amedia

Story title: About Time link to fic on AO3
Author: Amedia
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (book-verse), Star Trek TOS
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Spock, McCoy, brief cameo by Captain Kirk
Ships: Holmes/Watson (pre-slash), Spock/McCoy (background)
Summary: In which Spock and Sherlock squabble like brothers, Mycroft gets to strut a little, McCoy is far too modest, and everyone except Holmes and Watson realizes that Holmes and Watson are in love.
Word Count: 2961. Yes, this was supposed to be a drabble, but I couldn't seem to stop!
Author's note: Based on Noxelementalist's highly inspiring prompt, Sherlock/Watson, Kirk/McCoy (or Spock/McCoy, or all 3, your call). In which Spock meets his ancestor and McCoy drinks heavily. I went with Holmes/Watson and Spock/McCoy, wound up soft-pedaling the drinking a bit, and had tremendous fun with the whole idea. For logic nerds, Sherlock and Spock are arguing about the significance of existential import.

Prologue
"Gentlemen," said Kirk to Spock and McCoy. They were sitting in McCoy's office with the door closed. "I've just received a private message from Temporal Investigations. They've received a report from the 19th century of a minor temporal distortion field in London that is beginning to cause problems. They want me to send my top scientist and my best doctor."

Spock quirked an eyebrow at him. "As heads of those respective departments, I'm sure the good doctor and I can make recommendations as to suitable personnel." McCoy snickered.

Kirk tried to look stern and failed. Smiling, he said, "Report to the replicators for suitable clothing and be ready to leave in one hour."

******

I remember very little of the first day I took ill. I heard the clattering of crockery as Mrs. Hudson brought a tray into the sitting room, followed by a muffled conversation. Then my bedroom door swung open, letting in an appalling amount of light, and Holmes's voice said, "Rise and shine, Watson! You're in danger of missing your breakfast."

I put up my hand to shield my eyes and managed to form the words, "Let me sleep, Holmes. It's too early. Let me sleep."

His voice still jocular, Holmes said, "You must have been burning the midnight oil last night. It's nine o'clock in the morning."

I ignored the jest. "Please close the door," I said. "The light is too bright."

Holmes sounded puzzled now. "What are you trying to say, Watson? I can't understand you. Is it too dim in here?"

I tried to shake my head, only to find the action tremendously painful. I heard footsteps approaching my bed, and then a chilled hand was laid on my forehead. Holmes drew his breath in sharply. His footsteps receded again and then the door was closed. Blessed darkness returned, and I drifted back to sleep.

******

Over the next few days, I felt rather like a laboratory specimen, as I was poked, prodded, questioned, and scrutinized by one doctor after another, each one more arrogant than the one before. None of them seemed to have a clue what was wrong, although I heard them expressing ridiculous theories in confident voices. Each one asked about my activities the day before and suspected I had caught something from my emergency house call that evening, only to have their hopes dashed when they learned that I had attended a case of injury rather than illness.

Finally I could stand it no longer, and told a particularly pompous popinjay, "Get the hell out of here and let me die in peace!"

"Well, at least we know his temper is working," the man said drily to Holmes. Holmes gave a bitter chuckle, and the man continued. "Unfortunately, very little else is, and I refuse to prevaricate. I cannot tell what is wrong, nor how to treat his condition."

I decided this popinjay wasn't as bad as the others.

"What I can tell you, Mr. Holmes," the popinjay continued, "is that Dr. Watson's condition must be somehow alleviated in the next few days, or he will not survive."

Holmes made a slight choking sound. "Sit down, man, before you fall down," snapped the physician, and led Holmes from the room. They continued to speak in the other room for no little time, too quietly for me to eavesdrop even had I cared to. Just before I drifted back to sleep, I thought I heard the name "Mycroft" jump out from the blurry morass of words.

******
The next visitor of whom I was cognizant was indeed Mycroft. He did not bother to speak quietly and I heard his voice in the sitting room questioning Holmes on my activities the day before I took ill, and when he learned that I had gone out that night on an emergency call to attend a young man grievously injured in a sabre "accident," he demanded a map of London and the exact location of the residence. "From Dr. Watson's account as you have summarized it, Sherlock," he said, "he was at a lodge on this property"—I could imagine him stabbing his finger down firmly onto a spot on the map—"which is commonly used for duels when dissipated young aristocrats do us the favor of reducing their numbers."

"Your inference is sound, Mycroft, but I fail to recognize its relevance to Watson's illness."

"Don't feel bad, dear boy," said Mycroft, sounding amused. "I am privy to information to which you do not have access." There was a pause, and then Mycroft said, "Yes. Yes, I'm sure it was here. Is Watson older than thirty?"

Holmes confirmed that fact, sounding puzzled, but Mycroft said only, "Yes, yes. The young are generally spared the symptoms because they have not yet set rigidly into their timestream, while the old are unconsciously preparing to leave it, but those in between can suffer greatly from chronostatic syndrome in the right—or I should say, the wrong—circumstances." There was a silence during which I amused myself picturing Holmes's expression, which was no doubt a mingling of curiosity, frustration, and disbelief. Mycroft continued, "Fortunately, I am able to summon a couple of experts who can quickly put your Dr. Watson to rights."

