gracie_musica: Good Omens (yeah, go over to a friend's house) (do not attempt)
[personal profile] gracie_musica
Title: Second Fiddle (9/10)
Date Written: 5/12/11
Rating: PG-13/T
Word Count: 811
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock/Doctor Who
Disclaimer: Not mine, property of their respective owners
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Donna Noble (yes. you read that right)
Spoilers: Up through The Great Game (Sherlock) and up through The Unicorn and the Wasp (Doctor Who)
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: I blame [profile] midassa_in_gold for this, completely, utterly, and entirely. All of this. Thanks, as always, to my betas: [personal profile] totally4ryo, [profile] k8stamps, and [personal profile] gingerlr.


Then John wakes up. Which he certainly hadn't been expecting when everything had faded to black.

He's not even in a hospital, he realizes before he even opens his eyes. The bed's far too comfortable and the air doesn't taste of disinfectant.

Cautiously, he cracks open one eye, but the sudden sledgehammer of pain hits him and he squeezes his eyes shut. The light in the room isn't that bright, but it feels like a knife slicing through his skull, and his chest aches where he's been shot.

Someone pets his hair soothingly, touches his face with a cool hand. "John? How do you feel?"

Donna.

Impulsively, takes her hand in both of his, practiced fingers finding her pulse point. He's fine, now that he can feel the warmth of her skin, the beat of her heart. "Like I got hit by a lorry," he croaks.

"Owen said you would. Here, drink this. Compliments of Ianto Jones. You'll get to meet them both when you're feeling better."

Gently, she helps him sit up enough to drink and not choke. It's warm and there's the faint metallic aftertaste of medication, but it's still the warm, soothing taste of good coffee, rich and with just the right amount of sugar. He's feeling well enough to sit up and sip it himself after about half the mug's gone, caffeine and whatever else is in it lessening the pain.

Speaking of less pain...

"How am I still alive?"

"Well, I rather like keeping you about," Donna retorted before sobering. "The Doctor doesn't like guns, but he's learning that sometimes they're necessary. So he used a tranquilizer gun. Thank God. If it had been a real bullet, it would have hit your lung. Trust me, he's been given more than a piece of my mind."

John shakes his head. Drowning in your own blood's a terrible way to go. "Where are we?"

"My room." She smiles.

John had seen Donna's quarters in the TARDIS during his tour earlier that evening, but he had been a little too occupied with his own thoughts to take notice of anything past the big, four-poster bed set in the far corner and the double doors that led to the TARDIS wardrobe. Now, he notices the slightly battered antique dresser, the top covered with make-up bottles and hair products and jewelry boxes. There is a full length standing mirror to the side of the wardrobe, reflecting the image of Donna sitting in a chair next to the bed and his own pale complexion back at him from across the room. There are boxes and trunks tucked away in corners, a few open to reveal clothes and books and gifts and trinkets. Aside from the framed photo hanging on the wall over her dresser -- Donna's parents (Mom bottle blonde, Dad dark) and her grandfather, dressed up in front of an events hall -- there is nothing that truly screams 'Donna Noble'.

This could be anyone's room.

This is just a bunk, a place to sleep between adventures and store souvenirs. He knows it all too well; it is how the flat before moving in to live with Sherlock had been. Except instead of a life on hold, hers is a life lived outside the walls.

Speaking of his flatmate. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Now don't panic," Donna starts with the three words guaranteed to ramp up a heart rate. "He's at A&E. The TARDIS won't let him in, for some reason. But he's fine. Owen's checked him over. He's the medic for Torchwood,"she explains.

"What's Torchwood?"

"Allies," she says simply. He frowns and she sighs. "I'll explain it more when you don't have a headache. Because it will give you one."

"Why's Sherlock in the hospital?"

Donna winces. "He sort of... Fell."

"And what, is now roasting in the fires of eternal damnation? What do you mean, fell?"

"He and Moriarty got into a bit of a scuffle in all the confusion," she explains. Her oh-so casual tone speaks volumes for the understatement, he's sure. "And they sort of... Fell into the Thames."

"Into the Thames? Jesus Christ."

"He's fine," Donna reassures him, touching his knee. "Cold and sopping wet and frankly a little furious, but fine."

"Moriarty?"

She shrugs. "Didn't find him. Too much to hope for that he's dead, hmn?"

John puts his hand over hers. His fingers brushed over the red marks on her wrist. "Probably."

The two of them look down at their joined hands, lapsing into silence as they replay the night's events over in their head. John struggles for the words, the right words, but none magically flow.

So he aims a bit lower. Goes for simple.

"I love you too."

Donna blinks before saying, "Good," with absolute finality. Then she puts her hand on the back of his neck and reels him in for a kiss.
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