They were falling. Dean and Sam stared at the sky in shock, their faces telling the world everything they didn't want to see. Like meteors spiralling to the ground, angels fell to Earth. Cas looked up at them, his emotions plain to see –fear, confusion and regret plastered across his features. All over the world, Angels of the Lord fell down, their wings burning, freeing themselves from their shoulders as their owners hurtled towards the ground, the grace lost as they got closer.

Splashes, crunches, crashes, the shattering of bodies as hundreds hit the ground, every angel up there, fallen because of Cas...in a roundabout sort of way.

Hundreds, or rather thousands of miles away, two men stared up at the sky, their eyes wide in wonder. Like every other citizen of London, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had stopped mid-investigation to gaze in astonishment up at what was going on. Blazes trailing through the sky, eventually stuttering out as the wings vacated the bodies, and screams rang out as the ex-angels smacked into the concrete.

"Sherlock…are you…are you seeing this?" John asked, completely and utterly gobsmacked. He elicited no response, and looked over at his companion. The taller man was stood stock still, brow slightly furrowed and eyes flicking all over the place as if to make up for the lack of movement in the rest of his body.

"Breathe, Sherlock."

Sherlock gasped; apparently he had once again forgotten he needed oxygen for full cognitive function.

John didn't even roll his eyes this time, still too unnerved by the events.

"Winchesters."

"What?"

"We need to talk to them."

John just looked confused and his friend sighed.

"They're hunters, John."

"Hunters?" He repeated, none the wiser. "What do they hunt?"

"Demons, spirits, ghosts, anything supernatural." He sounded perfectly calm.

"Right, and they can help because..?" His tone was mocking; he didn't believe in the supernatural.

Sherlock turned his head to give him an unamused stare, but he stared him down without any inclination as to what was going on. Sherlock's phone rang, then John's a second later.

"That'll be Lestrade," John stated, pulling out his phone and glancing at the caller I.D. Greg Lestrade it read, and John answered. "Hello? Yes…no…we're on it…we need to make a call apparently. Give us time! They've only just started falling!" A pause. "No of course I don't know where they've come from…they can hardly be angels," he snorted derisively. He had long ago stopped believing in a God. Mainly thanks to his flat-mate's very scientific way of life. "Right, talk to you soon, yeah, bye." He hung up, stowing the phone back in his pocket. "Well? Any ideas Sherlock?"

Again, he got no response. With a sigh, he looked back to the sky. Everyone was on the ground now, the people of London crowding round and sirens ripping through the air adding to the already disturbed atmosphere.

"Google it."

"What?" It had to be the first time John had ever heard Sherlock suggest that.

"Google how to contact the Winchesters. No, that wouldn't work, they're too well protected." He corrected himself in the same breath. "I need your laptop."

"You have a phone –"

"Not good enough; give me your laptop."

"It's in the car –" Sherlock was off before he could finish a sentence, striding back to the car and pulling himself onto the backseat, John's laptop in his knee. "How are you going to get Wi-Fi out here?"

"Sam manages, I'm sure I'll find a way…" he said, more to himself than to John. And sure enough, within half a minute he was searching through files and data that should not have been accessible. John saw his nimble fingers type in the name Mycroft Holmes several times, along with a password. Jesus, that man could get into anything.

Within five minutes John was ogling the screen, looking at two complete biographies of two rather dangerous sounding people. He scanned through their lives and didn't believe a word he read.

"You're telling me they've been to Hell? Actual Hell. And they hunt demons and are friends with Castiel. An Angel of the Lord. Actual, fucking, Castiel?"

"Actually I think it's only Dean that fuc-….never mind. But look, a phone number. We need to call them."

"Don't look at me, I can't afford a mobile call to America. Not a bloody chance." John said indignantly. He could barely make the rent each month without having the cost of a phone call to America.

With a sigh of frustration Sherlock extricated himself from the car and his phone from his jacket. He tapped in numbers and was soon listening to the ringing on the other end.

"Hello?" The voice was deep, raspy, confused and he sounded exhausted. John felt a twinge of pity for him. He seemed to have the weight of the world on his shoulders, evident in that one, short, clipped word.

"Dean Winchester?" Commanding.

"Yes, who's this?" Wary and not in the mood for bullshit.

"Dean this is Sherlock Holmes. I think we need to talk."

A/N:Be nice, I've not actually seen the full finale, nor have I yet seen half of season two, let alone seasons 3-8. I saw reviews and summaries and felt inspired to write this…albeit at midnight whilst half asleep. Please excuse my drivel ;) Enjoy

Disclaimer: I do not own anything at all in this, characters belong to respective companies/people and there is no infringement intended whatsoever. Love you all.