I despaired. Sherlock had - yet again - absconded from the rehabilitation facility.Â
“You promised me,” I whispered where I was sitting behind my mahogany desk in the Diogenes Club.
Anthea had just brought me the news, and I was at my wits end. I knew that my brother would not survive another overdose. Sherlock’s body was almost spindly; at least it was the last time I had visited him. To my dismay, I had to postpone said visit several times due to unforeseen events out of my control. I had tried to explain this to Sherlock, but my brother had never understood the discretion needed when dealing with diplomates and vain politicians.
“He has been located, sir,” Anthea said from the doorway.
“Thank God,” I breathed, the relief surging through me in waves.
“Where?” I finally managed.
“At a…crime scene, sir.”
The tiny pause spoke volumes to me. Anthea rarely showed any emotions, and surprising her was almost impossible.
“Please, elaborate,” I urged her.
She approached the desk, an iPad in her hand. The screen showed live footage of my brother in conversation with a rather handsome man. He was dressed in civilian clothes, and I assumed that he was a superior police officer.
From Sherlock’s gestures, I ascertained that my brother was high, but not out-of-his-mind-high. It was evident he tried to persuade the other man to believe him. The police officer looked sceptically at my brother, but I thought I could discern an interest in his eyes the longer Sherlock spoke.
“Find out who he is,” I demanded when the screen went black.
“Of course, sir,” Anthea replied and left the room.
***
I tried not to show my incredulity when Sherlock turned up at my door less than five hours after I had seen the footage of him at the crime scene.
“Brother mine,” I greeted him, intent on staying aloof and detached, which I always found incredibly difficult when my baby brother was in trouble.
“I’m sorry, My. I know I shouldn’t have given up. This time, I won’t. I swear!”
“Why should I believe you, Sherlock?”
I did not hide the disappointment in my voice.
Sherlock lit up instead of letting guilt adorn his face.
“I have met this man. Nothing like that, My – for heaven’s sake!” he huffed when I lifted my eyebrows in a knowing fashion.Â
“A police officer. Inspector Lestrade. He said that if I get clean, he will grant me access to cold cases and the occasional crime scene. You know I’m good at solving puzzles. This will keep my brain occupied; there will be no more need for other stimulants anymore.”
“So, he is what; your new dealer?” I scoffed.
I wasn’t willing to forgive my brother just yet; my heart was too impaired for that. Before Sherlock answered, I made a mental note to have a conversation with this Lestrade.
“I don’t know if he will approve of that diminutive, but he has given me a choice - a dealer’s choice if you will - so I guess it’s not that far-fetched.”
“Very well,” I said and called for the car.
***
“Come in, Inspector,” I said when Greg Lestrade stood on the threshold to my office the next day.
“Care to tell me what I’m doing here?” the policeman asked.
He was polite enough, but I discerned an annoyed undertone.
“Good. He will take my brother’s antics in stride. Can I have (finally) found a trusted ally?”
“Take a seat. I want to speak to you about my brother; Sherlock Holmes.”
Lestrade gaped at me, then gathered his wits, and sat.
“He’s brilliant, your brother,” he said unprompted.
“Indeed. Even more so when he gets clean.”
“The criminals of London should shiver in their pants,” he remarked and smiled mischievously.
My heart reacted to that smile with an abominable movement, making my cheeks redden.
“Quite so. Tea?”
“I could use a good cuppa, but I’d rather know who I’m having tea with.”
Greg Lestrade extended his hand over the desk, beckoning me to introduce myself. When my hand clasped Lestrade’s, I felt a calm settling inside me, but also sparks of excitement.
Half an hour later, Greg rose from the chair, shook my hand again, and walked out of the office, leaving me close to awestruck.Â
This man, Sherlock’s new “dealer”, might be just what I needed too. I couldn’t recall the last time I had spent a more pleasurable half hour. Only time would tell how this would play out, but for once I found myself hopeful.Â
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Fandom(s): Good Omens/Doctor Who - Rating: General - Relationships: Platonic - Aziraphale & The Fourteenth Doctor - Trigger Warnings: None Word Count: 970 Challenge: Dealer's Choice, @flashfictionfridayofficial / Source image credits: BBC / Amazon Prime
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Summary: Everything is hush-hush in heaven during Aziraphale's first days as Supreme Archangel, and he feels as wet behind the ears as a schoolboy. He's sent on "assignment" with no clue as to why, and meets someone who digs up his upsetting feelings about Crowley, whether he's ready to deal with them or not.
Disclaimer: Please excuse any heinous or annoying errors. Writing "fast" and on a deadline is not my forte.
“Are you alright?” The Doctor said, studying the platinum-haired gent in creamy beige and white, standing in the middle of the Noble-Temple living room. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
Must be an alien of some sort, the Doctor thought. Humans still can’t materialize out of nowhere this side of the century.
