The Great Escape.

A Sherlock/Doctor Who crossover fanfiction set after the Reichenbach Fall. Doctor John Watson can't bare to live without his best friend, and Sherlock and the Doctor set out to stop John before he does something reckless.

Written by Chloe Smith and Becky Webber.


1. John's Final Fall.

John sat in his old flat, the one he had never been bothered to sell, especially because the rent came so cheap and it was so close to a tube station that he couldn't bear to let it go. He also didn't want to sell it because he thought it would be a safe place for him to go just in case Sherlock became too much to handle, but for some reason, he never thought that about him. He sat there, on his bed of clean linen and closed curtains, and stared at the grey walls. He missed the cluttered walls and desktops of 221B, the scent of slightly burnt toast from the cafe below. He missed his best friend. 

Stop it. No. Do not cry, John thought to himself when tears threatened to show themselves. You're a soldier, John. He placed his right hand on his forehead, pushing it against his skull so that he could focus on the dull pain instead of the death of Sherlock. His suicide. 

John stood up abruptly, deciding that sitting still wasn't working for him, and decided to pace. Once, twice, three times across the room before his eyes fixated on the top drawer of his all-too-tidy desk. The drawer that contained his old handgun, the gun that he hadn't used in six months or so. To be fair, he had almost used it several times, but he just couldn't pluck up the courage to put that gun to the right side of his head and pull the trigger. It just wasn't something he had been trained to do. 

Instead of making another failed attempt at stopping his overwhelming sadness, John opened the second drawer down, and pulled out his old laptop. He no longer had the motivation to continue his blog, and instead used it to see if all of the excitement about Sherlock's suicide had calmed down. Every so often, he would see an article or a blog post about him, which would drive John back towards the edge. He couldn't stand seeing the words that slandered his best friend swim across the screen, making his eyes sting. 

But this time, John didn't use his laptop to surf the internet. He was angry. He was angry at himself, angry at the newspapers and the people who said that about Sherlock... Most of all, he was angry at Sherlock, for not granting him that one last, tiny miracle. He picked up that laptop, the one that had seen many a webpage in its time, and dropped it. Then, he picked it up, and dropped it again. It fell, over and over, just as his friend had fallen from the top of St Bart's hospital. 

St Bart's. That was it. The way he'd end it all, the way he'd stop this never ending desperation and join Sherlock. And it was only a minutes cab ride away.


John stood in front of St Barts Hospital, looking up at the roof. His eyes stung with tears from just standing near where he hit the ground, where his blood spilled onto the concrete. He walked around it, avoiding the patch people had crowded round six months previously. The doors swung open easily, welcoming him inside, encouraging him to climb the stairs up to where Sherlock used to work, where Molly was hunched over a table, eyes heavily lidded and clearly bloodshot. John crept past the door silently, so that he didn't have to face her tear streaked cheeks, shaking hands and trembling voice. He wasn't in the right state to help someone this upset, he never would be in the right state again. 

John climbed the rest of the stairs in a daze, reaching the roof and squinting his eyes just before tripping over a discarded shoe. It had probably been black, but it had been exposed to the elements for too long for him to be sure. He ignored it for the most part. He just wanted it all to hurry up and be over, he couldn't take much more of the emotions that were being hurled around his head. It was as if he were on auto-pilot as he clambered up on the wall, looking out at the London skyline. A black cab whizzed past below, and proved to him that he was just a tiny piece in a big puzzle; a puzzle that could do with losing a few of the pieces that had begun to fray around the edges. John reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, on which he had scrawled his final note. A written note, unlike Sherlock's verbal one. His last goodbye to the puzzle around him.  

He saluted, clenched the paper, leant forwards and closed his eyes. He found peace approximately 6 inches from the ground. 

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