Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s)
Pairing: Eventual (and hopefully slow burn) Rose/Sherlock.
Genre: Drama, Romance, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Adventure (so, kind of like, practically― everything).
World /Story Setting: Post-Season 3 [BBC Sherlock], post-Doomsday & in Pete's (parallel) world [Doctor Who]
Rating: PG-13/T. There will be cussing though.
Summary: What do you know? Sherlock Holmes is real. And Rose Tyler is determined to meet him.

Author's Note: Been planning this even before I watched both series. So. Idk. Blame my head and my best friend.

UNTIL THE SIDEWALK ENDS

{for emma. a crappy fic to satisfy our selfish needs? i hope i haven't disappoint you.}

FIRST. ROSE.

Eight months.

She'd been here for eight months.

That's a lot right. That's like, really a lot. Perhaps for the Doctor it wasn't― perhaps for the Doctor, it has been only for a few weeks. But she's been away for eight months. And that has been eight miserable months of her trying to scrap through another day, in the hopes that perhaps in the piles of cases they received each day would lead her straight to him. Well, probably not straight― but at least, it would provided her with something. Something she could work with. Something that would just... make... everyday... she's lived... worth... living―

She's been too hard at work. She knew. That was why she kept muttering and thinking about this and forcing these words to eat her alive when she should really just be focusing on this case. She's got so many reports she needed doing. So... many...

What she needed was coffee. Lots of them. Tons.

She's lived by them now, the coffee― quite a while now, to be honest. She's never really seen the daylight, not willingly. If she did, it would probably for field cases. And she tends to take a lot of those. She thought: she needed those. Field cases. It helped sometimes. Get things off her mind. Yes. Of course it does. And she's lived by them too, the cases― names after names, titles after titles, serial numbers after the other. Stop. Stop, Rose. You're thinking too much.

She was.

Must be the coffee.

"Rose."

She looked up at the strained voice, her vision a large blur at first, unfocused, before― "Pete." She took a moment, realised where she was ― at her desk, office empty, stack of papers covering every corner of the table she was at, and she's been scribbling, highlighting, noting... ― and it was late. Her floor was offline. For an hour now, maybe, based on her observation, and quick glances at the hanging clock. She swallowed, and stared back at her father. "Do you need anything?"

"Do I need― Rose." Pete pressed on, his frustration written clearly under the shadows of his face, and Rose fought off the guilt which began to seep into her conscious; she looked away.

"What?" She managed, a little irritated. It wasn't as though she hasn't been in this situation before― because she had. More than she could count, honestly.

"You're working yourself sick."

"I'm not." She retorted. "I'm perfectly fine."

Pete gave her a vacant look. "Tell that to your mother." He paused, just to give it a dramatic effect and Rose resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It wasn't as though she didn't expect that. Of course she did. They were talking about Jackie Tyler, for goodness' sakes; Rose actually felt sorry for the older man, though not sorry enough that she'll give in to his still-silent request. Pete breathed heavily through his nostrils, "I've been trying to overlook this situation, Rose― trying to convince myself, and everyone else, that you were alright. But the matter of fact was, you aren't―"

"I'm fine―"

"You're working yourself to death."

"Straight quotation from Mum?"

"Actually―" Pete paused, grim. "Yes."

"Oh God," Rose muttered, now pressing her right palm across her face, her left hand tossing the file on her desk. Pete straightened his back, just a little bit, perhaps taking note of her annoyance, though obviously hers stood for a completely different reason, one opposing to her. She was so tired of this, she thought. People worrying about her, fixing her up into this image of someone who's a workaholic that's searching for something that was impossible.

It wasn't impossible.

That was the problem. That was the matter people never quite understood: it wasn't impossible.

She just, she needed to find a way to proof her statement. To get back to him.

She had to.

"Rose."

Rose quickly snapped herself out of the trance, finding her eyes landed directly with her father's; reality sunk in once again. She clenched her teeth, but held her tongue. Pete sighed. "You can't keep doing this." He pointed towards the mess she managed to make on her table, and knew that a teensy part of her inside agreed with him. "You can't keep pushing yourself to the limit. You'll break."

"I won't―" I won't break. She clammed her mouth shut, and then drew out a quiet sigh. "I can't stop. Not right now."

"Why?"