"Then what are you standing here for?" Holmes snapped. "Fetch them at once!"

"My dear brother ..." Mycroft began in a quiet, more soothing voice. I must have fallen asleep again, because I awoke to a most curious tinkling sound, as if someone were trying to imitate the cooing of a dove using a glass armonica. I heard what appeared to be a flurry of brief explanations and then Mycroft Holmes ushered two men into my bedroom.

"Dr. Watson, this is Mr. Spock and Dr. McCoy. They're here to help you."

In the dim light, with my blurry vision, I could make out that one was dressed as a non-descript civil servant in a plain black suit, while the other looked more like a country doctor in bluish tweed. It was this latter who came forward to examine me. "Don't you worry, Dr. Watson," he said in a kindly voice—American, with just a touch of the southern United States. "We'll have you well again soon."

I must have been more ill than I realized, because the next thing he appeared to do was to open a small case and take out two curious devices: a small silver cylinder and a sort of machine about the size of a cigar box. He activated the cylinder somehow and ran it across my body, listening to complex musical sounds it was making, and then studied the face of the machine as though it were revealing the secrets of the universe. I gave up my vague impressions of his actions as some sort of fever dream, and closed my eyes. I heard the two newcomers conversing quietly, using terminology I had never heard, perhaps nonsense syllables that my own imagination was supplying as I drifted off to sleep.

*****
When I awakened, I had the impression that I had slept longer and more restfully than I had in the past several days. My arm was slightly sore as though I had received an injection. I opened my eyes and found my vision considerably clearer; even more welcome, my head ached far less. I could hear the quiet hum of conversation from the sitting room, and as I turned my head with remarkably little pain, I saw the doctor who had examined me before I fell asleep.

Dr. McCoy was sitting in a chair near my bedside, a large snifter of brandy at his elbow. "Are you back with us, Doctor?" he asked.

I considered. I was still exhausted and mildly achy, but I also felt more like myself than I had in days."Weary," I said, "but ... yes, I would say definitely say that I am returning to the land of the living."

McCoy smiled kindly and brought out his devices again. "What are you doing?" I asked, now that I realized I had not dreamt his curious machines.

"Scanning you to make sure your body has finished shaking off the destabilizing effects of the temporal distortions you experienced," he said. The words were clear, but they still made no sense to me. He studied the larger device for a moment, nodded, and put them both away.

"When you visited the estate where the young men were duelling, you were exposed to a phenomenon involving ... a kind of slippage in time," he explained. "It disturbed your metabolism at the molecular level."

"A slippage in time?" I asked. I studied him more carefully. "Are you—and Mr. Spock—from another time period? The future, perhaps?"

He nodded. "Mycroft Holmes contacted us to request that we make the journey back in time not only to treat you, but to seal off the temporal distortion field so that others do not suffer as you have. Mr. Spock took care of that task while I completed your treatment. We will be returning to our own time shortly."

I pushed myself up to a sitting position; McCoy rearranged my pillows to make it easier, and handed me a glass of water. "I cannot thank you enough, Dr. McCoy," I said, sipping slowly. "I thought I was on the verge of death."

McCoy looked down and said quietly, "You were." Then he looked back up at me. "Don't thank me alone. It was Dr. Schroff who suggested that Mr. Holmes consult his brother, his brother who sent for Mr. Spock and me, and it was Mr. Spock who determined the exact parameters of the phenomenon that you encountered. This old country doctor just gave you the shot."

"I suspect, Dr. McCoy," I said, "that you are far too modest."

He merely smiled and took another sip of his brandy. We sat in companionable silence for a little while, and I noticed that the pleasant hum of voices from the other room had become louder and filled with tension.

"What are they talking about?" I asked, feeling my sense of curiosity returning.

McCoy sighed and took a longer pull at his brandy. "Some sort of logical convention that is now under debate. My colleague knows how it will be settled, of course, and he is trying to draw out your friend's opinion on the matter without giving away any of his own knowledge."

"I don't think Holmes is cooperating," I said with a chuckle.

The voices had now grown loud enough that I could now understand what they were saying. "But you must recognize that establishing the validity of arguments will ultimately depend on how this question is decided," Spock was saying. "It is not a matter on which anyone serious about logic can remain neutral. One of your contemporary logicians, the Reverend Dodgson, has taken a definite stand on the matter."

"Tosh," snapped Holmes. "In my opinion, such theoretical questions are of no import whatsoever. I deal only in facts and deductions."

"To be more precise, you deal primarily in observations and inferences."

"Why, you presumptuous—"

"Gentlemen!" called out my doctor. "May I remind you that my patient requires a quiet and peaceful atmosphere!"

"My apologies," said Holmes immediately in a much softer voice, and I could imagine him bowing to Spock as he said it. "It shall not happen again."

"Agreed," said Spock in a quiet rumble.

"Listen to the two of you," said Mycroft, his voice also soft, yet clearly amused. "You sound like squabbling brothers."

