ofalexandra: (Sherlock/John)
[personal profile] ofalexandra
A BBC Sherlock fanfic, Sherlock/John. House M.D. crossover. AU. All Ages. (3265 words)

Crack. Utter crack. So much crack that I could cry. I'm clearly insane for writing this.

A House and A Holmes
...and a Watson and a Wilson. In which Sherlock and House are idiots, and John and Wilson are Not Happy. This cannot end well.

“Sherlock, I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to be here.” John glanced nervously around the empty office, skittishly on the lookout for the actual occupants of the room they were currently hiding out in while Sherlock took a breather before causing general post-case mayhem.

He couldn’t wait to get back to London. It wasn’t that he disliked America per se, but the overwhelming friendliness and general volume of Americans tended to astound and stun his stoic British sensibilities. Princeton Plainsboro Hospital was no different, and the volume of both noise and people on most days was shocking. The British doctor in him was both simultaneously repulsed and attracted by the bustle and innovation. Being around a Hospital of this size made him nostalgic for St. Bart’s.

Speaking of which, they needed to leave Princeton Plainsboro now if they wanted to make it back to their hotel in time to pack and depart for the airport to catch their flight. Sherlock, of course, was not helping matters. And when has he ever? John’s internal voice lamented. Still on a post-case high, Sherlock was currently reclining in a leather swivel chair in some specialist’s office on some floor (John wasn’t used to such big hospitals, alright, don’t judge him). One thing he was certain of, though, was that they were not supposed to be here.

“Calm down, John. This Gregory -” Sherlock glanced dismissively at the stack of paperwork on the desk. “House person won’t be back for the next few hours,” he announced, nodding decisively as he reclined even further back on what was not his chair. “I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to know that his office is being put to good use in his absence.”

“Really. And what sort of use is this?” Sometimes, trying to reason with Sherlock made less sense than talking to a babbling baby.

Sherlock eyed him incredulously. “I’m visiting my mind palace, John. Now hush, this is important. Go away.” He waved an imperious hand in the general direction of the door. “Go play with someone else.”

The thing about living with Sherlock was that it taught John to be smart enough to pick his battles. If the office was empty, and they had a little time to kill; hell, Sherlock could go ahead and rot in the space. John was going to get coffee. The case had left them without sleep for the past thirty hours.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” he cautioned, and received a derisive snort in reply.

Rolling his eyes, he left the office, glancing at the name on the door on his way out. Poor Dr. House, he thought. Poor sod.


“If you take over my clinic hours I’ll pay you a thousand dollars.”

Doctor James Wilson sighed, a long suffering, absolutely put-on sigh of doom and general gloom. “You already owe me five hundred bucks for that new cane. The one with the forked tip.”

“It’s a trident, Wilson, a trident. It makes me look more powerful. Useful for impressing and intimidating stupid patients with.”

“You’re not supposed to even intimidate patients in the first place, you know.” He had no idea how he even became friends with this man. He thought back to his innocent, House-free younger days, and sighed lustily once again.

“It’s not like the Hippocratic Oath says we can’t. Anyway, that’s not the point. Lunch, then. Do my clinic hours and I won’t steal your lunch.”

“What makes you think I haven’t eaten my -”

“Yours is the potato salad and the chicken risotto in the red tupperware box on the second shelf of the fridge.”

“God, you are creepy. Are you stalking me or something?” His friend was terrifying on most days, but this was one step up from the normal. As if House’s normal days could even be considered normal, anyway. Wilson was pretty sure they needed to redefine that term, with House as a special case.

“No, don’t be lame. You’re the only one who sticks a post-it note saying ‘PROPERTY OF DR. JAMES WILSON. HOUSE, IF YOU EAT THIS, I WILL KILL YOU.’ No one else is lame enough to do that.”

“That’s because no one else is in danger of having their lunch stolen!

House huffed exasperatedly. “It hurts my feelings when you put it like that. How about let’s call it...borrowing. On a permanent basis.”

WIlson gives up. He gives up. He is going to quit his job, empty his bank account and escape to St. Maarten or Seychelles or some obscure tropical location where House can never, ever find him. And screw oncology, screw Princeton Plainsboro, because this is not worth it.

Is it too much for one man to be able to work an entire day, secure in the knowledge that his lunch is safe from his pilfering, devious, bastard of a best friend? Apparently not.