"The case―"

"Can wait." Pete ground out, sounding firm. "Go out, Rose. Have fun. At least for tonight. Just... be young again. You owe yourself to do that. After all the... months cooped up in this goddamn building. The night is still young."

"I―" She exhaled, pressing her fingers against her temple; her back falling back against her chair. "I don't know, Pete."

"Look. Owen said something about the bar the team always hang out at? You should go there. Join them. Talk. Have a real conversation for once. It could be good for you." Pete tried to smile, urging his case. "Plus, it wouldn't hurt to go back home and actually give Jackie a decent answer when she asked."

Rose hummed thoughtfully, her eyes falling back to the papers scattered before her eyes. "How's Tony?"

"He's fine. Eats a lot. Been gaining weight, though I think it's perfectly normal considering he's in his rapid growth phase. Unfortunately, your mother didn't share the same thought. I'm still waiting for the moment the paints on the wall began to peel over over the sound of her shrieking." Pete humoured, and Rose smiled fondly at this. It's been exactly three months since she's had lunch with her mother and brother and Pete altogether. Or dinner. Dinner sounded good now. As if reading her mind, Pete voiced out: "So, I'm taking Tony to the doctor this weekend. You should come over for dinner. He's been asking for you."

"Yeah, maybe I will." Rose responded, tired and drained.

"Rose."

"Yeah?"

"Just― take care of yourself, okay?"

"Yeah. Sure." She managed, nodding, limply raising the file back. "Thanks."

"Of course."

And when her father finally walked out from the floor, leaving the beep of identity confirmation bounced in her skull, Rose Tyler sighed and tossed the file back to her desk, thudding her neck against her chair. She sighed, and thought: yeah. Maybe I do need a night off.

Nine hours.

Nine hours, she counted, the amount of time she spent sleeping for the past 48 hours. For the past two days. She couldn't even remember the last time she ever felt fully refreshed when she woke up: felt as though the sun was greeting her warmly, the day kinder than the night before, the hour easy and relax. Of course she never needed that considering the only time her brain accepted she was at peace was if she was with... if she was with the Doctor.

But that wasn't happening anytime soon, will it?

Stop, Rose. She gritted her teeth and grasped on her temple, cringing. This was a day night out. Spent sleeping.

Well, that was her initial plan anyway: sleeping in her crammed-up apartment that served no other purpose than to give herself a single bed which she rarely use, but desperately needed. But unfortunately, it was as though her legs had a mind of its own when she found herself stalking down the familiar road to the bar. Okay, she decided. Maybe just a drink.

"Tyler!"

The name didn't escape her, and she quickly snapped her attention to it. There, by a booth, sat her team. Owen wearing a smug grin when she skipped herself over to them. "Oh, so she did have a life outside the office. How fascinating."

The sarcasm hit her more than it should. Rose pretended it didn't effect her; Gwen spat him. "Rose." She smiled, "Are you okay? You don't normally..."

"I know," Rose replied, mostly tired, flashing her a weak smile. "I just... I need a drink."

Owen snorted. "Don't we all?"

"You always need a drink―" Gwen scoffed, though she held a teasing smile on her face, but Rose wasn't very sure that was the exact words she used. She joined the team at the booth, because though she preferred solitude, she supposed she's had enough of that. After all, it wasn't that hard to tune off most of the group's conversation anyway, especially when she held a bottle of beer by her grip, her head swam with the memories she tried so hard from eating her alive.

Oh, God.

A twisted murder she received last month weren't as difficult to endure as this.

Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she was depressed. No. Of course she was depressed. She was, the minute the Doctor left her. She could still remember her heavy heart weighing her down, keeping her on bed for days afterwards until Pete gave her this job. It took time to adjust after that, but there she was: working every time, every minute that sometimes she even skipped two meals a day. But she knew, the second she accepted the job, that it was perhaps the only way she could find solid access to the Doctor once again.

She knew she was depressed, but she also knew the key to stop it.

And that was why she needed to oversee every case. Something, somewhere― will lead her to the Doctor. She's certain.

But then again, it has been eight months. Eight months, and she's still stuck in the same position. With no clue of anything whatsoever. Rose sighed.

"Hey, Tyler― are you listening to this?"

Rose blinked, shaken slightly as she realised that she was not the only one in the room. She cleared her throat and re-focused her attention. "What?"

