Disclaimer: Sherlock and Doctor Who both belong to the BBC, not to me. The title of the fic itself and the chapters come from the song "Life Less Ordinary" by Carbon Leaf, which I do not own either but I think it's lovely.

A/N: This is primarily about the relationship between John and Sherlock, secondarily about the relationship between John and the Doctor, and thirdly about the relationship between the Doctor and the Master. There is no slash, only bromance.

I hope you enjoy it.

Rated K+ for a few random swear words and two mentions of drug use.

Prologue: You Know What I Mean

It is beyond what the typical person might call "hot" in the desert today; a closer word might be "scorching" or possibly the phrase "burning the with heat of a thousand suns," but really, there isn't a word in English (or in any language, for that matter) that John knows would quite cover it. It is beyond Heat and progressing quickly to Supernova. (Are supernovas hot? Is there a way to measure that? Is there heat that far out in space? John knows he is being ridiculous, thinking about such things in the middle of a goddamn war zone, but that doesn't stop him from thinking them.)

Thinking about the heat is particularly pointless now, especially since he's lying in the sand, incapacitated and dying.

His vision blurs a little bit, so he pokes at the fresh bullet wound in his shoulder to sharpen things up. It works spectacularly. He gasps, his eyes wide open, his head tilting to the left to avoid the sun beating down directly into his retinas. God, he can practically count the sand particles as they sort of... Sparkle? Shimmer? Sprattle? Oh, this is very bad, John thinks vaguely. Is sprattle even a word? He winces as waves of adrenaline dulled pain radiate out from his left shoulder, his strong arm, dammit, and dissipate somewhere in his back. Does it even matter at this point? He wants to think it doesn't, just so he can give up without feeling guilty about it.

Some part of him starts to really fight then, panicking at the thought of dying, of leaving before he's ready, of going out in such a manner (bleeding out under the supernova sun, simultaneously burning and freezing as his life seeps through his fatigues and soaks into the sand, darkening it to a dull rusty clumpy brown), of leaving his friends and family behind without so much as a goodbye (he refused to say goodbye to them before he left; assured them he was just a doctor, he wouldn't be on the front lines, there was no danger, no danger, no danger, I'll see you again soon, no I won't I can't say goodbye because this isn't goodbye). He can't die now (though he supposes that's probably what every dying person thinks right before they kick the bucket), he's got far to much to do and be and he's fading and he can't feel the supernova sun anymore and his vision is going black and Oh, please God let me live.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Vworp.

Wait, what?

Vworp. VWORP. VWORP.

It is the biggest struggle of his life, but John Hamish Watson opens his sand encrusted eyes and squints into the middle distance. He feels his mind fading, and if he lives, he thinks he might not remember this. It's almost a dream state, "that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming." There's no pain anymore, he notices that. Just a semi-pleasant floating sensation.

And something blue and large and vaguely box shaped in the distance.

John squints harder, trying desperately to focus, because if this is what near death experiences are like, they're far more interesting than he's ever been told.

There's a man walking toward him.

He's blurry at first, but as he comes closer, John can focus on him. He's tall, thin, and, bizarrely, wearing a tweed jacket with braces and... Is that a bow tie? The man approaches calmly, quietly, as if John isn't lying there dying, ad it occurs to John that he hasn't called to this man for help, nor has he asked what the hell he's doing there. He doesn't know if it's because he inherently trusts this bow-tied tweed man or because his mind is being affected by his injury. To be honest, he doesn't care.

The man reaches him and leans down, balancing on his haunches, elbows resting on knobbly knees. John can't explain it to himself, but the man looks so ancient and sad and young all at the same time; his hair flops into his eyes a little and he wings it back, never breaking eye contact with John as they watch each other. He must be hundreds of years old, John thinks deliriously.

The sad man smiles, but so much hides behind it that it's almost not even a smile at all.

He leans in close, right by John's ear, and whispers, "This is not your day to die, John Watson."

And before he can wonder how this man knows his name, he has passed out again.

Chapter 1: A Life Less Sedentary

Nine Months Later

"Look at you," Sherlock muses, a strange combination of epiphany and contempt warring in his face. "Unbelievable."

"Sherlock," John interrupts before he can really get going. He tries to keep the warning out of his tone and instead tries to make him jump tracks, back into epiphany and away from hurling insults. "Want to tell us what's going on?"

"He's their hairdresser," Sherlock explains. There's a bright, arrogant look in his eye, and John knows exactly what's coming up: a long, breathless deduction, the police and forensics team looking on with greater and greater astonishment, which will cross over into disbelief and defensiveness as it goes on, finally ending in angered bewilderment as Sherlock finishes with a flourish of his coat, head turned slightly toward John so he can see John's reaction. John wonders prematurely how much of it is done to impress him (he guesses about thirty percent), prematurely because the deductions don't happen at all. Instead, Sherlock freezes in place, his eyes suddenly the size of dinner plates.

