In Need of a Doctor :1:

In Need of a Doctor: Part 1: Doctor Who/Sherlock Crossover: John/Cumberbatch!Master
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
Spoilers: None.

One year. Three-hundred and sixty-five days since the death of Sherlock Holmes. No matter how much time passed, it didn't make it any easier for John Watson, the man he left behind. The earth continued to turn, life moved at its normal pace, but everything slowed to a crawl for John. He never received the memo that it was okay to continue living.

He sat alone in the darkened flat he and Sherlock used to share at 221b Baker Street. He curled himself into the chair he always sat in, a mug of tea nestled in his hands, untouched and cooled. He was lost in his thoughts, remembering Sherlock to keep himself sane, or insane; he wasn't sure. The only times John bothered to leave the flat were for shopping and his work at the hospital. It was only a few weeks ago that he started talking to his colleagues again.

The dull orange glow outside of his windows spoke of early morning, another sleepless night. John had nightmares when he closed his eyes. He never wanted to be so grief stricken but Sherlock made a home under his skin, a disease that was difficult to cure. He hoped that he would be better at the one year mark but his sadness refused to lessen. He was still as depressed as ever and he hated himself for it. He hated Sherlock for it too. John didn't budge an inch as the hours passed, sitting in that chair as the sun rose, until it was finally time to prepare for work.

He brought himself to life like a possessed statue moving from its perch. He walked with stiff limbs to the kitchen sink where he dumped out the cold tea and dropped off the mug. He dragged his tired body to the shower, spending most of the time just standing under the lukewarm water. He dressed in a trance-like state, pulling on each article without thinking. Trousers, shirt, jumper, socks, shoes. He barely remembered putting them on. He left the flat exactly on time, like clockwork, and walked the fairly short distance to the small hospital.

He walked into the hospital with his head down and his walls up as he attempted to rush to his office. A few people offered solemn hellos and he reluctantly returned them. He passed by Sarah, an action that always caused a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, but he moved fast enough that she didn't notice him until he closed his office door. He sighed in relief when he was in the safety of his four walls and hoped for a quiet day of clinic duty and paperwork. Unfortunately, those hopes were dashed about an hour into his shift.
"Doctor Watson," a woman's voice called as she knocked on his door. "We have an emergency."
John sighed, standing up and pulling on his white coat as he rushed out of the room. "What is it?"
"A John Doe, found unconscious, going into cardiac arrest. We're almost positive it's ventricular tachycardia."

John's brain kicked in, all of his attention focused on the problem at hand. Thoughts of sadness and Sherlock were pushed aside as he jogged with the nurse to the small emergency room. He saw the patient lying on the bed, freshly rolled in, without actually seeing him. He noticed only that he was a man and in need of help. He checked his vitals on the machine he'd been hastily hooked up to and the nurse was right in her diagnosis. The man's heart was beating at twice the normal rate.
"Someone get a crash trolley!" he shouted, setting to work.

Another nurse ran in with the trolley and he quickly prepped the defibrillator, grabbing the paddles. He intended to shock his heart into a normal rhythm when the John Doe sat up, inhaling sharply. Everyone around the table froze, shocked at the sudden awakening, and watched as he exhaled what appeared to be gold dust. It glittered in midair for a moment, twisting with the breeze, until it dissipated. The John Doe's eyes were wide with shock and confusion. He didn't know where he was.

He looked down at the wires attached to him, tugging on them in panicked restraint. His muscles flexed as he pulled on them, his pale skin showing every bulging vein. The nurses attempted to hold him down, joined by a couple of doctors who noticed the commotion, but even with five people, including John, he was too strong to be held. He ripped his arm free by pulling the wires out of the machine they were hooked to and removed them from his flesh. Blood trickled down his arm from the open holes, staining his skin.
"Sir, please," John said, still trying frantically to hold down one of his legs. "We're trying to help you!"
"Help me? You can't help me, human," he croaked, then paused, appearing startled by the sound of his own voice.

The sound of it struck John like a fist to his jaw. He felt sick as the deep, silky tone assaulted his ears. His grip on the man's leg loosened as he looked, really looked, at his face. He staggered back, hand to his mouth in an expression of shock and fear. Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, tall, lean body, grey eyes. The only difference was the hair; short and ginger rather than dark and shaggy. It was him, it had to be, because it was his face. Sherlock Holmes.
"Sherlock?" he asked in a small voice, but the man still heard him.
"Who?" he asked with mild interest as he shrugged off the many hands that tried to keep him down.

He stood up swiftly, knocking back the few people who still believed he could be restrained. He wore black jeans and matching sneakers, his chest bare since the nursing staff had to cut off his shirt out of necessity. He didn't appear to be concerned with his bare torso, being far more interested in his fingers as he flexed them. He examined his hands and arms and chest as if he'd never seen them before. He explored his face with his hands, tracing his cheekbones, feeling out his nose and chin. He ran his long, slender fingers through his ginger curls, plucking at them like guitar strings.
"Sherlock, is that you?" John asked a little louder, hope lightening his tone.
The strange man turned to face John, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Who is this Sherlock you keep asking about?"
"He's you," John insisted.
"I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else," he replied shortly, stepping toward John.
"Even your voice is the same," John said, breathlessly.
"Is it?" he asked, stealing another step as his head cocked to the side. "Interesting. Have I stolen a man's visage? I don't believe that's ever happened to me before."

Without another word, he turned to leave and no one stopped him. John watched him go, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He was almost out of sight when John found his voice again.
"Sherlock, wait!" he called.
"I'm not Sherlock," he replied as he walked through the emergency room doors.

The whole room stayed silent for a second, a screaming silence filled with unanswered questions. They all stared until the double doors clicked shut behind him, breaking the silence. John was still slack-jawed, unsure of what just happened.
"Doctor Watson," one of the nurses started. "What just--"
"I don't… I just… need to go home," he sighed.