"The Holmes news. It seemed that he solved another big case. He's greeting the living brilliantly." Owen continued, scrolling down the news on the screen of his phone, an impressed expression crossed his face.

Rose frowned. "Holmes? What Holmes?" And why is greeting the living?

"Oh come on, tell me you've at least heard of him." Gwen continued, hiking one eyebrow.

Yeah. Well. The closest thing she's heard of a Holmes was when the Doctor mentioned Sherlock Holmes. Merely a fictional character from a book, wasn't he? But they were talking about humans... weren't they? Rose pulled on her frown with a little more force. "Who?"

"Honestly, Rose―" Gwen exclaimed, surprised; a humourless smile bled over her face, painting over her expression.

By Rose's right, Tosh gave out a small smile. "Sherlock Holmes, and his companion, Dr. John Watson. An internet sensation― been one for a few years. He's supposedly committed suicide when he jumped off a hospital's rooftop after his secret was revealed: stating that he was a fake."

"Wait, wait― did you just say Sherlock Holmes?"

"The one and only." Owen whistled. "A consulting detective, apparently. I would comment that there isn't such thing, but there he is, the genius of the century, richer than the rest of us." He cocked his brows towards Rose and sneered, just a little, "Well― some of us right now, anyway."

Rose ignored that. "And― and John Watson?"

"Dr. John Watson." Tosh sipped on his drink, "Why? Do you know them?"

"No, I just―" Rose paused, brushing her thumb over her lips. They're real, something beeped in her mind. The fictional characters were real. At least they were in this world. In this universe. The Doctor...

Rose swallowed, "Can I, um― can I see the news, please?"

Owen hesitated, blinked. "Uh, yeah." He gave her his phone, "If you want to check their blogs, I think they put in the source right below..."

Rose nodded, her thumb immediately scrolling down the page, until she stopped at an image of man; pale-skinned, bright but serious eyes, high cheekbones, a tight frown carved upon his lips and the unmistaken dark, curly hair; one curl falling and touching his right brow. Rose paused on the picture, her eyes suddenly fixed on the image; her mind whirled, still adjusting to the brand new news.

Sherlock Holmes is real.

Maybe because Holmes was the closest (the most real) thing she has of the Doctor (of his many passion), or maybe because there's just something about the picture of him she was staring at ― but for the first time in a really long time: Rose Tyler grinned.

What do you know? Sherlock Holmes is real.

A month could passed by very quickly.

Just like the eight before ― but Rose tried not to ponder on that for too long. She felt lighter most days now, sometimes she even felt, well, better. Reading Dr. Watson's blog had become sort of a muse which pulled her momentarily out of her funk, and she liked it. And this was saying something considering reading mystery/crimes weren't usually one she preferred to do during her spare time. But she liked reading about Holmes.

She liked the knowledge that she's also taken a liking to something the Doctor was highly passionate about.

In fact, in her mind, Sherlock Holmes was the only single thread, albeit the thread is hardly noticeable, in this life of hers that connected solely to the Doctor. And though she knew it sounded desperate, it was the only thing, right now, she clung extremely hard to.

"Are you reading about Holmes again?" Tosh voiced out one day, when they just wrapped up a case that turned out to be nothing but a complete fake. Rose hated those type of cases― it wasn't just a proof that there were ridiculous people out there, but it also wasted a lot of her team's time (hers, in particular).

Rose lifted her eyes, munching on a chocolate bar (that tasted a little too bleak to be real chocolate in her opinion) and met Tosh's eyes. She could spot a soft smile tilted at the corner of the other woman's lips, and Rose allowed herself to mirror it. "Yeah, it's just... They're― very interesting."

"They are. They're good, you know." Tosh supplied, blowing on her hot coffee. "Holmes, especially."

"You know him?"

Tosh shook her head. "Not really. His brother, though..."

"Brother?"

"Mycroft." Tosh pursed her lips. "Pete bumped into him a couple of times. He didn't know about Torchwood, not what we're really about. But he had his suspicion. And he's often correct. I wouldn't expect less of his little brother."

Rose didn't reply.

Tosh tried smiling again. "You're getting better."

"I'm sorry?" That was an odd question.

"People are afraid to mention it, but... you are. You looked better."

