#crossover johnlock

John wasn’t dead, he had eyes, he could appreciate the man’s casklike arms, his broad shoulders, barrel chest, a waist that tapered nicely above square hips. He was well accentuated in the fine fashions of the times although there were minute differences John couldn’t help but note. That man’s London was, according to the girl who accompanied him - Enola, John’s mind supplied - identical except that it wasn’t. Which made about as much sense as anything else John had come to know. 

Handsome or not, John wasn’t about to open his home to anyone so soon after losing everything. 

(He pointedly ignored Bea and her friends, sitting at various places around the room, attention rapt by the conversation John had been forced into. He also ignored the fact that Bea had a key which she used liberally, that Jessie had claimed the spare room and that Spike came around regularly enough that John had had to increase his grocery budget.)

“Absolutely not.” John said at last, elbows on his desk, fingers steepled in front of him. “I haven’t the room to spare.” 

The girl, Enola, seemed ready to argue but Other Sherlock laid a steadying hand on her shoulder. Other Sherlock tipped his head in accordance, “Of course. We will find other accommodation. Thank you for your time.”

His voice was rich velvet and John had to clench his teeth to repress the shudder that rippled down his spine. 

“Watson.” Bea’s tone leaned on the vowels, “Come on.”

John slanted her a look that he hoped would brook no argument.

She pursed her lips, raised her brows and fixed him with a stare that reminded John so much of Alice. “They’re family, sort of. We aren’t throwing them out.” Bea turned to Other Sherlock and Enola, a smile gentling her features, “You’re staying and that’s final.”

Enola brightened and Other Sherlock huffed lowly in what John assumed was amusement.