HK: I am a bad girl… I promised Cassie I'd put this up about a month ago… I was kinda hoping to get more written, but I have at least a few chapters ready to be used! :D And with any luck whatsoever my muse will come back.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Sherlock, Doctor Who or anything affiliated with it. I make no money from this, but if I could I would consider it. :P

WARNINGS! Mikifer in the future, as well as other more secret ships ;) but most of them are slash.

XXXX

John Watson was quite surprised at how quickly you got used to mysterious helicopters whisking you away to Buckingham Palace. This was only the third time, but already the wonder was gone. He was just glad to see that they had persuaded Sherlock to put his pants on this time.

Admittedly, they were pajama pants, but it beat the sheet and the bathrobe that had made their first two trips memorable. Sherlock seemed to have a hobby of making Mycroft as uncomfortable as physically possible.

Unfortunately, just as John was getting used to helicopters showing up at crime scenes, the hospital, and Tesco, Mycroft seemed to have given up on his little brother not embarrassing him. He didn't even blink as he walked into the room, simply taking a seat opposite them.

"Really, Sherlock, it is four o'clock in the afternoon." He sounded more resigned than anything else. Sherlock shrugged, determined to get a rise out of his brother.

"About time for the fourth meal of the day then?" This did indeed provoke a reaction from Mycroft, who glared at his brother before pulling himself together again.

"This is hardly the time for juvenile bickering, Sherlock. I am most concerned about some strange happenings in America." Since Sherlock clearly had no idea what Mycroft was talking about (would it kill him to watch the news?), John cleared his throat.

"Uh, do you mean the recent deaths?" As a doctor, John had been interested in the strange murders that had even crossed the Atlantic. He had never heard of anything that could suck the life out of a person like that before. However, Mycroft was not a doctor.

"Actually no. What the Americans do to one another is none of my concern." He gave John a tight smile, pretending not to hear Sherlock's muttered "as if you weren't behind it". "I'm far more interested in why mister James Moriarty has been spotted several times in a small town in California."

That shut Sherlock up at once. John sat up, staring at Mycroft.

"Moriarty… But… I thought your people had him!" He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears, but everything else seemed to be reaching him from a great distance. Mycroft had the decency to look embarrassed.

"Yes, well. He escaped a short while ago. I'm certain he must have had outside help…" He gave a polite little cough. Sherlock shook himself back to reality, rolling his eyes.

"Of course he had outside help, Mycroft! This is Moriarty we're talking about! So now I suppose you want John and I to go to America to clean up your little spill?" The Holmes brothers shared a long glare, which Mycroft broke off.

"That is the general gist of what I'm saying. Of course, if you're afraid to go head to head with Moriarty again…" Sherlock glowered at his brother for a while longer. Finally he thrust out his hand.

"Give me the tickets, Mycroft." John half turned to stare at his companion in surprise. This was the first time he had ever seen Sherlock volunteer to help his brother without a fight. Then again, this was Moriarty they were talking about.

XX

Amelia Pond was busy packing a large backpack when her husband Rory found her.

"Amy, what are you doing?" Brushing long red hair back out of her face, Amy straightened up, pointing at the dresser in the corner.

"Pack that lot for me, will you?" Rory glanced at the dresser in question, then back to his wife.

"Why? Where are we going?" Giving up on trying to cram another sweater into the bag she was already carrying, Amy breezed past her husband to fetch another bag. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek as she passed.

"America." She marched over to the laundry cupboard, pulling it open and tugging another rucksack out of the bottom. Rory spun to face her, utterly confused.

"What are you talking about? We can't go to America!"

"Yes we can," Amy said in her best no nonsense voice, pulling a pair of tickets from her pocket and waving them at Rory. "Our flight leaves at seven." Already she was back in the bedroom, forcing one of her favourite miniskirts into the first bag before starting to pile Rory's clothes into the second.

Rory sighed, walking over and taking the bag. It was quite likely the only way he'd get an answer.

"Why do you want to go to America, Amy?" Several centuries of waiting for her as an unaging plastic robot had taught Rory patience if nothing else. His lovely Scottish wife sighed impatiently, giving up on her packing until she could get the bag back.

