Chapter Text
Not so fast.
John was woken at dawn by the scent of coffee. Thank God. He opened his eyes, finally awake in this damn chair.
He’d been trapped in a nightmare.
He dreamed he was running down a street with Sherlock. Someone aimed a gun at them. A bullet hit John, and he collapsed uncontrollably. He could almost taste the bloodied adrenaline coursing through him, his heart pounding wildly, agony curling him into a tight ball.
The bullet had struck his heart. As a doctor, he knew instantly he was going to die.
Sherlock turned back to him, grief-stricken, seemingly making a desperate decision. He knelt down, cupped John’s head, and John felt a deafening hum reverberate through his skull.
The next blink, and he was submerged in green liquid, unable to speak, unable to breathe, staring straight ahead. And there lay his own corpse. A headless corpse.
Fuck.
He wanted to scream. He struggled desperately. Fortunately, he woke up—roused by the aroma of his favorite Ethiopian Yirgacheffe coffee.
Sherlock must be unconscious in the room; John had given him emergency treatment after his injuries yesterday.
So it was Holmes who made the coffee—not Sherlock. Hard as it was to explain, he did have two roommates… and lovers.
Holmes was nowhere in the room either. John had no idea where he’d gone.
Suddenly a deafening crash echoed from downstairs. The chair John was sitting near the door was pulled violently by an unknown gravitational force.
What the hell? Fuck!
John fell out of the chair. Everything in the room was tugged sideways; files flew everywhere, chemical reagents shattered across the floor.
Mrs Hudson screamed downstairs. John hurried to rush down, the gravity so intense he had to cling tightly to the banister to steady himself.
Mrs Hudson was clutching a gun, screaming nonstop. Standing at the door was a young boy in a red cloak and leather outfit, staring helplessly at his own hands. The cloak wrapped tightly around him, restraining him from flying away.
Outside 221B had turned into a massive vortex, a portal between green and purple dimensions. Powerful energy waves erupted from it, sucking John’s slippers away.
Mrs Hudson screamed again, gripping the gun tightly, utterly lost and panicked.
“Drop it! Drop that thing!I will handle it. Mrs.Hudson” John walked over, snatched the gun from her, patted her shoulder reassuringly, adjusted the settings, and fired at the boy.
Wait—he’d cranked the dosage way too high. The boy instantly aged into an eighty-year-old man. He blinked blankly at his own body, then turned toward the vortex and struck an odd posture. The vortex vanished.
John let out a long sigh of relief. Suddenly the old man turned to face him, his stern expression fading into daze. He grabbed John’s hand violently, making John drop the gun.
“Rose?” he whispered in utter disbelief, his grey eyes trembling. “Rose…?”
“What?” John stepped back. “Who… are you?”
In the next instant, a loud bang came from upstairs. A glowing bullet curved through the air straight for him, but the man’s cloak moved as if alive, blocking the attack.
“Leave him alone!”
John looked up to see Sherlock standing on the staircase, wearing a long lab coat. The laser weapon in his hand was smoking, his messy curls trembling with rage.
The cloaked man turned to Sherlock, strange glowing patterns materializing in front of his hands.
“For God’s sake!” John roared, stepping between them and spreading his arms to stop them. “Cut it out! Sherlock! And you, cloaked man—stop it! Stop causing trouble!”
“I’m not causing trouble!” / “Is this my fault?” the two shouted in unison.
Just then, there was a knock at the door. A figure stepped inside.
“John?” Holmes frowned at them, dressed in a custom leather airship suit. His expression quickly turned grave.
Behind him stood a dragon. It poked its head into the room and slammed straight into the stunned cloaked man.
Perfect. This was John’s life. Utterly bizarre and unpredictable. Just wonderful.
Fuck!!! He buried his head in his hands.
Not so fast.