Date Written: 5/5/11
Word Count: 349
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock/Doctor Who
Disclaimer: Not mine, property of their respective owners
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Donna Noble (yes. you read that right), Sherlock Holmes
Spoilers: Up through The Great Game (Sherlock) and up through The Unicorn and the Wasp (Doctor Who)
Author's Notes: I blame midassa_in_gold for this, completely, utterly, and entirely. All of this. Thanks, as always, to my betas: totally4ryo, k8stamps, and gingerlr. Yes, this chapter is short. And if you kill me? You will get no more fic. Just remember that.
When John had been in the Army, he'd developed the ability to remain incredibly calm under pressure. Bullets flying, bombs exploding, the wounded screaming and crying in pain, none of it mattered; he could fall into a zone and work through just about anything. It wasn't quite how Sherlock got on cases, but it was close. It was an ability that had earned him commendations, a few medals.
He's left that behind with his blood in the sand in Afghanistan. Here, back in the civilian world, he snaps loud enough to be heard a block over.
"Moriarty." Sherlock's head snaps up so fast there's an actual danger of it coming off his shoulders. "I swear to God, if you have done anything to Donna -- "
"I haven't harmed a single ginger hair, Doctor Watson," Moriarity smoothly cuts him off. "We did have to bind and gag her, of course, but only because we feared for our own safety. You actually kiss that mouth?"
"You're a dead man, d'you hear me?"
Sherlock's on his feet by now, scrabbling to get at the mobile. John's using one arm to fend off two longer ones, and almost misses the next words.
"Oh, how sweet! The pet has a little pet. Precious."
"What the hell do you want?"
"You. One hour. Tower Bridge. Bring your master -- " John snarls and shoves Sherlock back. He stumbles around the coffee table and manages to land in one of their chairs. "But no police." The line goes dead, and John throws the mobile across the room, a million terrible scenarios running through his brain.
It takes four minutes to find where Sherlock's put his gun after the last time he'd stolen it -- above the icebox, what the hell -- and an extra minute to get a spare clip out of his bedroom. By the time he's done and grabs his jacket, the curly-haired man is down on the street, holding a taxi.
"Tower Bridge," he tells the cabbie, handing John his phone. Fortunately, it's no worse for wear. "And step on it."