McCoy rose from my side. I made as if to hold him back, but he looked down and said, "Join us when you feel up to it."

When I feel up to it? I thought to myself, incredulous. I heard silence fall as I traced McCoy's footsteps to the center of the room. "Now that you have ceased to upset my patient, gentlemen, I have a request for you."

"Please," said Holmes, sounding as apologetic as I have ever heard him, "forgive our importunate behavior, and tell me—is there any news?" I must have imagined that his voice seemed to break as he spoke that last question.

I could tell from McCoy's voice that he was smiling. "There's every hope, sir," he said firmly. "I expect a full recovery. Now about that request ..."

"Yes, yes, whatever you need," said Holmes, his voice sounding considerably less stressed than it had been since my collapse.

"I'd like to test a hypothesis," said McCoy, "that you and my colleague here might be related. If I may use this scanner to determine your genetic makeup, I can compare it with Mr. Spock's to see whether he may be one of your descendants."

"You have my permission," said Holmes, in the clipped tones that I recognized as meaning that he preferred to speak as little as possible on an unpleasant topic. "I assure you, however, that what you hypothesize is entirely impossible. I have no interest or aptitude in such vagaries as love, marriage, or the begetting of children. My life is my work."

McCoy said quietly, "I honestly doubt one third of that disclaimer," he said. There was a brief silence and I imagined the questioning looks that apparently McCoy had no interest in answering. Instead, I heard the complex musical sound again and realized he was using his scanning device.

Drawn by the drama unfolding in the next room, I rose from my bed, more easily than I expected. Fastening my dressing gown about me, I stole quietly into the sitting room.

Dr. McCoy was looking down at his diagnostic device and shaking his head. "No, Mr. Holmes, you're quite correct," he said. "You are not one of Mr. Spock's human ancestors. However, the two of you share an impressive amount of genetic material ... Mr. Mycroft Holmes, may I scan you as well?"

Mr. Mycroft Holmes made an accommodating gesture, and I saw Dr. McCoy moving the little cylinder up and down his body much as he had done when examining me. Next he studied his machine for a moment, and finally looked up with an expression of both surprise and satisfaction. "Bingo!" he said. Gesturing toward Mr. Spock, he announced, "Mr. Mycroft Holmes, allow me to congratulate you on your many-times-great-grandson."

If McCoy had appeared mildly surprised, Holmes looks utterly astonished—much to Mycroft Holmes's amusement.

"Are you so surprised, little brother?" asked Mycroft, his eyes twinkling. "One need not be attractive to be successful in such endeavors—exceptional skill can overcome every other drawback. Was it not you who said that I am, in so many words, England?" Holmes nodded dumbly. Mycroft smiled broadly. "There's a reason that bored wives are told to lie back and think of England, my dear Sherlock."

No one spoke for some moments after that. I could not, however, hold back a chuckle. Holmes turned and saw me standing near the door to my room. His eyes widened; his entire expression changed into an expression of joy and relief such as I had never seen on his face.

"Watson, my dear Watson!" he exclaimed. He moved swiftly toward me; putting his hands on my shoulders, he studied me carefully, now looking utterly astonished. "You look ... a hundred times better. I can scarcely believe--" I found myself gripping his arms, so obviously did he seem to need support. He made a visible effort to pull himself together, and said so quietly that I had to strain to hear it, "I thought—I thought I had lost you. I could not bear it."

In my peripheral vision, I saw Dr. McCoy and Mr. Spock looking at each other, apparently in agreement on some unknown topic. But it was Mycroft Holmes who spoke. Gently, he said, "My dear brother, I don't believe your claim that you have no aptitude for love. Were it not for your love for Dr. Watson, and the lengths you were willing to go to in order to preserve his life, he would not be standing here now."

"I cannot deny that," said my friend, although his voice was shaky. "Still, I would not admit of any ... depth of feeling that would be burdensome or unwelcome to Watson."

I moved my hands down Holmes's arms to take both of his hands in mine. "There can be no such depth," I said firmly. "Whatever you may feel is appropriate and ..." I gathered my courage fiercely, "and reciprocated." I looked around the room, determined to face the disapprobation I anticipated, but Mycroft Holmes and Dr. McCoy were both smiling broadly. Mr. Spock's expression was more reserved—but as I looked at him, he reached out and took Dr. McCoy's hand in his, and nodded to me.

The events of the past few days, as well as my lack of food, were catching up with me. I remembered now with regret the delicious scent of Mrs. Hudson's soups, and how firmly I had refused them, and found myself swaying on my feet. Holmes steadied me. " You're not yet ready to be up, Watson," he said. "Let me escort you back to your room."

As he resettled me in bed, I heard that odd tinkling sound again. "Our friends have returned to their age of wonders," Holmes said with a sigh, seating himself on my bed.

"It seems to me," I said, "that we have found wonders of our own. Holmes, may I ask a great favor of you?"

"Anything, my dear Watson."

"I am reluctant to have you leave my side," I said. "Would you please send Mycroft to ask Mrs. Hudson to fix me some more of her delicious soup?"

The laughter that followed my request rang of amusement and joy as Holmes squeezed my hand in his.