A/N: There's an extremely long backstory behind the creation of this story, which mandates the giving of thanks to: an Anonymous prompter on the Sherlock kink meme, the usual combination of Mofftiss and Sir ACD without whom said prompt would never have existed, coffeebuddha of livejournal who originally filled said prompt, cyerus of AO3 who popularized said prompt and brought it to my awareness with the story "Captain John Watson, Genetics, and Other Crazy Things," MrTails of who kindly agreed to judge a competition around said prompt, and last but certainly not least, my beta BigBluePudding with whom I was competing (and who will hopefully forgive me for over-using the phrase 'said prompt.') If for some strange reason you actually want to hear the full story or (more understandably) get links, they'll be available in the endnotes. Enjoy!
The streetlight on the cobblestones of Victoria, British Columbia wasn't exactly dissimilar to that of the Victorian London Jack had just left. Here, however, a veil of snow dusted the cobblestones just in time for Christmas. It was marked with the thick tread of cars, not horse-drawn carriages.
Not that Jack had time to enjoy any of that. His latest mission had required the unusually tedious acquisition of false backstory for his usual alias, and he'd made up some hardly believable birth and death dates and some non-existent family members. Stupid Canadian extradition laws. But the 'paperwork' half of this adventure was over with, and the 'running around like hell to capture escaped quasi-alien convicts' part had just begun.
Pounding around corners in old-town Victoria, Jack could feel his heart racing. Faster, just a bit faster - Sister Bastet was over a block ahead of him in the darkened streets and he needed just a little more speed...
A small group of the Sisters of Plenitude, the Catkind, had fallen through the rift on the way to their imprisonment in New New York, taking a selection of futuristic viruses and several innocently confused nuns-in-training with them.
... and so Jack raced on, breaths getting shorter and shorter. He began to catch up. The chase began to blur as he reached for the trailing end of Bastet's robes...
He held a knife to her throat, and through gritted teeth, spat out the words, "Where. Are They. The rest of them!" He'd already caught most of the malevolent leaders, sending their prison ship back to the NNYPD.
Though it took a little more persuasion, Bastet eventually led him down to the damp corridors of the small Canadian jail, to where a large group of confused and scared Catkind Novices were huddled. They looked up at Jack with lost brown eyes, shaking their heads in bewilderment to his questions. As he'd thought, Bastet was the only guilty member of this party remaining.
As to how he found himself in a dingy (evidently horridly 1960s Earth architecture) hotel room with the young Novice Hame, only a celebratory bottle of whisky could tell Jack that.
The official record of that mission, at least in the Canadian vaults, would describe the accidental imprisonment of a number of quiet, shrouded nuns in Victoria and the unconnected but unfortunate death of one Captain John Alexander Charles Harkness (known as Jack to his British special ops squad) in North Vancouver on February 25th, 1971. These records would, of course, be almost entirely wrong. Not only did they leave out the looming threat of epidemic apocalypse which came close to wiping out western Canada, but they failed to reflect the (surprisingly close to accurate) public perception that the Captain's death had something to do with the solar eclipse on the same day. Well, what most of the scientific citizenry believed to be an eclipse... a frequent mistake with the rift.
A little under nine months later, said rift carried Novice Hame back to New Earth, leaving behind a small woven basket with an infant to be named John Watson in the arms of the very much not dead Captain Jack.
One quiet morning in 221B Baker Street, John was curled up on the sofa (recently replaced due to Sherlock's antics) his flatmate's head in his lap, vying for space with his computer. With this comfortable arrangement in place, John began to read through his email inbox...
From: Dr. S. Sawyer
Re: Vacation Time
Date: April 2nd, 2011 10:50:44
To: John Watson
Regarding the memo on vacation time to Department 4M:
Yes, John, I know that you didn't use up that paid leave time just on a whim, and that Sherlock needed your help down in Dartmoor (even with that blog update you published, I honestly can't understand exactly what happened out there.) But I have to inform you that we will be pulling you in to cover some extra shifts later this month to make up for it. Sorry - as much as we'd love to have you keep working here, you seem to be doing well for yourself with that part-time morgue position at Barts, and I'd honestly recommend you stick to that. Sherlock would be happier.
