Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination. Many thanks to my talented and generous beta readers – ggo85 and Snowsie2011. The story is immeasurably better for their thoughtful and thorough reviews. All errors that remain are strictly my fault because I can't stop fiddling.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and episodes 2 and 3 of Sherlock series 2

Chapter 1 - Prologue

Somewhere in England, a doctor entered his kitchen on a sunny morning in his pajamas and dressing gown in search of caffeine to start his day. He grunted in dismay when he discovered there was no more coffee, and made a mental note to stop by the shops after his morning surgery to pick some up. Why, he thought to himself irritably, was the other occupant of this home unable to grasp the concept of purchasing staples BEFORE they ran out completely. He sighed and ran his fingers through his short fair hair, now showing more gray than he liked to admit. Tea then. He plugged in the kettle and reached for the teapot.

He laid the table carefully while waiting for the water to boil. Although he currently practiced general medicine, one needn't have checked his curriculum vita to tell he had been trained up as a surgeon – the way he aligned the cutlery, the precise angles at which he set the butter dish and the marmalade pot, the way he creased the serviettes before setting them beside the forks, all betrayed a precision and economy of motion that could only be the result of years spent in the operating theatre. When the implements for serving breakfast were arranged in as orderly a manner as a surgeon's tools, he turned to the whistling kettle and poured the water into the waiting teapot, setting the egg timer for three minutes and twelve seconds exactly.

When the tea had steeped, he poured himself a cup. Opening the fridge, he studiously avoided inspecting the mysterious covered bowl that had been left on the top shelf and rummaged until he found a pint of milk and a carton of eggs. He added a soupcon of milk to his tea and took a small sip, feeling the familiar warmth slide down his throat and begin to awaken his senses.

He didn't allow himself to linger over his cuppa, though. Time to make breakfast – something nourishing to sustain himself as well as his breakfast companion, one whose eating habits tended to appall him. His irritation at this belied his affection for the person in question, though, and prodded him to make a meal designed to tempt an appetite that often ran in opposition to his own nutritional guidelines. He briskly poured the remains of the water in the kettle into the saucepan to bring it to a boil before using a slotted spoon to deposit two eggs carefully in the bottom. He set the egg timer again and then cut two generous slices of whole meal bread which he swiftly popped into the toaster. He sliced an apple while he waited, his highly-trained hands wielding the knife as he had once done a scalpel, turning out perfect slices that fanned artistically on the plates.

When the eggs were in the egg cups and the toast was on the plates along with the sliced apple, he poured tea into a second cup. Making a moue of disapproval, he added two spoonfuls of sugar and some milk. Taking the cup along, he decided to see what was keeping his partner.

He entered the generously sized bedroom without switching on the light. In the dimness, he could still make out the sleeping form on the bed, duvet pulled up so that only a halo of dark hair was visible. He hated to disturb much needed sleep – he had no doubt the sleeper been up several times during the night - but it couldn't be helped. Placing the cup on the bedside table, he switched on the lamp and said "time to get up." His voice was gentle, but sufficient to rouse the bed's occupant.

In another room in another part of England, another doctor began his morning in exactly the same way.