AN: Hello! I've been wanting to post something for a long time now (I have literally 30+ unfinished fics just waiting for my muse to pick 'em up again) and I found this waiting in my Crossovers folder. Fuck yeah, organization!
Anyways, I had originally planned this to be more... chapters. But idk, I think this leaves off pretty nicely. Tell me what you think? Please?
"So apparently we've got a case."
"Good news, John! we've got a case."
John sighed with hidden amusement as Sherlock all but danced into the flat. He was holding a manilla folder filled to near bursting with pictures, files and records. He tossed it onto the table beside John's laptop, where the diligent blogger had been detailing their latest (and greatest, in his opinion) feat - Return of Reichenbach. In it, Sherlock's very identity had almost been wrongly debunked by none other than consulting criminal Jim Moriarty. Luckily, the man was found dead on the rooftop of a hospital before his plans could come together - whatever they possibly could have been, it was nothing good. "I was just telling Ms. Hudson about what we had so far, Sherlock." He greeted with a small smile.
"Just look at it, John! Look at it!" The consulting detective looked absolutely ecstatic - like a little boy on who woke up Christmas morning to find gigantic, badly wrapped, dead-body-shaped presents under the tree. John flipped open the envelope to be greeted by a trio of men. The camera quality was low, but it did not hide the blood smeared on their faces, nor the wicked-looking weapon in each hand.
Each man looked different. In the obvious way, of course, but there was some driving force behind them all that gave each man a haunted look. The tallest one (Samuel Winchester, according to the record underneath the photos) had dark brown hair, almost at his shoulders and seemingly perfect. John almost envied that hair. The blood on his narrow face was thick and black, and some part of John screamed unnatural! at the look on his face. The knife he carried seemed jagged and old, yet clean as a whistle - apparently it was a favorite weapon. The middle height (Dean Winchester - were they brothers? Husbands?) had a bulky physique, but not as much so as Samuel. He carried a scythe-like weapon, curved and deadly looking even from a distance. Something about him sparked off the picture and stirred something within John's brain. The way he carried his body was that of a soldier who had seen too much in his life. Yet still, John's heart froze when he saw the icy blue eyes of the raven-haired man behind Dean (Jimmy Novak? He's been calling himself Castiel these days). He wore something different from the plaid-and-leather routine the Winchesters wore - he had a suit and a trench coat on. It looked well-worn, yet still brand new. Was that even possible? It mattered not, apparently. John noticed that the blade he carried did not possess the rugged danger of Samuel's knife, nor the rough power of Dean's scythe. It was... nearly otherworldly, if he had to say so. The blade glowed with a pristine shine to it, despite the blood it was caked with.
There was one more thing John noticed from the pictures. Perhaps Sherlock was rubbing off on him, he thought with a dry smile. It was hard to tell from the distance and the quality of the photo, but in other close-ups the look was evident. Each of the three men had a certain look in their eyes. Samuel's light brown orbs shrieked loss and deception. Dean's hazel lights gleamed with (reunion? Joy?) excitement and what he assumed was bloodlust. John knew that feeling all too well. It was Castiel (Jimmy Novak)'s eyes that caught his attention the most, however. His cold blue eyes were simply that - cold and blue. The barely-there shine in his gaze reminded John of a time when he had that very same look. When he had come back from the war, he didn't know what to do with himself. He was an army doctor, for God's sake! What could he possibly do? He was stuck in his own war.
This man, whether he be Castiel or Jimmy Novak or bloody God Himself, he had the look John once did on his own face. Until he met Sherlock.
Judging by the look of devotion on Dean's feminine features directed at Castiel, that madman was his own Sherlock.
"So? What do you see?" The sound of his eternally annoying detective broke into his thoughts, to which he suppressed a small frown. "Oh, come on. I promise not to be too incriminating."
Taking a deep breath, John pointed at Samuel Winchester on the first photo with all three men - at an elderly home. They were all wearing suits, and there was no blood nor any weapons. "Samuel. He is... brother to Dean," he moved his pointer finger to the medium-heighted man, then swerved it back to Sam, "and from the looks of it, he had some form of addiction, probably from the last four or five years." He remembered Harriet, and her problem. John winced. "He's not in charge in this picture," his finger gravitated to Dean Winchester once more, "this one is. Dea-"
"Yes, yes, very good. Let the consulting detective do some work now, all right?" Sherlock interrupted, shoving John out of the way to lean over the files. "Don't forget, there's still an entire file case on them. Dirty little rats, hmm..."
As Sherlock pondered over the three men, John wracked his brain for some hidden piece of information. He knew he had seen Dean and Samuel before, but where? His brain nagged at him, and he nagged at it, and really it would have been one big nagging circle if Ms. Hudson, who had been completely silent up until right then, hadn't gasped at the picture of Dean's face. "Wasn't that the poor man who had gone insane and started torturing women in the 'States? Heard he was shot dead, though..." She shrugged. "Actually, hasn't he been confirmed dead about three times now? I thought there was a video of it somewhere."