- Sarah
John sighed and typed out a polite request for termination of employment that he was just a bit too unsettled with to actually send, and which ended up saved in a bottomless file on his desktop.
From: Jabez Wilson
Subject: A case for Mr. Sherlock Holmes?
Date: April 2nd, 2010 14:42:13
To: John Watson
CC: John Clay with the RHL
Ummm, I got this email address off your blog website, and I was wondering if you'd be the right person to contact about the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. I've got a case for him, I suppose - some confusion about the firm I've been working with these past few years, and I was hoping he could help. If you two could do a background check on my boss, Mr. Duncan Ross, I'd be prepared to repay you, generously.
Thanks,
Jabez Wilson
As with most case-related emails, John forwarded this one to Sherlock for inspection. He contemplated adding a note about proper conduct with prospective clients, but decided it wasn't particularly necessary with a non-murder. (He was going to regret saying that, wasn't he?)
From: Michelle M.
Re: Re: Us
Date: April 2nd, 2010 23:11:05
To: John Watson
We're over, okay? I know that I'm not your first priority, and at the beginning, I was okay with that, but we're clearly looking for different things. I'm not going to play second fiddle to that flatmate of yours forever, and I know I'm not the first person to say that to you lately. John, you've got some issues to clear up, and I can't be the one to fix you. Maybe he should be.
- MM
Here, John only sighed and deleted the email chain. Michelle's comments hit just a bit too close to home for his liking.
From: Captain Harkness with TW3
Subject: I'm back!
Date: April 3rd, 2010 07:45:42
To: John Watson
Hey Johnny-boy!
Due to some fluctuations with the time stream, I'll be in town for a few days - don't ask, no clue how exactly I wound up on this reality matrix, but I'm not about to question it. We should meet up for some drinks - I've been dying to meet this Sherlock of yours. (Quite a bit about him on your blog, isn't there?) Anyway, I'm on my way down from HQ 1.2 and should be round your place 'bout lunch time.
Dad
With that, John slammed down the cover of the laptop, and sprung up from the couch, letting both computer and Sherlock fall to the floor in differing capacities. Having unbalanced his quiet morning already, John knew the only course of action that might prevent gross domestic disaster was to run pell-mell for the Baker Street Tube Station. So, that was precisely what he did, leaving with barely the correct clothes and without another word.
Sherlock growled in frustration. He flipped open the laptop that John had unceremoniously dumped on the floor, and pulled up the email window with the application of a few simple passwords. As he began to read, Sherlock's eyes widened and he scrambled for his coat before rushing out the door.
Having tracked John to the Baker Street Station, Sherlock found his trail going cold. Frustrated, he phoned Mycroft and put on a falsely cheerful voice just in time.
"Hello brother. I don't suppose you'd like to tell me where John's at currently? Not that it's terribly difficult for me to find out, but since I'm sure you're cognizant of his location, you might as well inform me," Sherlock managed to eke out.
"Well now, that wouldn't be exactly fair to your dear flatmate's privacy, now would it?" was the nearly delighted reply. But then Mycroft's voice dropped into more disappointed tones: "Besides, your assessment of my abilities was rather overconfident - I can't tell you where John is. For reasons of national security, even I don't know the details of the renovated Torchwo- Damn."
By this point, a victorious grin had appeared on Sherlock's face. With a parting jab about his brother's competence as a keeper of secrets, he ended the call and hastened over to the nearest tube map, already evaluating his previous theories on the present location of Torchwood 1.2's temporary headquarters.
To catch up with John, Sherlock knew he'd have to pick the correct exit on the first try. But he was reasonably confident with his choice as he caught the tube to Westminster Bridge.
"You're not allowed to interfere this time, Dad. I know you've always been disappointed that I 'reeled them in but couldn't keep them,' but this is not your great counter-example of the trend. I'm not sleeping with Sherlock. And I doubt he'd want to if I asked - not that that gives you permission to ask for me! Or for yourself for that matter."
"Finished with your monologue, Johnny?" Jack replied. From here, the pair of them could see all of London spread out before them. "...I never expected you to grow up to be me. In fact, I'm glad you didn't."
