Meet the Parents
Sherlock invites John to meet his parents
Crossover (or collision, depending on your point of view)
John fought the urge to fidget as he felt Sherlock studying him intently as he tapped slowly away at the keys of his laptop, updating his blog with their latest adventure, a rather unpleasant case all around, although, as a high point, Dimmock had taken a rather unfortunate (for him) dip into a delightfully stagnant and slimy section of disused canal; not that that particular titbit would be making it into the blog, not unless he wanted to totally bollix Sherlock’s connections with the boys in blue, not many of them liked Dimmock, but they wouldn’t take kindly to seeing him made to look a tit in the eyes of the public.
“You’re thinking about Dimwit’s little swim,” Sherlock told him idly.
“Yes, but don’t worry, it isn’t going in the blog, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Not at all, John, I know you wouldn’t do that.”
“Then why have you been staring at me like I’m one of your experiments for the last twenty minutes?”
“Thirty two minutes, but it took nine for you to register it and start getting twitchy.”
“Right, so….?”
“I was pondering if you would like to meet my family or not.”
“You mean, family other than Mycroft?” John checked.
“Oh, Mycroft will more than likely be there, he wouldn’t miss a chance to visit with our parents, the question is; would you?”
“Um, are they likely to be more, or less terrifying than your brother?”
“More, probably, but they’ll like you.”
“When?”
“When they arrive, probably in the next day or two, I got a text saying they were heading this way, anyway.”
“So who would I be meeting?” John asked curiously.
“Just Mummy and Daddy, as far as I know,” Sherlock said with a small frown, it was possible his parents had a new stray along, but not likely, else they would have said something.
“Then why not,” John nodded, wondering privately what he was getting himself into.
“Excellent, and even better, that sounds like Lestrade, I hope he has something interesting for us,” Sherlock grinned, clapping his hands together and throwing himself out of the chair.
/x/
Two days later, after a very annoying emergency shift at the clinic, John arrived back at Baker Street to see a familiar, sleek black car parked beside the curb, ‘Anthea’ sitting in the front passenger seat beside the driver, eyes and fingers fixed to her Blackberry as normal. Taking a deep breath, John ruthlessly shoved down the urge to run away, go and have dinner out, and text Sherlock to let him know when Mycroft was gone. Clearly if Mycroft was here, the anticipated visit of their parents was happening, and he did want to meet the people responsible for unleashing the Holmes brothers on the world.
Letting himself in, John padded quietly up the stairs, listening for any sound of voices, but there was nothing. He wondered briefly if this was in fact another of Mycroft’s unannounced visits to check up on (or annoy the hell out of) Sherlock, and decided that either way, he wasn’t facing him rumpled and smelling of Iodine and Peroxide, both of which had been spilled on him today, so ignoring the closed door to the sitting room, he carried on up the stairs and gathered some clothes to bring back down to the bathroom for after he showered.
He was feeling much less grungy, and considerably less irritated by the time he opened the sitting room door, at which point his irritation surged again, along with the urge to throttle his flatmate. There was no sign of Sherlock, or Mycroft either for that matter, there was however a large, tall blue crate, painted up to look like an old fashioned police box, taking up the majority of the minimal available floor space between the sofa and the window, crowding the armchair over almost into the fireplace, and making it impossible to sit on the sofa unless you wanted to hop over the arm, and lay along the cushions. He turned to check if Sherlock was lurking in the kitchen, the only place there was space to move around, and yelped, almost leaping out of his skin as Sherlock’s voice came directly from behind him.
“You’re late, John, we were expecting you half an hour ago.”
Spinning around, John glared at him accusingly.
“What the hell, were you hiding in that crate just to scare the hell out of me? What is it this time, checking how much adrenaline is released from being frightened half to death?” he growled.
“Not really, we were waiting for you, yes, but I thought you would have heard me before I spoke, though….can I draw some blood, I am curious now.”
“No, you cannot draw some blood,” John growled through gritted teeth, before gesturing at the crate.
“Why?” he asked simply.
“Oh, this arrived with my parents,” Sherlock told him, with a strange, half amused, half ironic quirk of his lips.
Grabbing John’s arm, Sherlock hauled him over to the crate, and shoved him through the opening in the side. John tensed, shutting his eyes, expecting to hit the back of the crate uncomfortably hard, but the impact didn’t come, instead he heard his feet clang on something metal, and felt a sense of space. He cautiously opened his eyes, and his jaw dropped at the sight of the large, coral-like chamber they were in. He could see Mycroft standing with two other men on a raised platform with some kind of pedestal on it, the older Holmes brother watching him with what could almost be called a sympathetic smirk.
“Good evening John, glad you could join us,” he greeted.
“Come on John, I want you to meet Mummy,” Sherlock told him impatiently, tugging him over to where the others were standing, although, there were conspicuously no females, John noted warily, and no-one who appeared to be old enough to have produced the Holmes brothers.
“Mummy, this is my friend, John, John, this is my mother, Captain Jack Harkness. You already know Mycroft of course, John, but this is our father, the Doctor.”
“Doctor?” John enquired weakly, looking at the two men Sherlock had just casually introduced as his parents.
“Yep, nice to meet you,” the wiry, messy haired man in the pinstriped suit and red and white Converse grinned manically.
“At a guess, Sherlock didn’t warn you?” ‘Mummy’ grinned, startling John with the American accent, but not so much with the bright, movie star grin that accompanied it.
“Well, come on, we’ve just been waiting for you, dinner is ready,” the Doctor told him, bouncing out of the room, through a different door than the one they had entered through.
Right, of course there was more of this place inside that odd looking crate Sherlock had dragged him into, this wasn’t remotely weird, he told himself, before shunting it all firmly aside, and deciding to just go with the flow, just like he always ended up doing with Sherlock.
/x/
Several hours later, John lay safely tucked up in his own bed, still slightly dazed by it all. Over the course of dinner, it had become perfectly clear that Sherlock was very much their child, his looks mostly from Jack, and his repressed energy, brilliant mind, impatience with humans and inclination to sulk coming from the Doctor, although John was rather pleased that Sherlock didn’t call people stupid backward apes when he lost patience with them, he would never complain about ‘idiots’ again, he decided.
He started laughing suddenly, burying his face in his pillow to muffle it in the hopes that Sherlock wouldn’t hear, assuming he hadn’t vanished back inside the crate...TARDIS…he corrected, as soon as Mycroft left, and John went to bed, from what he had gathered, Sherlock’s ability to go for days without sleep was inherited from both his parents.
Well, that really did explain everything, John laughed to himself, the Holmes siblings were perfectly normal, perfectly normal ALIENS. He loved his life, he really did.