Vermont, USA
July 13th
It was some time during midsummer, and the sun was just becoming visible. 4:37, the clock on the laptop screen read. The cheap motel room was meekly lit – by the share of the early sun and the sharp glow of Sam's computer. Long fingers, callused from years of handling weapons, circled around the keyboard. The hunter was determined to find something.
The more time that passed, the rougher Sam's actions were. He could hear him– his violent, sick minded teasing and his slurred singing that never seemed to stop.
We're roomies now, Sammy-boy! We're partying like it's 1999, baby. Does Sammy not want to party? Damn. I was looking forward to our first dance.
Sam ignored the too-kind, voice hissing in his ear. Focusing on the scar that was now just a white smudge on his palm, he hoped for the voice to disappear. It faltered as his attention fell on the white mark, so Sam removed his hands from his laptop to press down on it. A tiny lick of pain, nothing compared to what it used to be, but it still caused the voice to retreat. With wide eyes, Sam examined the motel room – Lucifer was gone.
He was not real.
Frustrated, Sam slowly slid his chair back from the table – careful not to wake his sleeping brother. Dean only got a few hours a night, and Sam barely slept at all – even though his soul had been returned to him; battered by hell's fire. Now it was bruised and scarred, with a few tears left behind. Sam wasn't too worried about sleep deprivation – he'd always end up having power naps whenever he and Dean had to travel across multiple states, plus coffee was always handy at gas stations.
Sam padded across the small space between the table and fridge, where a couple bottles of beers sat and not much else. He swung open the door, grabbed the neck of a bottle and effortlessly pulled the cap off – a trick he'd learned from Dean. Sam smirked momentarily, then took a swig of the liquid as he leaned against the kitchen counter.
It must have been about two months since Cas had... died, basically. Two months since the leviathan had been let loose, yet nothing had been heard yet. Sam always pushed the thought of them away – the longer they stayed silent, the better.
For a while now, Sam had been wishing for the day he could stop. No more family business, no more demons – not even angels. Never had he been able to live a normal life, and though once he never wanted that day to come – now he did. Sam was now 29, and most 29 year old men had settled down with a beautiful woman and were thinking about marriage proposals and starting a family – notwhat kind of supernatural being would be dead meat next.
With a sigh, Sam walked back to his laptop – trying to find a case. Things had been quiet recently, and Sam didn't like it at all.
Whenever things went quiet, he'd learnt that it meant something was wrong.
London, England
July 13th
John Watson held a look of sadness on his face – he had that look. The one where you could tell someone had been through a lot – the constant glaze of thought, the creased eyebrows, firmly pressed together lips – a smile was a rare thing. His job had been to stop the pain of others once. However, that had been physical pain - and not the emotional kind.
At that moment, John was grieving. And grief could not be fixed with a bandage and a couple of painkillers each morning.
The grave, still fairly new at just a month old, reflected the summer sun – giving it life, which was ironic. This grave symbolised the death of a great friend. With a flick of his wrist, John checked the time on his watch – 9:37. Today he was early.
John was not dressed smartly – his usual ratty jeans, shirt and jacket had been thrown on carelessly. The jacket was stained with what could only be coffee – he found it hard to sleep at night, so had often found himself dozing off during the day. He needed the caffeine to stay awake at work.
John, indeed, had gotten a job. He worked at a little pharmacy to earn his keep, and to distract himself from his current situation. John had seen death many times – sometimes patients of his had died, and that kept him sulking for a day or two. He had been used to seeing death take away people right in front of his eyes, but never had it hurt like this.
Not once had he cared as much as this.
With a sigh, John stood facing the grave. He imagined Sherlock's ghost – how stupid. Ghosts didn't exist, but he thought it anyway. John imagined Sherlock watching him, his piercing, icy eyes busy as always,
"Hello again," He murmured weakly, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He could almost feelthe sensation of Sherlock examining him. Then again, he felt that way every time he stood in front of the grave – the name SHERLOCK HOLMES stained his eyes with tears that he didn't dare set free every time he visited. John stroked his chin and licked his chapped lips, a habit he'd developed when trying not to cry.