"Well, I'm sorry I wasn't the grea- What?"
Captain Jack was a little upset that his minimal parenting had left so little an impression. "I set myself up as an example of what to be when you wanted to have fun," he explained. "My life's exciting and brilliant, but that's not sustainable, Johnny-boy; you need your down moments too. You'd be better off with that one someone, even if you and he haven't realized it yet."
"I - hold on, I haven't said anything about -"
"Read your blog, remember?"
Part of the tension left John's shoulders and he leaned back into the plastic seat with a sigh. "I'd not say no if he asked, Dad. I'm too afraid to ask, though. What we have - our work, our home, our life - it's too good to give up just for this," John admitted. "And besides, I'm near positive he doesn't swing that way. Or either way, really. He's... kind of the opposite of you."
Captain Jack wrapped a coat-clad arm around John's shoulders. "For you, John, I expect that wouldn't matter much. You're my son, after all." This last statement ended with a proud grin.
Father and son (not that you'd know it to look at them) leaned back together and watched the city rise up again from their seat on the downward-heading side of the London Eye. The pavement beneath them concealed the new entrance to Torchwood 1.2, but, more importantly, now hosted a tall figure wrapped in a thin black coat, his face tilted up to the carriage in which John and Jack were completing their downward journey.
Pulling out from under his father's arm, John glanced down and spotted Sherlock.
"I suppose you heard that?" he asked, trying to disguise the slight tremor in his voice.
From his stance on the ground a few feet below, Sherlock nodded. "I do hope it's not too late to tell you I feel the same."
John's hand trailed down over the rim of the carriage, down toward Sherlock. His mouth was opened slightly in shock, and the edge of a blush reddened his cheeks.
"You do?"
Sherlock reached for John's face, now just a few inches above his own, and cradled the smaller man's head in his hands. There was a moment of stillness, in which Jack Harkness's mouth curled into a knowing smile, before Sherlock leaned in and pressed tenderly to John's lips.
"Yes, you blind twat," he whispered into the kiss.
John smiled, leaning back in with more than a bit of offended fondness, but of a happy sort. Their mouths met once more, and John fumbled for the door of the hanging car, letting himself down into Sherlock's waiting arms. They caught each other up, and were lost in a slow and somber blur of kisses.
Jack sighed, sounding a bit happy and a bit resigned, "and to think that means I missed out on those cheekbones."
His response was little more than two mumbled sounds of resounding assent.
A/N You're still here? Oh, let me babble on about how this story came to be, exactly. Really, you'll listen to that? Okay, I'm not going to question it then.
Once, when I was scrolling through the Johnlock tag of the Archive (Archive of Our Own, or AO3, for non-users) I found the summary of a story which read, "The explanation for John "Three Continents" Watson? Jack Harkness is his father. Sherlock doesn't know whether he's going to die from jealousy or sexual frustration first." This naturally sounded intriguing, particularly since I'd just recently started watching both Torchwood and Doctor Who, and currently still enjoy both immensely. I perused this story, cyerus's "Captain John Watson, Genetics, and Other Crazy Things," [http : / / archiveofourown . org / works / 368646] and decided it needed to be sent to my beta, BigBluePudding, who is also a Sherwhovian, and is responsible for bringing me to both, thank Godtiss. Anyway, BBP and I were so enamored of the idea behind cyerus's story, which of course, came from a prompt off the kink meme [http : / / sherlockbbc-fic . livejournal . com / 5564 . html? thread = 18971068 # t18971068] that we decided to have a little competition to write our own versions of John's backstory and Sherlock's reaction to it. This duel was judged by our co-author MrTails, who deemed my story (which you have just completed, assuming you didn't just skip ahead to read the author's note - a highly illogical course of action) the winner, due to its portrayal of Jack's relationship with his son and his advice-giving. *Finished bragging* After this, BBP and I cleaned my draft up a bit and now I have posted it. Hooray!
Bonus points and some of Mrs. Hudson's cookies for anyone who catches the references to original Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Sherlock Holmes stories, and the vague similarity with Tolkien's The Hobbit.
"You're still here? It's over. Go home... go!"
Or if you know the excellent movie that's from.