Chapter Text
Tony opened his eyes. Bright light and loud noises assaulted his senses. “How much did I drink?” he moaned, shielding his face with his hands.
“Too much,” Thor said, lifting him to his feet.
He opened his eyes to see the interior of his workshop shining back at him.
Wait. “What are you doing here?”
“You called us ten hours ago,” Natasha said, and Tony turned to see her lounging on his workbench. “You said you wanted thirty orders of wings and ten cases of beer.”
“We got ten and five,” Bruce said.
“And then you pulled another five cases out of the arms cupboard,” Coulson sighed.
“Oh, right!” Tony sat up. “And then we sat around and got drunk all evening.” He sighed. “Good times.”
“You need to drink a little less, though.” Steve stepped into the room.
“Hey, Cap!” Tony said, feeling oddly relieved. “Where've you been?”
“I just said I'd go make omelettes,” Steve said, giving him a strange look. “I thought we might want breakfast, and you clearly need some food in you.”
“Oh,” he said, trying to convince himself that Thor wasn't looking at Steve as if he was relieved as well. He looked up at the ceiling, and nearly fell over again. “Holy shit, Barton, do you want to give me a heart-attack?”
Clint grinned, and swung down from the ceiling. “Sorry, Stark, you just have these fantastic beams in your walls that make for great perches.”
“Great,” he groaned. “Just don't build a nest up there, ok?” He turned back to the group, then looked at the empty glass in his hand. “More beer?”
“How about some Kool-Aid,” Steve said, taking the dirty glass from him.
“But I want beer,” Tony whined.
“Three-year-olds aren't allowed alcoholic drinks,” Bruce smirked.
“Yeah, well... I can make better AIs than you!”
“That reminds me,” Clint said, pointing to a partly-completed robot on the floor, “what the hell is that supposed to be?”
Tony bent over it, and flicked at a wire. “Well, shit, I think it's a robot dog!”
“Oh!” Clint raised a hand. “Can you make it fetch arrows?”
“Sure, man,” Tony laughed. “I'm on top of the world. Anyone have a pencil?”
“John.”
John rolled over, muttering. “Five more minutes.”
“John,” the voice came again, more urgently.
John opened one eye, and Sherlock's face came into focus. “What?” he muttered. There was something in Sherlock’s face, some emotion he couldn’t put his finger on. He blinked hard, once, twice, but it was gone, it was just Sherlock, still in his dressing gown, and the smell of— “Tea?” He sat up, and wrinkled his nose at the overturned teacup lying on the arm of his chair. “Did you make—”
“Mrs. Hudson made it.” Sherlock peered at him attentively.
“Oh. Right. Like you would have.” He blinked again, realizing he was sitting on the floor. “What happened?”
“You passed out.” Sherlock was up, now, then perched on his chair, fiddling with some small contraption.
John stood up. “Right… Where’s my—” Sherlock kicked his cane toward him across the rug, and he scooped it up. “What was it doing by your chair?”
“I expect you left it there,” Sherlock said dryly, though he avoided John’s eyes as he strode to the door.
“Sherlock?” John tipped his head to one side.
“Lestrade called, but it’s nothing urgent. Hungry?”
“A bit, I guess. I don’t think we have anything, though.”
“What?” Sherlock turned to face him, scarf in hand. “Don’t be absurd. I thought we might go out and get something.”
“Oh? What’s the occasion?”
“Does there have to be one?” Sherlock pulled on his coat, and John laughed.
“I suppose not. You’re not going to get dressed?”
Sherlock looked down at the dressing gown, hanging out from under his long coat. “Is it necessary?”
John snorted. “You look ridiculous.”
“Alright.” Sherlock strode away, and John stared after him.
“You’re in a very strange mood,” he called, and he heard Sherlock laugh.
“Problem?”
“I guess not,” John said, and he smiled at lightening sky.
On a dark, quiet street, a man lay stretched across the road, muttering incoherently. He snorted, then appeared to wake up. He sat up.
“Still alive. Love it when that happens.”
The Doctor got to his feet, and looked around.
“Still alone. Well, you can't have everything, I guess.”
He stood still, watching the flickering lamplight.
“Nineteenth century England, if I'm not mistaken,” he said to no one in particular.
After a moment, he heaved a sigh, and began walking down the cobblestone road, then stopped. There was a faraway noise, a sort of whirring, creaking sound, that got louder and louder. He turned, and on the pavement behind him, there was a blue police box that hadn't been there before.
“Hello.”
He walked up to it, and placed a palm against one of the wooden panels, then pressed his ear to the door. After a moment, he straightened again, and chuckled.
“Of course not, my dear,” he murmured. “How could I ever forget you?”