This visit, John had nothing to say. He had said everything over and over during his previous visits – and he felt there was nothing more to say or do. Mentally, John listed this as his last visit for a long time. He knew in his heart he needed to move on with his life, and he knew Sherlock wanted that too – maybe that was the feeling. Sherlock's "ghost" telling him to go away – it sounded a lot like him. A sad smile pulled at John's thin lips, and a half-hearted chuckle escaped,
"Well... this was rather... pointless," He bent down awkwardly, and then patted the ground above where Sherlock's body would be – this petty, final show of affection actually calmed John slightly, "Goodbye, Sherlock."
John hesitated for a moment – just a small moment. A moment where he somehow managed to think of everything he'd been through with this mysterious, all knowing, slightly insane man. And then that moment ended, and John stood up. He brushed down his too dirty jeans, and left.
For what he believed was forever.
Somewhere in the Time Vortex
Not any specific time
With an excited, babyish grin on his face, The Doctor skipped around the TARDIS console – flipping various levers and smacking buttons down that made strange noises. The familiar sound of the TARDIS travelling in time echoed through the never ending maze of hallways, which pleased Amelia Pond. She had been travelling with her raggedy man for what seemed like forever – he was probably the only forever in her life. Even Rory had not always been around, though he had technically waited 2000 years for her – though that was in a reality that had never existed...
Amy shook her head. Thinking too hard made her confused, and Amy did not like being confused. Preventing herself from being confused kept her travelling everywhere with her raggedy man.
Rory was watching The Doctor dance around his precious console. His face was the personified expression of "what?", and Amy giggled. With his wide eyes, Rory glared at her,
"What?" He blurted, which caused Amy's giggle to turn into a full on laugh. The Doctor, oblivious to everything but his TARDIS, continued skipping around like the mad man he truly was. Amy strolled towards the puzzled man that was her husband,
"Nothing, nothing," She replied, then tapped his nose affectionately. The Doctor always teased Rory for his nose – but Amy always found it rather cute, "Just you."
"Just me," Rory answered after a couple seconds in a soft tone, then leaned towards his wife to kiss her. And at that precise moment, The Doctor decided to snap out of his excited trance. He frowned, then leapt towards the couple and pulled them apart,
"Not kissing again, please," He punched their shoulders, "It's all you two do. If it wasn't for me, all you two would do... Well. That's a rather inappropriate thing to think about," The Doctor shuddered as the two Ponds frowned at him. Amy rolled her eyes,
"Says you, Raggedy Man with his River Song." She teased, receiving a dark stare. A faint blush crept up his neck, so The Doctor waltzed away once more to check on his TARDIS. Amy turned to Rory, "It's always lovely when you can tease your son-in-law."
A sudden jolt caused Amy and Rory to grab the nearest bar to them, interrupting their little teasing session. They both glanced at The Doctor, who frowned,
"That's odd," He mumbled, flicking a lever or two. The TARDIS seemed stabilised, and he shrugged, "Must have been a meteor or something, it's happened be-"
Another lurch sent shockwaves through the TARDIS, then the sensation of dropping coiled up inside the three stomachs of the people trapped inside. Rory encased Amy in his arms whilst tightening his grip around the bar he'd already been holding. Amy shrieked for The Doctor,
"I don't know what's happening!" He yelled back, stumbling around stupidly. He tried to tug at switches and slam his fists on buttons, but kept missing them due to the disorientation caused by falling. Stumbling over his undone laces, The Doctor fell on to the floor awkwardly. He continued to roll around like a child, attempting to get on his feet again,
"Doctor, do something!" Rory yelled, his grip on the bar loosening. He grasped Amy tightly, knowing he would fall.
And then the motion ended with an abrupt crash, and Rory and Amy then joined The Doctor on the floor,
"Ouch!" Amy cried, having hit her head on the floor. Rory, who had landed next to her, then proceeded to take Amy's face in his hands, a look of concern pasted across his face.
The Doctor scrambled to his feet, too shocked to care about Amy and Rory at that moment. Who, or what, had caused his TARDIS to drop from the Time Vortex?
Tap tap tap tap.
Fear. Fear is what The Doctor felt as the noise boomed through the TARDIS. Four taps, simply four taps to anyone else, meant a whole lot more to him,
"Oh... No." He stared at the door of the TARDIS, mortified. The windows let in a stream of white light; blinding. The Doctor shielded his eyes, both his hearts pounding inside his chest furiously. It absolutely could not and should not have been. That man had died long ago in The Doctor's own arms. That man could not come back.
