July 19 - choose your own AU
Title: Far From Home
Author: Pompey
Universe: BBC, ACD/Gaslight, and Dr. Who
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU, crossover(s)
Word count: 565
Summary: Victorian London is dirty, smelly, crime-ridden . . . and now John’s new home.
Prompt: July 19 - Choose your AU. (Went with time-travel and unexpected crossover)
“Sherlock, was that statue there before?”
It just figured that the one time John was more observant than Sherlock it would come back to bite him.
“You go on ahead, I want to look at something.”
He should have kept his mouth shut and eyes shut. Because that statue hadn’t been there before, he was sure of it. And the closer had got to it, the surer he became that there was something very wrong with it. For one, it no longer had its face bowed into its hands. Its blank, stone eyes were staring into his. Obeying a well-honed sense of self-preservation, John turned to run. In an instant a very cold, very hard hand grasped his wrist.
The next thing he knew, he was dragging himself out of a disgusting pile of rotting rubbish and filth. His head was spinning and his stomach was churning from more than just the putrid smell. What the hell had just happened to him? Why were the streets suddenly an old-fashioned cobblestone? Why were there the sounds of horses’ hooves and rattling wheels instead of engines? Why was the air so rank and smoky and sooty? And why was everyone wearing late Victorian costumes?
The longer John watched them, the more weirded out he felt. The clothing didn’t exactly look like costumes. Oh, they were antique-looking but there was a wear to them that didn’t look like costuming. Some of the outfits were downright grotty, with visible sweat stains under the arms and around the collars, and lines of grime and frayed threads. And the smells coming off the masses told John plainly that they were definitely unwashed. If this was a prank, it was a bloody realistic one.
John pulled out his phone to try to get a bead on where he was. Except he couldn’t get a single bar of service and his battery was already half dead from searching for a signal. Frowning, John turned on his airplane mode. No point in draining the battery further.
He started walking along the road, reading the street signs. Some of the names he recognized but even the signs and the buildings looked different. Very different. And people he passed were starting to give him odd looks, as though he were the strange one.
The last straw was the newspaper stand, an outmoded item in the age of Google and online media. Then he caught a glimpse of the coins that the newspaper seller and the newspaper buyer were exchanging. He knew shillings and crowns and such were considered “old money” but this was ridiculous. The worst, though, was reading the date of the current newspaper.
It was possible this was some sort of exceptionally realistic movie set. Or maybe an elaborate joke. Or maybe even a nightmare. But after reading that date, John felt a sort of cold nausea that had nothing to do with the remnants of the rubbish pile clinging to his jacket or the vile smells of his surroundings. The seed of belief had already been planted and he couldn’t uproot it. Not even a genius like Sherlock Holmes would be able to solve the mystery of the disappearance of one John Watson, not if his theory was right.
The date on the newspaper was May 20, 1894. And even though he was still in London, John felt a million miles from home.
Author: Pompey
Universe: BBC, ACD/Gaslight, and Dr. Who
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU, crossover(s)
Word count: 565
Summary: Victorian London is dirty, smelly, crime-ridden . . . and now John’s new home.
Prompt: July 19 - Choose your AU. (Went with time-travel and unexpected crossover)
“Sherlock, was that statue there before?”
It just figured that the one time John was more observant than Sherlock it would come back to bite him.
“You go on ahead, I want to look at something.”
He should have kept his mouth shut and eyes shut. Because that statue hadn’t been there before, he was sure of it. And the closer had got to it, the surer he became that there was something very wrong with it. For one, it no longer had its face bowed into its hands. Its blank, stone eyes were staring into his. Obeying a well-honed sense of self-preservation, John turned to run. In an instant a very cold, very hard hand grasped his wrist.
The next thing he knew, he was dragging himself out of a disgusting pile of rotting rubbish and filth. His head was spinning and his stomach was churning from more than just the putrid smell. What the hell had just happened to him? Why were the streets suddenly an old-fashioned cobblestone? Why were there the sounds of horses’ hooves and rattling wheels instead of engines? Why was the air so rank and smoky and sooty? And why was everyone wearing late Victorian costumes?
The longer John watched them, the more weirded out he felt. The clothing didn’t exactly look like costumes. Oh, they were antique-looking but there was a wear to them that didn’t look like costuming. Some of the outfits were downright grotty, with visible sweat stains under the arms and around the collars, and lines of grime and frayed threads. And the smells coming off the masses told John plainly that they were definitely unwashed. If this was a prank, it was a bloody realistic one.
John pulled out his phone to try to get a bead on where he was. Except he couldn’t get a single bar of service and his battery was already half dead from searching for a signal. Frowning, John turned on his airplane mode. No point in draining the battery further.
He started walking along the road, reading the street signs. Some of the names he recognized but even the signs and the buildings looked different. Very different. And people he passed were starting to give him odd looks, as though he were the strange one.
The last straw was the newspaper stand, an outmoded item in the age of Google and online media. Then he caught a glimpse of the coins that the newspaper seller and the newspaper buyer were exchanging. He knew shillings and crowns and such were considered “old money” but this was ridiculous. The worst, though, was reading the date of the current newspaper.
It was possible this was some sort of exceptionally realistic movie set. Or maybe an elaborate joke. Or maybe even a nightmare. But after reading that date, John felt a sort of cold nausea that had nothing to do with the remnants of the rubbish pile clinging to his jacket or the vile smells of his surroundings. The seed of belief had already been planted and he couldn’t uproot it. Not even a genius like Sherlock Holmes would be able to solve the mystery of the disappearance of one John Watson, not if his theory was right.
The date on the newspaper was May 20, 1894. And even though he was still in London, John felt a million miles from home.