He threw his hands up in surrender. “You know what? Fine. Fine. Go ahead. Steal my lunch. See if I care. I’m going to the cafeteria to get coffee, and when I return, you will -” he waved his hands towards House’s general vicinity, “- no longer be here, mooching about in my office.”

Wilson stomped out of his office in an indignant flurry.

“So it’s a go for you taking my clinic hours, then?” House called from behind.

If Wilson slammed the door a little too forcefully on his exit, well, you could hardly blame the man.


The cafeteria line was long, but John Watson didn’t mind. The longer it was, the more time he had away from Sherlock, and right now, that was all he wanted. Damn genius-bastard best friend-lover-things.

He had time to himself, and he was currently surreptitiously looking around the cafeteria in a decidedly non-shifty way (he was no weirdo, thank you very much) in an attempt to get his visual bearings. Americans. Always so boisterous.

So he couldn’t be faulted for being distracted by the medical notes on the clipboard the man in front of him had left lying on the counter as they queued up. Doctor James Wilson, Oncology Department. John had always been interested in that field, but circumstance and timing had never been kind to him, so he had ended up in Afghanistan as a trauma surgeon. But that was okay, because trauma surgery ended up being a hell lot more interesting and full of adrenaline anyway.

Still. The clipboard was fascinating. (It kind of creeped him out, now that he was behaving a little like Sherlock.) The spidery scribbles that he managed to decipher were of one Magdalene Connor, age 26, with advanced stage four leukemia in regression. Imagine that! A miracle, surely.

“Did diagnostics ascertain the cause for her regression?” he found himself asking before he shut his mouth. The man - Doctor Wilson, his mind helpfully supplies - quirks an eyebrow as he turns back to face John.

“Excuse me?” the American accent was distinct. John paused, then decided to hell with it. “The leukemia,” he continued. “Did you manage to find out the reason for regression even in stage four?”

Wilson was clearly bewildered and puzzled. “Do I know you?” Shaking his head, John pointed at the clipboard. “No, sorry. I was just curious, because the only case I’ve heard of that happening was in the 27-year-old Nairobi refugee with that selective strand of gene mutation.”

John’s evident knowledge of medical happenings put Wilson back at ease, and he lost some of the tension in his shoulders. “Oh, you’re a doctor, then? I’ve afraid I haven’t seen you around - I’m James, James Wilson from Oncology. And yeah, we haven’t been able to figure out the regressive leukemia yet, but I’ve got the best diagnostician in the country working on it.”

This piqued John’s curiosity. “Watson,” he introduced. “John Watson, trauma surgery in St. Bartholomew’s in London. Diagnostician, you say? Who’ve you got on the case? The last I heard, Doctor McCoy was based in New York. I didn’t know he’d moved down here.”

Wilson smiled affably, clearly delighted to have someone to talk medical shop with who wasn’t insane, pissy, or generally a bastard. It would have pleased him beyond measure to know that John shared his feelings. They ordered their coffees and moved to sit at an empty table.

“No, no, McCoy’s not on this case. I’ve sicced House on this one.” Noting John’s confused expression, Wilson elaborated. “Dr. Gregory House? Heard of him? He’s a real nutcase, but he’s really the best at what he does.”

John swallowed, unsure of how to respond. Oh, yeah, him - I’ve heard of him because I left my boyfriend/partner/thing in his office. “Uh, yeah, his name does sound familiar. Are you and Doctor House good friends?”

Wilson cracked up, laughing so hard that he accidentally snorted coffee up his nose, leading to several panic-filled moments where John had to vigourously thump him on the back so that WIlson could breathe. “Ha - yeah, yeah, you could say that. Half the time I hate him, but he’s my best friend. Seriously, though, he’s completely crazy. Tried to poison my coffee once for stealing his parking space.”

John sympathised whole-heartedly. “Oh, mate, I know how you feel. My best friend’s the same. He once stuffed me in a meat locker for an experiment and forgot he left me in there. I nearly froze to death. Suffered frostbite, too.”

They were both quiet and contemplative over their coffee for several moments, revelling in their shared angst and frustration. Their doomsday thoughts were really almost palpable, and somewhere, a Doctor Gregory House and a Mister Sherlock Holmes sneezed at the same time, before looking around in confusion.

“We should get new best friends,” Wilson gloomily concluded. “House steals my lunch everyday.”