Sherlock remained silent. John snapped his fingers in recognition. "That's it! He is that man." He placed one hand on Sherlock's hunched shoulder. "So what has that got to do with us, Sherlock? They're across the Pond."
"Not anymore," The consulting detective growled, "Apparently, they were found at the scene of a crime not too far from here. Simple case, really - a mugging gone wrong. Heart missing. There's an underground organ black market somewhere around London; it's only natural."
John shared a look with Ms. Hudson. Sherlock was absolutely delighted by the case, however, so they said nothing.
A phone rang. Sherlock fished his cell out of his pocket and answered without so much as a blink. "Lestrade."
A tense silence was in the air for no more than a few seconds, because after that Sherlock's entire being excitedly went taut. "Oh, wonderful! I'll bring John and we'll be right over." He hung up without further ado and whirled around, a crazy look in his glittering eyes. "Come on, then - looks like Team Free Kill just waltzed right into the station!"
John mouthed "Team Free Kill?" with an astonished look on his face to Ms. Hudson, who only smiled dimly and shook her head in response.
"It's what they're called in the States, idiot," Sherlock groused in explanation as he grabbed John by his coat lapels and all but dragged him out of the flat.
A short cab ride later and they were at the station. The three men were each in different cells, yet they all seemed relatively calm. John had a feeling they could escape any time they wanted - it seemed that the only reason they stayed was to meet Sherlock.
Each man had to be questioned separately, so John knew they would be there for about two or three hours, depending on whether Sherlock was interested in these men or not. Luckily, he was allowed to participate in the interrogations.
"Listen, Sherly-"
"It's Sherlock, to you," The consulting detective snapped, "and you haven't said anything of use to me in the past fifteen minutes. I hope you've changed your mind, Dean Winchester."
The green-eyed man bit back a growl of unhappiness. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he chuckled darkly. Sherlock merely sat down to face him once more.
John was watching from the one-way mirror. Sherlock was getting impatient. "I'll believe you to the best of my ability," he amended eventually, his voice a quiet and soothing whisper.
Yup, he was getting impatient. Next would be the cursing and the lashing out.
"My friends and I are hunting a werewolf," Dean supplied at last, "who rips out people's hearts and eats them. Be glad it hasn't decided to put its curse on someone else yet."
Sherlock was quickly escorted from the room before he could break anything. John glanced into the room to give Dean an apologetic glance before grabbing on to Sherlock's arm and dragging him out. "Don't frighten him, Sherlock!" John barked, his voice breathy from trying to keep quiet.
Sherlock only pushed his lower lip out and said, "Next."
Sam Winchester said the exact same thing. John was starting to worry - if this 'Jimmy Novak' fellow's testimony matched, Sherlock would certainly be bored out of his mind. They would all be considered insane.
Luckily, Jimmy's questioning went a bit differently than the others.
"My name is not Jimmy Novak," He announced as soon as Sherlock greeted him, "it is Castiel."
"All right, Castiel..." Sherlock acquiesced after a moment of quiet contemplation. "I must ask you, what are you doing with the Winchesters in London?"
"Dean and Sam found tracks of a werewolf here, and since we are looking for Crowley at the moment - well, they decided I should come along. An angel is a valuable ally to have in these times."
Instead of bursting open at the seams, Sherlock tapped one finger to his bottom lip and hmm-ed quietly. "Who is Crowley?"
"The king of Hell. He originated as Fergus Crowley, but became a demon some time ago." Castiel nodded to himself, as if he were mentally checking his facts as he spoke them. "He is after some important information that we need."
"So," Sherlock's smile was smug, "you're looking for the king of Hell, who is looking for something that you need. In turn, you found a werewolf roaming the streets of London."
Castiel nodded, not seeing the point in adding on a pointless "Yes" because it was all just so obvious.
The consulting detective stood up to leave, but Castiel stopped him cold with what he said next. "I believe that Moriarty might have had something to do with it. We could use your help, Sherlock Holmes."
The way he turned around seemed icy and broken, as if parts of him were chipping off the sides. "What do you know of that demon?" Sherlock's voice was but a whisper, yet Castiel heard him perfectly.
"Moriarty was no demon, Sherlock," The possible-serial-killer said stonily, "although he now has every chance to become one. By my calculations, he should be one in... a year or so - at most. I suggest you prepare yourself for the danger he presents. This time, he will not stop at your death."
A blade of fear sliced through his back, but Sherlock remained impassive as he eyed Castiel with restraint. "I need to know this if I am going to help you - did you truly murder all those people?"
"Some, yes," Castiel nodded. "Although I would hardly call them people. I'm sure Dean and Sam will be willing to explain if you let us go free."
"If I'm correct, you can leave any time you want."
"Yes, but the Winchesters and I would appreciate not having a price on our heads afterwards."
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, his face a cool mask of indifference. "Right," he said after a few minutes, "we'll help you."