A Police Box on Baker Street

Into the Cotton Club

Author's Note: Sorry, everyone! I know I promised faster updates, but then I went on vacation and my wifi got hit by lightning (long story), but I'm back now, and I have some pretty good ideas for these next few chapters, if I do say so myself. Also, remember that some of the plot points in this fic correspond with my Sherlock story, One More Miracle. So if you want to check that one out (if you haven't already), that would be fantastic, and you might just have a better understanding of this story. 

Chapter 7: Sherlock's POV

As I followed the Doctor into the Cotton Club, my eyes roamed over the people gathered inside, soaking up details like a sponge. Upon entering, I could see only one floor, but there was a balcony raised above the main level, with stairs leading up to it from the other side of the room. VIP's only, I assumed. Even from the back of the room, I could see that this was an ordinary New York club from the 1920's--there was a stage in the front, raised above the floor, backed against the wall, and taking up a good bit of space against the wall; people packed in tight on the floor; servers bringing drinks to those that had ordered them as they navigated the sea of people that were all here to see the great Duke Ellington. Or maybe to get their hands on illegal alcohol, as this was part of the prohibition era.

"Lots of people," John muttered as we worked our way past the other various men and women that had made an appearance tonight and headed towards the stairs that would take us to the balcony.

"Very good observation, John," I said, only half-jokingly. I was getting annoyed with all of these people. There were too many, and they were all moving around, moving so much that I thought they were purposefully making it difficult for us to cross the floor. I tried to "give them the benefit of the doubt," as John would say, though the nasty looks we were getting from some people suggested otherwise. Apparently the three of us strolling practically uninvited into one of the bigger clubs in New York to see Duke Ellington from seats usually reserved for well-known celebrities warranted envy, which almost inevitably led to hate. Nevertheless, I tried to keep my head down and walk on, ignoring the occasional stares, glares, and sometimes even a rude comment or gesture. 

By the time we reached the stairs that led to the balcony, I could tell that my companions were well aware of the opinion the other club-goers had of us. Still, none of us brought it up; we just climbed the stairs and walked around the balcony to chairs that were right above and in front of the stage. The three of us took a seat, the Doctor on the far right, John next to him, and myself on the far left, and in unison our three heads turned looked out across the floor and at the stage. We were the end of a direct line between us and the performers; it was a fantastic view, I had to admit. Even though we were almost on the other side of the room as the performers, we could see the stage quite well, and of course now we didn't have to crane our necks to see over the throng of people in front of us, especially John, who was the shortest of the three of us. As we sat down, I could hear both the Doctor and John muttering things like "Wow" and "Fantastic view." I coudn't help but agree, though I still kept my mouth shut. 

Only minutes after we had sat down, the entire club was packed with people. Anxious people, drunk people, dancing people, singing people, every kind of person you would expect to see at a 1920's New York club. A few minutes after that, the clock struck 8, and you could tell that these people were ready to see Duke Ellington and his infamous band. Pretty soon, the inevitable chanting started. 

"We want Duke! We want Duke!" the crowd roared, the drunks leading the charge and screaming the loudest. 

"Times haven't changed very much, have they?" I asked, leaning over towards John and practically yelling in his ear so I could be heard over the chorus of voices below. 

"No, they haven't," John said with a smile. Shaking his head, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, obviously pleased to be seated above the others. 

"We want Duke! We want Duke!" I heard again, though this time the voice was clearer, closer. I looked to my right to see the Doctor chanting along with the others, a moronic grin plastered across his face as he pumped his fist in time with the words. I saw John look at the Doctor and laugh, which only made me laugh as well. And as the laughter died down, it hit me: I'm in 1929, sitting in a New York club with my flatmate and a bow tie-wearing alien, getting ready to see Duke Ellington perform live. And I laughed harder, harder than I had in over a year, and the Doctor and John looked at me, obviously confused at my sudden swell in laughter. 

"What's so funny?" John asked. 

"John, look at where we are, and who we're with," I said, gesturing to the Doctor. He looked slightly offended. "Oh, you know what I mean," I said, which evoked more laughter from John, and soon we were all laughing again, and it felt fantastic. As I laughed, I felt a curious emotion stirring inside of me, one I rarely ever felt, one that startled me every time I experienced it. It took me a second to place it, but soon I had a name for the funny feeling swirling around in my conscience. Sentiment. 

As I realized this, I could almost hear Mycroft's voice in my head, almost scolding me. You're getting sentimental, Sherlock, and you know how that affects your work. 

Shut up, Mycroft, I'm technically on holiday, I wanted to respond, but of course I couldn't. Mycroft was in England, in the 21st century. And I was in New York, in the 20th. Every time I thought it I felt like I was going crazy. Am I going crazy? Is this all a dream? 

Luckily I was spared from delving into this untapped range of thoughts by the chanting of the crowd suddenly expanding into a solid wall of cheering. 

Duke Ellington had appeared on stage. 

~~~~~~~~

The Doctor's POV

I cheered as loudly as I could when I saw Duke Ellington walk onto the stage, flanked by his band. I turned to John, who was sitting on my left. "This is fantastic!" I yelled, and the army doctor nodded vigorously in his agreement. Even Sherlock looked pleased. 

Duke walked up to a microphone that was positioned at the front of the stage, tapped it twice, and began to speak. "Hello!" he called out into the crowd, and the crowd responded with a cheer. "I'm Duke Ellington, and this is my band, and we're here to play some music for you, if that's okay." The crowd cheered again, and all Duke must have been thinking is, God, you guys are drunk. Of course, that would explain the raucous cheering. This man wasn't even that famous yet; in fact, this is the night some people say he "gained his fame." One thing was for certain: This was going to be a good show. 

Without further word, the great Duke Ellington stepped back and started playing. The band behind him joined in, and soon the entire room was filled with jazz music that would go down in history as some of the best ever, and rightfully so. I was not much of a musician, (I had played the recorder once upon a time.) but I could tell this music was top-notch. The musicians seemed so relaxed and comfortable, and when the artist likes what they do, those that experience it will, too. 

When Duke was what I guessed to be about halfway through his second song, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to my right and looked up to see a familiar face looking down at me, one I hadn't seen in a long, long time. But of course, that face didn't recognize my face; however, I could tell the owner of said face knew who I was. 

"Come with me," the well-known voice said. 

"Give me one good reason why I should," I responded. My tone suggested confusion, but I felt anything but that. I was merely testing my long-lost cohort. 

"I think my being here is reason enough." 

"Fair enough," I responded. I stood up and turned around to look at John and Sherlock, who were staring at me quizzically. "Stay here," I said. "And don't follow me, whatever you do." Sherlock eyebrows were furrowed together and John looked almost mortified, but without further explanation, I followed my old friend away from my new friends and into a door marked "STAFF ONLY, NO ENTERING WITHOUT PERMISSION." Inside was a room covered with pictures of various aliens, myself included, and news clippings of people vanishing recently all over town. 

My escort had been facing the wall and away from me, and when he turned around to face me, I saw a grin stretching across his face. "Doctor," he said, "it's been a while." 

"Hello, Captain."