The Other's Nemesis {Doctor Who & Sherlock Crossover}

Together We Conquer

The Master had never felt so defeated in his life. After having rescued the Doctor from destruction, and sworn himself to life in the time lock, he had woken up on a disheveled street in London with no recollection of how he got there. He would’ve preferred being in the hands of the other Timelords to his personal hell. His body was still eating away at itself, and he was prone to random fits of pain and energy surges with little control of when they happened. He would’ve preferred being dead at that point.

So he had resigned himself to suffering in the one human way he knew how. Alcohol did little of the same to him as his Timelord physiology didn’t allow for the same effect, but he got a pleasant numbing sensation in his skull that allowed for him to relax as long as he continued to drink. Sitting alone at one end of the bar he chugged each shot placed before him, happy to ignore the humans in the room and sit in silence.

“Harold Saxon.”

The Master grimaced at the old persona, turning with a glare to the man responsible for using it. He was battered and bruised, seemingly like any other man who entered there. But it was when he met the man’s eyes that he knew he was something different. There was only coldness and calculation in those eyes that showed a predator-like intelligence that he had to admire.

“I don’t go by that anymore.” The Master sneered. “It’s useless to me now.”

“Forgive me then, because it’s the only name I know you by.” The man whose accent said Irish descent slid his way onto a stool beside him.

“I would explain to you, but it’d be a waste of time.” The Master muttered.

“You’ve gotten beaten by someone.” The Master looked up in shock at the man. “Probably an enemy of yours. An arch enemy if you believe in such a thing.”

The Master slammed his hands down on the bar and turned, grabbing the man by his collar and dragging him closer to his own face as he whispered harshly. “How did you know that? Who are you? No one should be able to remember anything you’ve just said.”

“Jim Moriarty. Hi.” The man said cheerily with a wave. “While I don’t fully know what you’re talking about, I do know that much. And I can sympathize.”

“With what?” The Master lowered the man down into his seat, a bit curious as to what he had to say.

Moriarty frowned and tapped the bar impatiently as he spoke. “I got beaten as well, by my enemy. He had help – though I don’t know where it came from – the only odd thing in my plan was this blue police box…”

The Master’s eyes widened and he sat forward eagerly whispering. “Do you have a picture of the man? Or the box?”

Moriarty nodded and reached carefully into his jacket pocket, pulling out a mobile phone, which he flicked through momentarily before pulling up a picture to show the Master. His appearance had changed greatly – he’d obviously regenerated – but there was no doubt in his mind that this was him. This was the Doctor. The Master held the phone close to his face as he replied.

“This is him. The Doctor.” The Master told Moriarty. “He’s the one who beat me. But this other man…he’s yours.”

Moriarty nodded, seemingly lost in thought. The Master watched him curiously, wondering what could possibly be going through the man’s head when the widest of grin’s appeared on his face. Moriarty’s eyes focused back on the man in front of him and with a gleeful tone he proposed, “Let’s say we retire to my place and talk more about this ‘Doctor’ of yours…”

The Master must have thought the same thing, because an equally large grin was on his own face as he replied. “I couldn’t agree more.”