"Oh," he breathes, then takes off around the corner of the alley, his coat billowing behind him. John doesn't think for even a second; he just reacts on instinct, and his leg muscles tense and he's off after Sherlock before he can even think Oh you sodding wanker.

He catches Sherlock up fairly easily; they run at nearly the same pace now that John's limp has disappeared (for the most part), and they run. They love this, the running part, the adrenaline surge and pumping blood and generating heat while enveloped in frost breathing cold. Streetlamps and traffic lights cast multicoloured glowing shapes on the ground, creating sharp, deep shadows out of walls and alleys. They blur past, Sherlock slightly ahead, leading the way as always, John behind. This feels exactly right: following Sherlock into the dark places without knowing quite why. The whys and whens and wheres and whats and hows and whos all bleed away into the wind and desire takes their place ("what you want and what you're scared to try for," as Stephen King put it). All of it fades except the pounding of their hearts and their feet, both cracking along in tandem, until Sherlock stops short near he end of an alley and John runs full stop into his back.

"Jesus, Sherlock, some warning ne-mmph!" Sherlock has reached back without even looking and covered John's mouth with one gloved hand.

"Other side of the street, about three flats to the right," Sherlock whispers urgently. "His next victim. He won't have any weapons with him since he always uses things he finds around the victims' homes. We can catch him, easy."

John has to forcibly remove Sherlock's hand from his mouth. "Why not let the police pick him up? They've got cars!" he hisses.

Sherlock grins at him maniacally. "Running's more fun," he answers, and God help John Watson if he doesn't grin right back in agreement.

They watch for a few minutes before the murderer crosses the alleyway. About halfway across, he stops, clearly sensing eyes on him but unsure where they're coming from.

"Now," Sherlock breathes, and they break loose and run at him.

The man runs, and God is he quick but Sherlock and John have been getting in some amazing practice lately. The murderer pulls a gun out of his coat pocket and shoots wildly backward, missing them both by a mile.

"Sherlock, you said he wouldn't have a weapon!" John shouts over the wind in his ears.

"There's always something!" Sherlock growls to himself. They pick up the pace as the man disappears behind a corner. "Follow him, catch him if you can!" Sherlock yells. "I'm going around!"

John doesn't question it. He just does as he's told. He's nearly caught the man when he whips his gun around, making John duck and lose his balance, tumbling ungracefully to the mucky ground. Perfectly timed, Sherlock whips around the corner and stops the murderer in his tracks with John's gun pointed right at the man's face, long forefinger resting calmly on the trigger.

"All right?" Sherlock asks John, but there's an amused tone to it rather than a worried one. John grimaces as he stands (he's not nearly as young as he used to be), but nothing seems to be broken or sticking out of his skin at horrible angles, so he nods stiffly to Sherlock.

"Call Lestrade." John does. Within moments, there are at least five squad cars surrounding the alley, and the murderer is being handcuffed and suddenly John is absolutely fucking exhausted. He leans against the wall, closing his eyes, nearly asleep in seconds, but Sherlock's hand on his shoulder is insistent.
"Your bed will be much more comfortable," Sherlock murmurs.

"Don't we have to give statements or some such nonsense?" John asks blearily.

Sherlock smiles. "Told Lestrade we'd be in tomorrow," he announces, tugging John along behind him. "We're far too exhausted to do anything but go home and sleep it off."

"Quite right, too," John answers, but really, by the time they get home he's at least partially awake again. Enough to be hungry, anyway.

"Dinner?" he asks as he bustles around making tea in the kitchen.

"Starving," Sherlock answers, his nose buried in John's laptop, his fingers typing away furiously. He's curled up in one corner of the sofa, taking up an amazingly small amount of space.

"I'll order Chinese."

Ten minutes later, John settles himself on the other end of the sofa, flipping on the TV. "Is this you trying to keep me from writing up the case?" he asks, only half joking as he points to his laptop.

"You're perfectly welcome to my laptop," Sherlock mutters, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. "As long as you don't give it some ghastly title like all the others. The Blue Carbuncle, John, honestly."

John smiles a bit thinly; they're fairly new friends, only having lived together for five months, and John's still trying to get used to Sherlock's (mostly meaningless) ribbings. He's never particularly enjoyed being made fun of, but he knows it's as much a part of Sherlock to insult people as his right arm, and it's fine, it's all fine-

"John?"

Sherlock is giving him a soft look, clearly considering whether he should say something or not; eventually he decides not and goes back to his furious typing.
John falls into a light doze, a half-eaten carton of cold Chinese food tilted against his leg, his head tipped back over the edge of the couch. When he wakes, he sees Sherlock has fallen asleep as well, his curly head inches from John's leg, face buried in the backrest. John smiles and gently turns his head up a little so he doesn't suffocate himself and covers him up with a stolen orange shock blanket. Then he climbs the stairs, crawls under his own covers, and falls asleep instantly.

Another A/N: The "place between sleep and awake" line comes from the film Hook, and the Stephen King line about desire comes from my favourite book It. I own neither of those, but I love them to death.