"Well, I've been getting a lot of needed sleep lately. And shower." She tried joking.

Tosh's smile didn't disappear. "Or maybe it's Holmes."

"What?"

"You've been better since you started reading Watson's blog. It's like... reading about him is your own therapy." Tosh offered, sipping onto her coffee; almost immediately, Rose noted of the tension leaving the other woman's body ― as though the liquid was her personal calming pill. Maybe it was. "Maybe you should meet him."

Rose blinked, baffled: "What?"

"Holmes. Meet him in person." Tosh shrugged, "He's changed many lives. Perhaps he's destined to change yours too."

"I don't know about that."

"There's a lot of things we don't know, Rose." Tosh hummed. "Doesn't mean we shouldn't find out."

Better. That word echoed in her skull. Okay, she admitted: maybe after she started taking an interest in Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson's lives, she had been less guarded around her goal to search for a way onto reaching the Doctor, but that didn't mean anything, could it? Maybe it's just about the mysteries she read from Dr. Watson's blog that breathed the sense of adventure back into her lungs, that brought a smile onto her face― because the idea of them out there, alive, and roaming about and real was enthralling, was great, was exceptional.

It was, more than anything, hopeful.

And that was why, Rose decided, she was better. Because Holmes and Watson have both gave her hope.

Something she thought she lost.

When the insane message cut off all the television station all over the world, Rose was working on a case. She's with Tosh, trying to decode a message for a case that should have been solved a few hours ago. Their floor was offline, and Owen had went for a quick breather (and maybe three cups of fresh coffee at Starbucks across the road for them) when every screen ― excepting the main one Tosh was using, Thank God ― lit up.

It flickered, at first; made those annoying noises that every telly made whenever it lost signals, before a picture began to form.

Tosh was pissed off, a little, because she's really tired and she wanted very badly to just finish with decoding before her fingers typed furiously against the keyboard, muttering out, "Dammit. I can't cut this off. I mean, I can― but that would take ages―and oh. Great. We're not the only one seeing this."

"What do you mean?" Rose forced her eyes from the screen to momentarily look at Tosh.

"It's viewing all over the world." Tosh told. "Right now. This instant."

"Who's―"

Miss me? Miss me? Miss me?

Rose stared, frowned. "Who's that?"

"Wait..." Tosh frowned, and then: "That's Moriarty."

"Moriarty?" That name echoed when Rose whispered it. "Moriarty." She repeated, "Isn't that― isn't he―"

"Dead? I really don't know, Rose." She shrugged. "It won't be the first."

No, it won't. Rose frowned, stared at the screen and stood up. Her eyes fixed on the man's sinister and distorted face as the screen flickered again, and Rose held her disgust with a neutral expression, albeit her teeth were clenching together. Moriarty. That name bounced back in her skull, like a warning that she didn't want to receive. The tension knotted at the back of her muscle. Sherlock Holmes' supposedly dead enemy.

"Rose?"

Rose picked up on her remaining effect to look calm, though her nerves were challenged. "I need you to send me every detail you have on Moriarty. Everything. Right from his birth, his parents, where he grew up, every aliases he's been, what he's done, who he's involved with― everything." When she turned to only see Tosh gawking up at her, Rose restrained a frustrated sigh from escaping. "Now, Agent."

Tosh nodded, and turned to the main screen; her fingers typing in without any hesitation lingering by.

An order is an order.

Sometimes it was good to be in a higher position, Rose dwelled.

She got every piece of information there was an hour later, right after they've finished decoding. Tosh didn't question her motives, and Rose was glad.

A few days later, she requested for a three-week leave. She packed light.

"Where exactly did you say you were going?" Pete asked, frowning.

Rose threw him a polite smile over her shoulder, adjusting her sling bag. "Away."

Before he could ask more questions, she cleared the destination in her head once again, her determination stronger than she ever felt. The GPS in her advanced phone bleeped and buzzed in her hand, and she smirked down at the screen:

221B Baket Street.

...

End Note: 3,407 words (for future references). Emma, I'M WATCHING YOU. Oh yeah, and I made Rose addressed both Sherlock and John by their surname as a nod towards Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work― he used surnames in his fictions; I read― though hopefully, this will change soon. May be edited in the near future. Thank you for the read, and review please, if you have the time.