Chapter Text
Something wasn’t right. There was entirely too much blood. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Too soon, too soon…
“John. You’re going to be all right. Just hold on, the ambulance is on its way. Only a few more minutes. John? John!”
Sherlock pressed down harder, but the blood continued to spill out, filling the gaps between his fingers and painting his hands a terrible shade of crimson. He had lost his scarf somewhere during the mad chase after John Garrideb, aka James Winter, so he only had his bare hands. Hands that were inadequate at stemming the flow of John Watson’s life out onto the pavement.
“John! Keep your eyes fixed on me. Can you do that for me?”
John’s eyes locked on his own, his gaze unwavering. Shock and fear roiled in their blue depths, mirroring the panic in Sherlock’s gut. Where the hell was that ambulance?
The second it happened would be engraved in Sherlock’s memory for all time, the precise instant when he knew that all hope was lost.
It was when the look in John’s eyes slid from panic into calm resignation. John had just enough strength to lift his hand and grasp Sherlock’s arm. “Sherlock,” he coughed, lips tinged with blood. “I’m… sorry, I… “
“Shut up!” Sherlock hissed. “Idiot. You’re going to be fine.”
“Sherlock,” John breathed. He blinked once. “It was… all… worth it. To be… loved…by you.”
An anguished sob echoed against the surfaces of the abandoned alley. “John. Please. No.”
Then the light disappeared from John Watson’s eyes, and took with it the only source of warmth in Sherlock’s life.
***
They had only been together for one month before they were ripped apart forever. It had taken years to reach that point, years of laughter and camaraderie and shared sorrow all building towards the inevitable - and in the span of five minutes, it was all gone, wiped away as if it had never existed.
It wasn’t right. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. They were supposed to have had decades left. They were supposed to have grown old together.
So Sherlock Holmes decided to do what he did best: to set things right again. But to do that, he needed help that transcended both time and space.
He also needed to not be locked up in a jail cell, which meant that he also needed help of a different kind.
***
Damn Mycroft. He really could not stand the way his brother was looking at him, with a mixture of resignation and sadness.
“You murdered him in cold blood, Sherlock.”
“He killed John.” Sherlock was horrified at the crack in his voice and the moisture threatening to leak from the corners of his eyes.
“Yes, which means that the magistrate will take into account extenuating circumstances. But given your - history, don’t think that you’ll avoid serving time, Sherlock.”
Sherlock gripped the bars of his cell, determination blazing in his eyes. “You know who you need to summon, Mycroft. The less time that passes, the less chance of detrimental effects.”
Mycroft shook his head. “It’ll never be allowed. There are rules.”
“Why don’t you let me try? What, exactly, do I have to lose?”
***
The blue police box appeared in his cell in the middle of the night.
“You know what the cost of such a thing will be, Sherlock.”
“I am aware.”
“Are you? Are you prepared to make that sacrifice?”
“For John? Of course I am.”
“I cannot interfere with the course of events myself. You’re going to have to figure out how to do that on your own. And remember the two primary rules. You must take care not to interact with your former self, in any way. That is essential, Sherlock. And you cannot reveal the details of anyone’s future to the person in question. Are we quite clear on all of that?”
“Crystal. You’ve trained me well, Doctor.”
“Well, we both know how emotional you can get in these sorts of situations. Discipline and an ordered mind are essential. Perhaps I should send your brother instead? Then we wouldn’t have the paradox of - “
“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock growled. “He’s not invested in the outcome like I am.”
“Precisely. You’re too close, Sherlock.”
“Something isn’t right. John isn’t supposed to be gone, and I need to fix it.”
Sherlock hated the look the Doctor gave him. It was full of sorrow and pity.
“Of course you feel that way, Sherlock. He was your friend, and he left you in an unexpectedly violent fashion. But if it wasn’t supposed to happen, then it wouldn’t have. That’s how fate works.”
“And I’m telling you, it’s all wrong!” Sherlock shouted. He clenched his fists in desperation and frustration. “Will you help me or not?”
The Doctor sighed. “Of course I will. Only with the transport, though. The rest, as I’ve said before, is up to you. It’s best if we return as close to the actual moment as possible; the less changes that are made the better.”
“I know exactly the right time,” Sherlock said. “John was at home and I was out following up on a lead. The only reason any of this happened was because I texted him to come join me. Just drop me off at Baker Street thirty minutes prior to my text; that would be an hour before John... dies. I’ll distract him, separate him from his phone. He won’t ever realise that I’m not ‘his’ Sherlock.”
“What if ‘his’ Sherlock needs backup, and is hurt or worse because John doesn’t answer his summons?”
“Well,” Sherlock said, a mad gleam in his eye, “you did say this would require sacrifice, right?”
***
Sherlock thundered up the stairs two at a time, heart thumping wildly in his chest. It had been one month since he’d last seen John, alive and whole, and his anxiety level was ratcheted up higher than it had ever been. The progression of events that needed to happen scrolled in his head, the timetable ticking away off to the side like the countdown to an explosion…
He threw open the door to the flat, mouth open to call for his flatmate - and skidded to a halt as his brain registered a gun barrel being pointed directly at his head.
John Watson stood in front of his chair, arm outstretched and holding his Browning with the safety clicked off. At the sight of Sherlock, his eyebrows disappeared into his hairline and his mouth popped open, jaw slack with shock.
Sherlock instinctively raised his hands, while his eyes flicked from one end of the sitting room to the other. His brain stuttered when he saw *himself* standing stiffly in front of the leather chair, managing to look haughty and intimidating whilst clad in pyjamas and dressing gown. His mirror image’s eyes went wide and both fists clenched at his sides.
Sherlock groaned. Careful to keep his arms up, he raised his eyes to the ceiling and mentally cursed the Doctor’s timing. Off, but by how much?
Well, that was at least one rule already broken.
“Sherlock?” John said, voice shaking while his arm remained perfectly steady. “What the hell is going on here?”
Sherlock locked gazes with his past self. Past Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and took two steps forward. He opened his mouth, and Sherlock knew exactly what he was going to say, because it was what he himself would have said.
“What’s happened to John?”