"Are you a ghost?”
“I-I’m an angel. And I’m sorry, you just look so - familiar. It’s a bit… unexpected.”
“Well, maybe we’ve crossed paths somewhere out there. An angel? Really? Funny, you don’t look like an angel. They were always more... demonic-looking, in my experience. Where are you from?”
“H – heaven…?”
“Heaven.” The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “As in fluffy-white-winged-cherub-Earth-lore heaven, or is that a euphemism for something?”
Aziraphale didn’t have a chance to answer before the Doctor scowled, scratched his head, and fingered Aziraphale’s coat and vest.
“There’s no clockwork under all that, is there?”
“J-just a pocket watch.”
“Mmnoo. 'Bout a century off." He extended his hand. “I’m the Doctor. What’s your name and what brings you here, near midnight?”
Could he just be befuddled and lost? The Doctor wondered. Maybe a rough sleeper? Noting his clothes and nails were cleaner than his own, he quickly dismissed the latter.
“I’m Aziraphale,” he breathed, taking his hand. “...and I wish I knew.”
“Ahh, a mystery trip! Those are always fun! Well, Ezrafell-from-heaven, why don’t we have our meeting outside? This family takes their sleep veeeeery seriously, and trust me, you don’t want to incur the wrath of DoctorDonna. Chat in the Gazebo?”
“That would be very nice, but it’s late and it’s rather far away.”
“It’s just there,” the Doctor directed him toward the kitchen and pointed to the yard. Aziraphale squinted through the doors' glass panes and could see a shadowed outline.
“Oh! Oh, yes!” Aziraphale exclaimed.
There was a knock on the wall.
“Oi, spaceman! People are trying to sleep here!”
“Sorry!” The Doctor called, hurrying Aziraphale out the door. “Shhhhh. C’mon.”
Once outside, Aziraphale looked around, fascinated, as he followed the Doctor to the patio.
“Oh, this is adorable and I...” The Doctor held up a finger, interrupting him, then reached behind one of the Gazebo’s supports. With a quiet click, what seemed like a multitude of white lights instantly twinkled above them.
“Beautiful,” Aziraphale gasped.
“You’re easy to please,” the Doctor said, grinning.
“These were always my favorite. In fact, one year, we had….” his voice suddenly trailed off.
“You have family here, too, then?”
“No.” Aziraphale’s face fell. “I don’t.”
The Doctor examined the angel’s ever-shifting expression, then gestured toward a white wicker chair. Aziraphale forced a weary smile and stiffly settled in as the Doctor spilled into the seat across from him, his long plaid-clad legs struggling to find their space. Aziraphale watched in awe as he tried to get a handle on his emotions.
“How is it possible?” Aziraphale whispered to himself. The Doctor stalled as he caught the glossy gleam in Aziraphale’s eyes.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
Aziraphale’s lips quivered, then he forced them still.Â
“You’re not. In fact, I’d say, you’re grieving. I’d say, something, or someone, has broken your heart.”
“Are you always this forward?” Aziraphale hastily wiped his tears with his sleeve.
“Ehmm, yeah.” The Doctor leapt up from his chair. “How about some tea? I find tea fixes just about anything.”
“Oh yes, please. I mean, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Naaaah. She’s got everything in there...somewhere.” He glanced at the house. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, send for reinforcements.”
Aziraphale smiled weakly, then watched him disappear into the dark. He blinked, then struggled to focus.
Michael, I need a word.
What?
This assignment! Is this some kind of cruel initiation? What am I doing here?
It didn’t come from me.
Then get the Metatron.
He’s busy.
Michael, I am trying to be civil. Ninety days or not, I am still your superior. Get the Metatron!
Aziraphale rubbed his ears as they filled with an odd kind of static.
What is it, Aziraphale?
About this assignment...
It wasn’t me.
Who was it then??? Aziraphale began to lose his composure.
Process of elimination, dear boy.
Process of...you mean Her?
Direct and confidential. I couldn’t tell you anything more about it.
“BLAST!” He slammed his fist down on his armrest as the Doctor hovered above him.
“Seems like I got back just in time.” He lowered a cup into Aziraphale’s trembling hand, pulled a short stool-like table between them, and set the loaded tea tray down.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“I don’t believe you. In fact, I think you need to talk about it, and just haven’t found the right person.”
“The right person...isn’t a person.”
“Well, I’m an alien. Time Lord, to be precise, so you can start chatting away, any time. Oh, and help yourself to the cake and biscuits.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“You’re not. With either. She’ll blame him for the cakes, and I have - well, I have all the time in the world.”
The Doctor leaned back in his chair and, with a cocky grin, crossed his spider-like legs. Aziraphale blinked, tears threatening to fall once again.
“...It was my fault. My choice.”
“Ahh, I see. I know this part well. It’s alright," the Doctor assured with a sudden tenderness.