"Haven't you been paying attention, Rory? There's a lot of weird stuff going on in California. Power surges, electrical storms, all those murders? It's got to be alien. And where there's alien stuff…"

"The Doctor shows up," Rory finished with a sigh. "And you think he'll need our help." Amy bestowed a gleaming smile on him.

"Exactly." She took the bag from his unresisting hands, examining one of Rory's favourite shirts before deciding against it and tossing it into a corner. Rory shook his head, going and picking up the shirt. He already knew it was hopeless, but he might as well try…

"Don't you think that if he needed us he would just come and get us, or call?" And now Amy gave him a sceptical look.

"This is the Doctor we're talking about, Rory. He always needs us, and he never admits it." Rory gave up, taking the bag of his clothes from Amy's hands and starting to neatly fold everything inside.

"You're right." He made sure he kept his shirt in the pile. Part of the reason he liked it was because Amy didn't, and he wanted to prove that he did have some independence. Amy smiled at him again, pressing another kiss to his lips.

"I always am." And just like that his hurricane wife was off again, to get more stuff ready for their trip. Rory sighed and finished folding the clothes.

Just like always, it would be up to him to call their jobs and tell them that they were going to be away for a few days. Or maybe longer. Anything that had to do with the Doctor could never go as planned.

XX

Bobby Singer pushed his chair back from the desk, frowning at his computer.

"That can't be right…"

"What can't be right, sweetness?" At the familiar voice Bobby swore, pulling a shotgun from under the desk and leveling it at the short portly man in the black suit who had just appeared in the doorway.

"What the hell do you want, Crowley?" The demon shrugged, picking up a glass and pouring some Craig from the flask he kept in his coat.

"Nothing in particular. Can't an old friend call just to say hello?" He gave Bobby a sardonically amused smile. Bobby glared back, not lowering his gun.

"No offense your highness, but we ain't exactly what I would call friends." He wasn't likely to forget how the demon had tried to screw him over. Crowley sighed dramatically, taking a few steps into the room.

"You aren't still sore about that business with your soul, are you? You got it back."

"Yeah, no thanks to you," Bobby snorted. The king of Hell shook his head, taking a sip of his drink.

"Really, Bobby. No need to hold a grudge. After all, who gave you your legs back in the first place? I didn't have to, you know." Crowley couldn't keep the smile off his lips though. He did so enjoy the time he spent bantering with Robert. Bobby, who didn't enjoy the experience even half as much, rolled his eyes.

"Well aren't you a saint. Now why the hell are you here?" The day Robert Singer trusted any damn demon was the day you could put him to bed with a shovel. And you'd probably have to, after the demon was done with him. Crowley shrugged, taking another sip of his drink.

"Just to chat. After all, since Sam and Dean have been helping me out, I have a lot more free time on my hands." Not a chance that he could keep the amusement out of his voice. He knew how much both boys hated having to work for him.

Bobby huffed, reluctantly lowering the gun. Not that it would help much in any case. Now his hand travelled towards the two gallon jug of holy water he kept just for Crowley's little visits.

"This ain't exactly a great time."

"Is it ever?" Crowley asked in an off handed manner. He knew exactly what Bobby was reaching for. He planned to be gone by the time the hunter reached it. But until that moment… Bobby let out a sarcastic chuckle.

"For you? No." His hand touched the top of the lid. Crowley saw the motion, saw the spark in the hunter's eye. His smile spread.

"Guess I'll be off then. I'll call again at a more convenient time, shall I?" Bobby swore, grabbing the bottle as Crowley vanished, reappearing directly in front of the old hunter to press their lips together in a kiss before disappearing for good.

Bobby swore some more, wiping his lips and cursing Crowley every way he could think of. Why did he always have to do that? Still muttering angrily under his breath, he caught sight of his computer screen again.

Was it possible that Crowley had showed up to try and distract him? Either way, there was something going on, and Bobby wasn't about to leave his base to find out. No knowing how many people would be arrested if he wasn't there to answer the phones.

Luckily, he knew of a pair of idjits who could check it out. Grabbing the nearest phone, he dialed Dean Winchester's number.

"Hey kid, I've got something for ya. I need ya to go to California. Yeah… start in San Francisco."

XXXX

HK: I know everyone likes to send Sam and Dean to England, but I like to be different. There's no reason they shouldn't go to the States!