Buffy belongs to Joss. Sherlock Holmes was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the BBC's Sherlock is the work of Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.Author's Note:
Just in case you're the type who doesn't read the disclaimer, this is a cross with the BBC series Sherlock, not the original stories that Conan Doyle wrote. This story assumes knowledge of the series through The Reichenbach Fall
Dawn was sure it was a bad idea. But as usual, once Sherlock got an idea in his head, he had to go through with it, and it was easier just to go along than waste energy arguing when she knew perfectly well he’d do it anyway. And in a way, she understood. For all he claimed to be willing to work with trusted associates such as John and herself, nothing ever topped his own personal observation.
Truth be told, she welcomed the break from Baker Street. In the immediate aftermath, she’d handed John her key to Buffy’s never-used London flat and told him to stay there until he could face 221B again. But once the first few mad days had passed and life had gone back to some semblance of normal after the funeral, with only her and Mrs. Hudson in the building, life in the basement flat was terribly dull. Not that she’d ever admit it to Sherlock.
The funeral had been horrible. Dawn managed to look the part mostly by dint of not having actually slept for 48 hours prior, ever since Molly’s phone call. When she’d arrived at the morgue, Sherlock had been bloody lucky she hadn’t killed him for real.
“Do you have any idea what this is going to do to John?” she’d demanded when Sherlock finished his recitation of what had to happen next. “Do you?”
It had been fortunate for all concerned- most particularly Molly, who had backed about as far away from the imminent explosion as she could without actually leaving- that Mycroft showed up just then. Sherlock having to repeat everything a second time gave Dawn time to cool off enough to get over the urge to beat him.
By the time she got back to Baker Street, she was over the initial shock and beginning to accept Sherlock’s logic that while she might be able to handle this after a life of always being a target in one way or another, John probably and Mrs. Hudson definitely couldn’t.
John, as she’d halfway expected, was sitting in his chair in a daze.
“I’ve just come from the morgue,” she told him.
“I should-“ he began.
“No, you shouldn’t,” she cut him off, knowing perfectly well what he was about to say.
Sherlock had emphasized that John had not had a good look at his ‘body’ and wasn’t to be allowed to at the morgue either. If Dawn couldn’t dissuade him, Molly would flat out bar him.
“I did and it’s not pretty. Molly thought it would be better to spare you the sight. And it turned out to be unnecessary for me to go. Mycroft arrived to do the formal identification just as I was about to sign the papers. Wish the great git had answered his mobile sooner. He’ll handle the funeral arrangements.”
John’s mouth worked for a minute, but nothing came out. That was when Dawn had sighed and pulled the key off her keyring.
“My sister has a flat near Victoria she only ever uses a couple times a year. She’s usually travelling, and when she’s not, she’s out in Gloucestershire. She’s not planning on coming to town again for at least two months. I know she won’t object. Take some clothes and things and go stay there until you’re ready to come back here.”
She scribbled the address down, then changed her mind and phoned for a cab instead. She’d give the address directly to the cabbie. She wasn’t sure she’d trust John to navigate any farther than from the cab to the front door right now.
“Get what you need and go. I’ll stop by later and make sure you’ve got food and towels and whatnot.”
John had gathered some clothes and climbed obediently into the taxi when it arrived. Dawn wasn’t sure if he was that numb or if being former military, he was used to following orders. She called Buffy and Giles to let them know the flat would be occupied for a while in case anyone else needed a heads up.
Then she’d spent the rest of the night- with only a brief break at seven when she went to check on John as promised and make sure he ate something- fighting with Mycroft over what needed to be tidied up and what could be left as it was. Mrs. Hudson brought them tea and tissues. Dawn had been grateful for the tea. Mrs. Hudson ended up using most of the tissues.
The next day was a whirlwind trip out to the training centre and back, arranging for Sherlock’s stay, working out the details of moving him there with Mycroft, and dashing back to have dinner with John in the evening. Then another round at the boys’ flat, this time boxing up as much of John’s things as she could without him there to direct. His working plan was to take another flat. He couldn’t stay at 221B.
After all that, she’d been suitably red-eyed and jittery for the funeral, looking appropriate for the bereaved friend, and taking her place between John and Molly in the second row. Mycroft sat alone in front. It was better attended than she’d expected, but when she thought about it, Sherlock had helped enough people over the years that a good number had turned up despite all the rubbish in the papers.
That had been several weeks ago. She knew John had started seeing his therapist again, which was probably a good decision. He’d protested several times that he’d find a flat and didn’t mean to impose, but Dawn waved it all away and he was still safely ensconced in one of the safest neighborhoods in all of England.
She still hadn’t told him yet that Buffy and Giles were ok with him staying at the Buckingham Place property indefinitely- especially once Sherlock had mentioned the words ‘Mycroft’ and ‘favor’ in the same sentence.
Sherlock wanted to keep him there as long as necessary, meaning until he’d solved his problem, although annoyingly enough he had no idea yet how long that might be. Meanwhile, he was having fun- or as near to fun as he could have without actual corpses involved- testing his strength against trainee Slayers (and a few instructors) under Buffy’s supervision.
As far as Dawn was concerned, it would be much simpler if he’d stayed in Gloucestershire today. John was finally ready to visit the grave, and Sherlock had insisted on going to observe for himself.
“You do realize that if he sees you- assuming he doesn’t write you off as a hallucination- all the planning and work into making the world think you’re dead goes straight out the window, right?” Dawn asked.
Sherlock didn’t take his hand off the car door handle.
“He won’t see me,” he said, in that annoying confident way that made Dawn wish Kennedy would smack him harder next time they sparred.
“Five minutes,” Sherlock told her seriously. “No more. I just need to see for myself.”
“If your arse is not back on that seat in five minutes, I’m using the taser,” Dawn told him. “Which might blow that whole ‘he won’t see us’ theory to shreds.”
Sherlock smirked and hopped out of the car to observe his best friend from a safe distance. Dawn, less confident John would be so unaware of his surroundings, stayed safely ensconced behind the tinted windows.
When Sherlock returned, the timer on Dawn’s mobile had 10 seconds left on it. He looked shaken.
“You were right,” he said. “It was a bad idea.”
Dawn raised an eyebrow.
“Can I get that in writing?” she asked. “Did he see you?”
“No to both,” Sherlock replied, as he tapped the roof to indicate that the Council driver should take them back to Siddington. “But you may gloat.”
Dawn smiled, though she decided she wouldn’t take him up on that. Sherlock wasn’t the emotional type, so to see him so upset was rare.
She almost felt sorry for whoever it was threatening John and Mrs. Hudson if Sherlock wasn’t dead. Lestrade’s little sidekick might be convinced Sherlock Holmes had no heart, but Dawn knew better. He didn’t care about very many people, but when he did… She’d seen what had happened to the idiot CIA man who had hit Mrs. Hudson during the Irene Adler affair.
Actually, she’d nearly peed herself, seeing as the great lunk hadn’t so much as texted to warn her he was about to throw someone out the upstairs window. The noise from the landing, as heard in her flat, had been incredible. She’d run outside only to have Sherlock tell her to step away and let him bleed. He had. Extensively.
She had a feeling Sherlock had worse in mind for whoever had the nerve- or stupidity- to threaten the people he cared about again.