.”

No it’s not.

“Tell me about the man you can’t stop seeing in Sherlock.”

“Who are you waiting for?”

They’re sitting in a chippy, and she doesn’t know how to tell him that their first date was at a chippy, and that she can still feel it, hear it, smell it, the chippy. The whole day, really-  the salt and the grease and later, when the Autons were over and done with, childlike wonder at hearing him offer her the stars.

Or something like that.

“Someone.”

“Someone you loved?”

Their first date was a chippy, but he didn’t know how to be human, and maybe he’ll never know how to be human, but then, he’ll never be that person again, the one who couldn’t be bothered to keep what he thought on the inside, unless he was thinking about something that mattered. He never was that person. but he was that Time Lord, once. He wore black leather and had ears that were much too big for his head, and he tried to make her smile, if he could. She doesn’t know what he is now. Where he is.

“You’ll figure it out eventually.”

As soon as he figures out that she’s never stopped waiting. As soon as he goes back and he makes that choice again and he doesn’t choose Reinette. As soon as the next time they leave Jack behind a million years in the future. As soon as he stops feeling the planet spin underneath his feet.

When he says I love you back to her, he’ll figure it out.

She thinks she might be waiting for awhile.

“What happened to you?”

He’s not expecting it, the way that John walks down the steps like he’ll never know what happiness means again.

“She told me about the Doctor.”

“You told John. Before me.”

“Unlike you, John asked.” 

“What if I ask? What if I ask you, in those words exactly, to tell me about the Doctor?”

“Then I’ll tell you, but you’d ‘ave to give me time.”

“How long?”

“Five an’ a half hours.”

He couldn’t wait forever for her. He couldn’t make that promise and live with it.

Time, though. 

He can give her time.

He can give her five and a half hours.

The last time he sees her, she doesn’t pretend to smile.

The stars are going out.