A Study In Blink (A Wholock Crossover)

Chapter ten

The lush green grass did nothing to appease John's jumpy nerves. The London sky today was a blessed ocean blue, drifts of white clouds occasionally dotting the dome here and there.

This case had been the most intriguing yet. One would think that being best friends with Sherlock Holmes would bring an end to one's capacity of feeling surprise, possibly forever, but not this time. This time, John had a very bad feeing in his gut that something would go amiss. 

The game, would end.

Something colossal is coming.

The Angels.

Blink and you're dead.

It didn't make sense, all of it. John was sure Sherlock would work it out. If anything, Sherlock was the sole truth among a world of insanity.

They're only statues when you see them.

Sherlock had said he knew who the Doctor is, right after the door had closed. Was it merely an illusion created by his subconscious? Did aliens exist?

"John!" 

John spun around, not aware of Sherlock standing right behind him. He heaved a deep breath and started the barrade of questions.

"So um," John started, gathering his thoughts, "you said you knew who the Doctor is."

"Yes and no," Sherlock said, pressing his fingertips to his temples, as if he was accessing his Mind Palace again, trying desperately to grasp the identity of the Doctor. After a while, he flung up his arms in frustration, "five years ago, I read a report on a mysterious vanishing police box, and a mystery man."

John thought for a moment, "so you think this man is the Doctor."

"No of course I don't," he said, emphasizing the third word loftily, "I think we need to take a little visit to the local Hospital, someone wants to see us."

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the front gates of the hospital. The red cross sign towering above, mixing in with the perfect blue of the sky. 

"So who're we going to see?"

Sherlock's right half lip twitched upwards and the glint of a good murder came back into his eyes, "something impossible."

*******

"I was... tryin' to find out what happened to the victims... I never thought it would end like this, all my life all I ever wanted to do was to be a journalist, witness impossible things, create good stories... is that too much to ask? Now look at me, I'm all old and crumbly, look at these hands, they used to be smooth and white, now it's all wrinkly like tree bark... And my son, I will never see my son again, he's only four..."

The old women talked and talked in her fragile voice, she had a welsh accent. It was so crumbly that John thought a gust of wind might have blown it away.

"Gabriel," John said, "this is very important, how did you go back to 1967?"

Gabriel E. Darlington shut her eyes, and for a moment, John thought the monitor by her side would go "Beep--" and it would be over. He forced himself to stay calm, "Gabriel?"

The old woman opened her eyes slowly, the blueness in them seemed to have faded away with the years, leaving a misty globe in its wake.

"Gabriel, please, this might save other people's lives. I need to know how you traveled back in time."

At this moment, John hated himself. He hated himself for being this cruel to an frail old woman, forcing her into interrogation, but Sherlock had insisted while he went off to do 'some experiment'.

Gabriel spoke again, and this time, her voice was even paler than it was before. "I went to St. Engles cemetery, such a long time ago. I was investigatin', as you are now, tryin' to find out what happened to the Wilsons, they disappeared one week prior. And, there were these statues. Stone statues. They looked like they were weeping and I swore they were a couple hundred yards away from me. I was bendin' down to look for clues but there was nothin'. I got up and a statue was right in front of me! I backed slowly away from the statue and then--"

She faltered, wincing at the memory.

"And then, suddenly I was in 1967. In the past. I've been livin' my life there ever since. Never married. Never had children. Hopin' it was all just a bad dream and I would wake up one day and find them beside me and lookin' down at me and my sweet little Rupert would play 'round me and--"

She began to cry in earnest, sobs intercepted her words, choking them.

"And--" she gasped, "I wake up every day just to find it's not a dream and it's real, and realize I'll never see my Frederic or Rupert again."

"It's alright," John said in his comforting voice, "we'll get them on the phone right now."

"Yeah," Lestrade added, "already did, they're on their way."

The door creaked open and Sherlock came in.

"Anything?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, quite a lot actually." Sherlock looked trouble and doubtful, two expressions that didn't usually cross his face.

"The DNA," he said, "it matches exactly with the DNA of the Gabriel E. Darlington who disappeared a day ago."