impulsereader | Ficlet: Sherlock/StarTrek Crossover (Reply)

Title: Anything yours can do, mine can do worse...

A/N: Written for quarryquest who wanted Drs Watson (Sherlock) and McCoy (Star Trek: TOS) commiserating over all the trouble their friends end up dragging them into.

Word count approx. 1500 (they just keep getting longer…)

*****

Jim, of course, had gotten them goddamn time traveled again. It was the third time in as many weeks. Truly, the man was a menace. “When are we this time?” McCoy asked with a sigh of resignation.

Spock scanned the air in front of him, looking down at the resulting information which his tricorder spat back as it hummed and whistled. “The air quality indicates we are currently occupants of the early twenty-first century; most probably the end of the first decade. An analysis of the surrounding geography places us on Earth in London, England.”

“London?” McCoy perked up at the news. London was a fine city, he’d done some epic pub crawling through its narrow streets back in his younger days.

Jim was already off and running, at least metaphorically. “We’ll need some clothes if we’re going to blend in.”

“Aw, hell, no,” drawled the good doctor. “I’m not going through all that rigamarole again, Jim. If anyone asks, I’m on my way to a fancy dress party.” Grumpily, he set off down the sidewalk.

“Bones! Where are you going? You can’t just go off on your own, we need to find a way to get back to the ship!”

McCoy stopped and turned to his friend. “You don’t need me for that,” he insisted and waved his hand at Spock. “You’ve got tall, green, and pointy here to cobble you up a time machine out of washers and fishing line. When he’s done you’ll find me in the nearest establishment serving mint juleps.” He turned and set off again, waving his communicator in the air as he did so. “Call me when we’re ready to leave.”

To McCoy’s delight, he was able to orient himself almost immediately. Bart’s had been in the same place for a very long time. He only had to prowl around for a short time before he found a likely-looking place – The Butcher’s Hook and Cleaver – he snorted with amusement; he was willing to bet plenty of the doctors who walked the halls of Bart’s appreciated the irony. Cheerfully, he strolled over and walked in.

A few steps through the door, McCoy came to a halt and announced, “Anyone who’d like to buy me a drink can ask me one question about what life is like two hundred and eighty years from now.”

The room fell silent.

“Seriously, folks, I’m the real thing; an honest to god traveler in space and time.” He put one hand to his chest and held up the other as if he were taking an oath. “I won’t be able to tell you anything which might pollute the timeline though, so we’ll have to keep our conversation sort of general.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. Usually the pub was a perfectly sane place for a Sherlock break. Apparently, today it was slightly less so. He hesitated, but Sherlock Holmes’s flatmate was more than equipped to deal with a mere purported time traveler, so he he waved over the man in the goofy blue shirt which sported odd gold trim.

McCoy smiled, pleased his ploy had worked. The glory of it was that all he had to do was tell the truth, and he’d be taken for a loon with no further effort on his part. He sat himself down at the table to join the trim-looking man with sandy blonde hair and clear, friendly eyes. “Thank you kindly. My name is Doctor Leonard McCoy.”

“Doctor John Watson.” He reached across and offered his hand. The time traveler shook it and smiled at him. “I really am much obliged. I’ve been having the rottenest luck lately. I’ve got a friend who finds trouble around every corner, and he has a sidekick who enables him by getting him out of it every time. Most of the time they end up dragging me along for the ride, and I find that today I’ve had just about enough of it. I’m fed up.”

John found he was smiling. “You know, Doctor McCoy, I know just how you feel. I have a friend who landed me in a vest loaded down with Semtex.”

Above bright blue eyes, a brow shot up. “Semtex?”

“Explosives,” John explained. “I was wired to blow.”

McCoy uttered a long, low whistle. “Well now, your friend <i>is</i> a handful.”

John sat back, comfortable that he’d suitably established Sherlock as a menace to his personal safety. The time traveler, though, was not to be defeated that easily.

“Jim – that’s my friend who’s always getting into trouble – well, when he runs into a derelict ship which has been floating dead in space for a couple centuries you can be sure there will be an insane, genetically engineered, murderous superman on board just waiting to be revived so he can hijack your ship.”

John blinked at him, processing the unlikely scenario.

“Oh, and he routinely forces me to scatter all my molecules back and forth across space just to get from one place to another. Can’t pay the man to take a shuttlecraft when he could transport somewhere,” he grumbled.

“Right,” said John uncertainly. He drained his glass and stood. “I’ll just get us a round.”

McCoy said hopefully, “Ever heard of a mint julep?”

John hesitated. “I have, but this place isn’t likely to be able to produce one.”

“That’s what I thought. I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Right. Do you want something to eat?”

“Sure, why not?”

While the other doctor was gone, McCoy took the time to marshal all his best Jim and Spock stories, and when he returned, he immediately launched into a complaint as he accepted the pint glass John set down. “And Spock – that’s my other friend – he keeps linking his mind to anything he can’t understand. Now, I ask you, how long can you expect to hold on to your own mind when you do something crazy like that? And it’s always the logical thing to do, at least in his pointy green-blooded mind.”

John was starting to feel a little outclassed, but assured himself that Sherlock could stand up to any competition if presented correctly. Mildly, he remarked, “Sherlock keeps severed heads in our fridge.” He took a pull from his pint then added, “And feet in the bath.”

Sure enough, that knocked McCoy off stride a bit. “He does? Where does he keep the rest of the bits in between?”

“Either in the microwave or under my bed, whichever space isn’t already occupied,” John filled in without missing a beat. “He once fed me sugar because he thought it was poisoned.”

McCoy stroked his chin thoughtfully, and John gave him a moment to take in this information.

No longer as certain he would win this contest out of hand, McCoy offered experimentally, “Jim once agreed to fight a hormone-mad Vulcan to the death in a low oxygen atmosphere.”

John smiled and nodded companionably. “Sherlock likes to throw CIA agents out of windows, preferably those directly above Mrs Hudson’s bins.”

McCoy was given some additional time to ponder his next parry when a pretty little thing brought each of them a meat pie. The doctor sniffed appreciatively and took a hearty bite. After he’d swallowed it, he washed it down with a swallow of ale. “This is very nice choice,” he complimented.

“Ta, they do a good bitter here.”

“Jim,” McCoy said in a deceptively casual voice, “is always blowing things up with anti-matter.”

“Mm.” John swallowed a mouthful of beef and in a mildly boastful tone said, “Sherlock and I had tea at Buckingham Palace once.” He sipped from his glass and in response to McCoy’s raised brow continued, “He was wrapped in a bed sheet at the time.”

“No clothes?”

“Not a stitch.”

Starting to feel a bit nervous, McCoy decided to pull out one of the big guns. “Spock got his brain stolen right out of his skull once.”

John blinked. “His actual brain?”

“His actual brain,” McCoy said in a tone of deep satisfaction. “I was the one who had to put it back in once we’d gotten it back.” Eager to follow up this edge, he added, “I can’t tell you the number of times Jim’s flirted with breaking the Prime Directive, and he’s surely bent it out of its original shape by now. I’d guess it’s something like octagonal at this point. One day he’s going to get us all court martialled, you mark my words. And every time I turn around he’s either kissing some alien girl or getting his shirt ripped off while he’s wrestling someone for possession of the knife.”

“Sherlock treats loaded guns as if they were toys,” John lamented, but he knew when he was beat.

McCoy shook his head sadly. “It was a nice try, Doctor, but you could only suffer as much as I do if you had two Sherlocks to deal with.”

John shuddered at the thought. “Let me buy you another drink.”