John nodded emphatically. “At least you have lunch. Sherlock forgets that I need to eat when we’re on cases.” He picked at his loose jumper. “I’ve lost two stone in a month,” he bemoaned.

They were both really getting into the spirit of things. Wilson thumped an aggravated fist on the table. “House keeps spilling stuff on my coat! My white doctor’s coat! Let me tell you; bloodstains, chocolate stains, mud stains, chilli stains and mucus stains do not wash off well.”

“I know!” John waved a hand around dramatically. “Sherlock uses my jumpers to wipe up chemicals in our flat all the time! He used my favourite jumper to wipe a hydrochloric acid spill. It burned when I put it on. Burned. My skin itched for days.”

Wilson aggressively swilled his coffee before resuming. “Not to mention, House breaks into my office every hour or so. Even when I lock it. Hasn’t the man ever heard of privacy? And he doesn’t even have the decency to wipe the crumbs off my desk when he eats my lunch in my office!”

John patted his newfound friend’s hand, shaking his head sadly. “Sherlock’s the same, don’t worry. I can’t keep anything secret from that guy. He even broke into my safety deposit box at the bank just to look at my baby pictures, good god.”

Wilson nodded, sighing dejectedly. “House blackmailed my mother for my baby pictures.”

They fell silent for more moments of respectful mourning over their twisted relationships. Elsewhere, Gregory House and Sherlock Holmes’s eyelids twitched, and they looked around in paranoia.

“I’m sure our relationships fall under the ‘abusive’ category,” John concluded. “We need therapy. Extensive therapy. Probably life-long. Definitely life-long."

Wilson paused, before pulling out a pen and ripping off a sheet from his clipboard. He scribbled down a number and handed the scrap to John. “I know a good therapist.”

John glanced down at the paper. “That’s your name and number.”

Wilson nodded. “No therapist like one in the same boat.”

John extended a hand. Wilson took it.

Both men shook hands like soldiers going out onto a perilous, death-assured battlefield.

“To the death then,” John said, full of pathos and wallowing doom.

“To the death,” Wilson agreed.

They allowed a full minute of reverent self-pity before scampering off to make sure their respective best friends hadn’t destroyed anything or killed anyone in their absence.


“John. John. John! This man threw me out of his office for no good reason! Stop him! Shoot him!” Sherlock was being Very Dramatic (yes, with the capitals) in the hallway outside the office John had left him in.

The man glaring at Sherlock - greyish hair, almost as tall as the British detective, leaning on a cane - turned his glare on John, and a lesser man would have quailed. John almost did. So this was what poor James Wilson had to deal with.

“Er, Doctor House, I presume?”

“Go away and be nice and apologetic somewhere else. I don’t care. Just get out of my sight. And your accent is giving me a headache.” Wow. House was snarky. Almost as snarky as Sherlock, really, but nothing John couldn’t handle. He has had more than enough practice dealing with snark.

“Doctor John Watson,” he introduced, extending an appeasing hand. He prayed his profession would lend him some respect.

House eyed the proffered limb beadily. “I wouldn’t shake your hand even if you were the Queen of England. Go. Away. Or if you must make a nuisance or yourself, at least be useful and go get me a cup of coffee.”

“Oh, right, John. I could use a cup of tea too. Make me one.” Sherlock waved a vaguely dismissive hand, brushing past House to sweep back into the office. John could punch Sherlock, he really could. At that moment, he really wanted to as well.

John dispassionately watched the two snarky bastards turn on each other again before calming walking to the nearest wall and pounding his head against it. He ignored the horrified looks passers-by gave him. If you were in my position, he griped internally, you’d have shot yourself.

He heard footsteps draw up behind him, and black leather loafers appeared in his limited view of vision (he was facing a wall, after all).

“He stole my lunch,” a morose voice said. “He ate everything and left the empty container in the fridge for me to find.”

John stopped his self-abuse to give Wilson a sympathetic pat on the back before resuming. Wilson sighed.

“I’m entirely tempted to join you, but I’m sure it’d get me fired.” John turned, and sent Wilson a pointed look as he gestured in the direction of House’s office behind them. Two distinct loud voices could be heard coming from the room as snippets of the row going on inside drifted out.

