Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, Doctor Who, or Supernatural.
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Sherlock Holmes stared at the laptop. It was John's laptop, but John wasn't here and wouldn't be here ever again, if Sherlock didn't shelve his pride and send the message.
Sherlock had promised both himself and the other three that he wouldn't try to contact them unless it was a life or death situation. This certainly qualified, as if Sherlock didn't press that small clicker hovering over the 'send' button, John would die before Sherlock was even born.
Bloody angels.
John hadn't known about them, about the stone figures that stalked their prey at the speed of light, because Sherlock and John hadn't spoken about anything having to do with the Doctor since they were dropped back on doorstop, and they swore never again. However, stupid, infuriating John had walked past the statue of the crying woman without watching it, and Sherlock didn't know where he was now.
Mary sat across from the genius, slowly turning an empty tea cup in her delicate hands. Mary had drained the cup three times over, as Sherlock told her of what had happened and what they would have to do.
Sherlock told her of the madman in the Police box. It'd been five—FIVE—years since Sherlock had seen him.
He had expected denials and accusations of mental illness from the woman, but she believed him. He loved her for it, though he would never admit that or let her or anyone else know.
He told her John had been sent back in time and that they needed to save him, she had nodded and asked when they'd start.
If anyone could save John, it would be Sherlock with his genius and Mary with her devotion. The Tardis would help, though.
'Doctor,
The weeping angels got John. Please come if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.
SH.'
Sherlock reviewed the message critically. It was brief and to the point, and Sherlock would have to hope it would reach the Doctor as the man had promised.
"Are you going to send that?" Mary inquired. "I thought you said time was of the essence."
"It is." Sherlock snapped back. He dropped his finger on the 'send' button, and swept himself up of the couch in a quick motion. He snatched the violin off the side table, grabbed his bow up, and started into a quick, jaunty tune, to entertain his wandering mind.
Don't think about John. The bow slid across the strings in a screeching protest.
Don't think about the Doctor. His finger slid across the string as he didn't bother to lift and move it properly, the note sliding from low to high pitched.
Don't think about last time.
He'd give anything for a cigarette. If the Doctor didn't respond soon, he might go for something stronger. Seven-percent stronger, to be specific.
"Sherlock." Mary's strong tremor broke through his self-destructive train of thought. He snapped his pale eyes to her darker ones. She looked at him like she saw straight through him, as if she were the clever one who saw things others didn't. As if. "Sit down."
Because he's Sherlock, and he doesn't take orders from anyone, he stood still for a moment. Then, because he's Sherlock, and this woman intimidates him, he sat down sharply.
"You are going to save John. We are going to save John. Is that clear?"
Sherlock bristled at being spoken to like a child.
"I'm not an infant." He protested stiffly.
She managed a small smile. "No, but you often act like one."
Sherlock pouted and drew the bow across the strings of his violin, before realizing that he was proving her right.
"Shouldn't I be the one doing the reassuring, here?" He measured his voice, very, very carefully.
"Probably. You're not very good at being reassuring, though, and I am."
Sherlock snorted, not meeting her eyes. "Reassuring is boring."
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Six hours later, everyone in the room was holding ice packs (or fozen body parts that acted as ice packs) to an injury.
Sherlock had been slapped by the new companion, a Clara Something-or-other, for rattling off details about her life that were apparently sensitive topics, and was now holding a baggie of goat's liver to his cheek.
The Doctor, as drawn and dark as the last time Sherlock had seen him, but wearing a new face and body, was also holding a pack (this time, thumbs he had requisitioned from Bart's), to his cheek. He had had the misfortune of poking at the wrong lumpy shape sleeping on the couch, and had been promptly socked by Mary for his troubles.
Clara, the companion, had evidently bruised herself on the inside of the Tardis in a rough landing, and had demanded, ahem, requested a pack as well. Sherlock gave her the left buttock in a baggy that he had been planning on deteriorating by acid sometime in the next week, which seemed a dispensable cost for enjoying the look on her face.
Mary was icing her hand. It seemed John had taught her some self-defense, as she threw—in the Doctor's words—'one hell of a punch'.
Sherlock might have kissed her, except, been there, done that, no thank you.
"So, now that we've got the fighting out of the way, what are we going to do about Watson?" That was a quirk Sherlock had picked up about this regeneration of the Doctor: he kept referring to Sherlock, Mary, and John by their last names. Not surprising—he was trying to emotionally distance himself from them, avoiding a situation similar to the last time Sherlock and the Doctor had worked together.
"Go back in time and get him back." Mary piped up. She seemed to be taking everything very, very well. A tall, blue box had materialized in the den area, she was poked in a sensitive area by a time-traveling man who both of them were certain was not a medical professional, and her partner had been sent back in time by a monster. She had nerves of steel.