“- blind, obviously you’re too stupid to see the carcinoma -”

“- not even a Doctor, for god’s sake -”

“- if Doctors had your competence level even Anderson could be one -”

“- the hell is Anderson? It’s evidently the femoral artery anyway, if you were a real medical professional you’d know that -”

“- inherited stupidity, can’t you see the -”

“- whiny pompous British asshole who isn’t -”

“- atrophied thigh muscle and drug addiction -”

“- yeah, like your cocaine abuse and sociopathic -”

“- and you stoop to such juvenile and puerile behaviour -”

“- least I’m not a friendless sociopath who’s so -”

“- John is worth more than all of your friends put together -”

“- clearly you’ve never met Wilson, or you wouldn’t -”

“- Watson is better than Wilson -”

“- common name like John, James carries more dignity -”



Wilson and John exchanged glances, and summarily concluded that after today, they were both running off to the most deserted tropical island they could find. (Although John was pretty sure Mycroft could and would hunt them down.)

They entered the office anyway, because they were both masochistic like that.

“Sherlock,” John intoned sullenly.

“House,” Wilson voiced mutinously.

John and Wilson looked at each other, and simultaneously rolled their eyes in their mutual exasperation with their nutters of best friends.

Sherlock and House gaped at them.

Sherlock was the first to rediscover the power of speech. “John,” he garbled out weakly. “You know Wilson?”

John cleared his throat. “We’re having therapy and we’re going to run away together.” His voice was deadpan. They were both so serious about this, it wasn’t even funny. Not even cats-jumping-into-cardboard-boxes-videos funny. Not even we-can’t-laugh-this-is-a-crime-scene funny.

Next to him, Wilson nodded in support. Sherlock and House were collectively Horrified (with the capital. This was Serious).

“But...why?” House warbled out, voice tremulous. He rounded on Wilson. “Is this about lunch? Oh my god, it is, isn’t it? You’re leaving me because I stole your lunch. Would it help if I told you it wasn’t tasty? Really, the potato salad didn’t have enough dressing. It wasn’t good at all. I didn’t enjoy it. I hated it. It was awful. It sucked. It was terrible. Worst thing I’ve ever eaten.”

Wilson glared. “I made that salad myself, you asshole.”

House sent him a stricken look of apology. “No! You didn’t let me finish! It was awfully good. It was terribly awesome. Don’t run away with John! I’ll even promise to leave your lunch alone!”

Meanwhile, Sherlock looked like a cat choking on a hairball. “I’m sorry for the head in the freezer, John. And the fingers in the crisper. And the acid on your jumper. And for the time I forgot you in the meat locker. And the time I killed your cactus. And the time I used your mug to hold snake venom. And the time I stuffed a dead pigeon under your bed. And for adding arsenic into the milk. And forgetting to tell you after I did that.”

John would have been able to appreciate the apology a bit more had he actually known about half the things Sherlock apologised for even occurred. He sputtered. “You - you used my mug to contain snake venom? Snake. Venom?!

Sherlock must have realised his error, because he began to furiously backpedal. “Don’t worry, it was only an adder. Hardly the most venomous snake in the world. And the pigeon? I got rid of it after five days. I only killed your cactus because you spent so much time watering it! And I promise the fingers in the crisper helped to solve a case, really. Don’t leave me, John. Who will make tea for me if you do? I’ll starve and dehydrate. You wouldn’t want that, would you? You’re always trying to make me eat. Think about what it’d do to your conscience if you left and I starved to death!”

The Wilson-Watson (or James-John) team heaved a shared sigh of resignation.

Wilson placed a comforting hand on John’s shoulder. “Come on, John.”

John nodded, patting the hand in understanding.

Removing the hand, Wilson turned to the two best friend-idiots (or the Holmes-House team) and glared some more. “Gentlemen,” he sniffed.

Together, the Wilson-Watson team swanned out of the office.

“Where are you going?” yelled House.

“Starve, John! I’m going to starve, and it’ll be on your head...wherever it is that you’re going!” threatened Sherlock.

Turning back, John eyed their opponents (Wilson-Watson 1, Holmes-House 0).

“We’re going to book our flight tickets out.”

Sherlock and House almost knocked themselves out in their mad scramble after their respective best friends.

(Wilson-Watson 100, Holmes-House 0)


ofalexandra: (Default)


Alexandra. (Allie, for short.)
Asian-British. University Student.

This is ofalexandra's fic journal.

Adores: BBC Sherlock, Psych, Downton Abbey, Doctor Who, Battlestar Galactica, The Sentinel, and Haruki Murakami.

Abhors: Lettuce. And Disney's Snow White.