If Sherlock remembered correctly (and he always did), he had seen through the psychic paper, deduced that the Doctor was a traveler and the last of his family, and may have freaked out when he saw the Doctor wasn't lying about anything. He wasn't even supposed to meet the man—the Doctor had been coming to talk to Mycroft, and Sherlock had broken into Mycroft's office. Not his fault, if Mycroft hadn't wanted him to walk in, Mycroft wouldn't have put such obvious codes leading to his office.
"We can't know what point of time the weeping angel sent John back to." Clara pointed out.
"I'm not familiar with the specific angel, either." This Doctor had a Scottish accent.
Sherlock licked his lips and opened a mind palace room that he had placed a big "DO NOT ENTER' sign on when he first sealed that room.
"What about the brothers?" He said, slowly, settling his hands in his thinking position beneath his chin.
"Sam and Dean?" The Doctor looked off at a corner. "They may know. They could probably read the energy pattern."
"Who're Sam and Dean?" Both Clara and Mary asked at the same time.
"A couple of trigger-happy homicidal maniacs." Sherlock said, at the same moment the Doctor said "A pair brothers who hunt nasty things with a heavenly host."
Sherlock snapped his head around to the Doctor, who was sitting to his left. "What's that now?"
"They've acquired another person since you last talked to them. He was once an angel, not of the weeping variety, but I believe he's fallen from grace."
Sherlock shoved that in the mind palace room to review. He would have to consider the likelihood of that later—for now, John was missing and Sherlock knew the Doctor wasn't joking. Although, as one of the few people he had learned to respect said, 'the Doctor always lies'.
The two women exchanged looks.
"How do we contact them?" Mary seemed undaunted by, well, anything.
"They won't come if they know it's me." Sherlock snapped.
"Then we don't tell them it's you." The Doctor responded.
"Why won't they work with you?" Clara asked, oblivious. Three blank stares looked back at her.
"Long story short, he's a fucking rude-arse." This Doctor seemed to like swearing, as well, Sherlock noted as he sniffed.
"Yes." Mary agreed softly, as she took another sip of her tea. "Don't look at me like that, you know it's true." She met Sherlock's gaze calmly.
"It probably didn't help that you left them tied up and in the wrong state, away from that infernal vehicle." Sherlock accused the older man.
"No, that probably didn't help." He said cheerily.
"Mary, call them." Sherlock fished his phone out and showed her the number. She raised one eyebrow at him, not reaching for her own phone. He breathed out in a huff. "Please."
Appeased, she took the phone and dialed the number into her own. "What do I say?" She paused over the dial key.
"Tell them something's stalking the house. Flickering lights, weird noises. Call them by name, Dean and Sam Winchester." Sherlock rattled off. If he knew the men, and he did, they wouldn't turn down a woman in distress and a threat that might need shot at.
Mary tapped the key and held the phone to her ear.
"Hello? Hello? Yes, are you a Winchester? I need to speak to a Winchester." She spoke without pausing. She sounded suitably scared, voice wavering a bit. "Yes? It's my house, something's happening, and I don't know what!" Her voice pitched up a bit. "Hmm, a friend who had the same thing happened to her a long time ago said I could call you."
'They must have asked where she got the number', Sherlock followed. Without giving whoever was on the phone a chance to press further, she recited an address Sherlock didn't know and ended the call.
The Doctor smiled brightly. "Good idea, not giving them this address! Who are you, again?"
Sherlock stepped in and introduced her. "Doctor, this is Mary. Mary is John's romantic partner."
"Oh." Clara's brow furrowed.
"Well, it's nice to meet you, Mary." The Doctor offered a hand to shake, the one opposite Mary's sore one.
"Nice to meet you, too. I wish I could say it was under better circumstances. How do you know Sherlock and John?"
"Yes, that is a shame. I worked with these two on a case, before, involving a few things and a lizard. Fun case, that. Enough reminiscing! We have a while until the hunters get here. How about some cards?"
Sherlock and Mary exchanged glances. Sherlock could read in the way she was holding herself that she was much more distressed than she was letting on, and he was certain he would have looked the same, if she'd been capable of picking up on those things. However, there was little to do until the Winchesters stopped by, as it would be useless to attempt to track them down, so wait they would.
'John, you stupid little man.' Sherlock griped in his mind. He would never forgive John if he never saw him again—that would be intolerable.
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"Ah, excuse me, where am I?" John stopped the small woman walking down the street. He felt her eyes peer at his jeans and jumper, before meeting his eyes with a judging gaze.
"London." She responded shortly.
"And, ah, the date?" Stupid, sodding time travel; he swore he was done with it. Whatever that crying statue was, it was not something he had ever had the misfortune of interacting with before.
The old lady scoffed. "September fifth, 1881."
"Yes," John muttered to himself after she strode away. "John Watson, what have you gotten yourself into now?"
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A/N: This is a test run, of sorts. I'd like to receive feedback before I continue. Can you feel the Superwholock in the air?
Please R&R, my loves.
Tobi.