Sparks could be heard flying, and the TARDIS made strange noises that signalled there was trouble. The Doctor knew the TARDIS would shut down until the problem had been solved, so didn't move.
The light faded, so he opened his eyes. The doors of the TARDIS were wide open, and a man stood in the doorway – dressed in a suit that had been torn and drenched, with black stains on his white shirt. He took a step forward so he was inside, and the TARDIS did not like that – it revved up again, filling the room with a faint light. It slammed the doors shut, locking them.
That was when The Doctor noticed – a shadow. Not just a little one that you'd see in the corner of your eye, but a massive one, arching across the walls of the console room. He blinked hard, and felt his jaw drop - Shadowy wings plastered the walls, emerging from the back of the man who had entered. Realising they were shadows of something that the human eyes were too dull to see, The Doctor spoke,
"Who are you?" His voice sounded louder than normal, now the room had lost all background noise. A brief glance at Amy and Rory told him they were just as shocked and intrigued as he was.
The man tilted his head slightly, like a dog would when interested in something. The Doctor could sense that this man, though took the shape of one, was not human,
"My name is Castiel," He spoke, his voice raspy and nothing like The Doctor expected, "And I am an Angel of the Lord. I need you to help me." Castiel walked towards The Doctor, his hand placed forward,
"Ah, no no no... You don't want to do that –" The hand touched his forehead, and suddenly The Doctor saw everything.
Images of three men clouded his vision – two brothers: Sam and Dean Winchester. They were hunters, who killed evil – ghosts, ghouls, the lot. The tallest one, named Sam, had been Lucifer's vessel long ago – and fallen into Hell to stop the end of the world. His brother, Dean, was familiar with The Pit as well – having sold his soul for the life of his brother. Castiel had saved him, as he had saved Sam, and was clearly an important person to the two Winchester's.
Briefly, The Doctor saw images of a girl – no, a demon. However, she was a rebel – much like Castiel was. The Time Lord could sense the angel harboured many human feelings for her.
The third man was just a human – Sherlock Holmes. A famous consulting detective – a profession he made up himself – who solved London's most mysterious crimes. A shorter, sterner looking man was his partner – who seemed to be the only person Sherlock really cared about in his life.
He saw everything he needed to see in just a flash, as Castiel removed his hand,
"Do you see, Doctor?" The angel did not use the Doctor's true name, although he could sense the angel knew much more than that about him already, "I first heard about you in Purgatory. All the things you've sent there – the evil, supernatural beings. You may have erased yourself from the Universe, but after death... They're still waiting for your blood to spill. You are magnificent, and I need your help. I need you to find the demon girl and those three men – remarkable, righteous men – and take us to New York City... to a place called Manhattan, I can sense extreme energies there I have never sensed before." Castiel tilted his head once more, "Will you?"
The Doctor looked at Castiel, still slightly startled from the images he'd just seen. Aliens he knew – but Heaven and Hell? Angels and demons? Never in his 1000 years had he dealt with them, or even been aware they existed,
"Well," He started, a smirk tugging at his lips, "I say: Geronimo."
Vermont, USA
7:48 AM
Now with a fresh cup of coffee, Sam scrolled down a webpage. Reports in Manhattan of people going missing and statues literally moving blocks away from each other sounded like "their thing", so he kept the page open as he had waited for Dean to wake up. Now he had, so Sam showed him his computer screen,
"Moving statues?" Dean had a bottle of beer already, and it was barely 8 in the morning. He sipped some before continuing, "In New York City? Damn," Another sip, "Finally, a case in The Big Apple. Maybe we'll meet some hot famous chicks. Or just hot chicks. Either will do."
Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's comments, then shut his laptop. He knew Dean just put this act on. When Castiel had died, Sam had seen the look in Dean's eyes – terror, and extreme pain; just like the pain of seeing John Winchester rise out of that Hell's gate all those years ago for those mere minutes, then disappearing back to God knows where. Cas had brought Dean back from what John was suffering, and that left a profound bond between the two of them that Sam and Cas would never have. Though Cas had pulled Sam out of Lucifer's cage, it simply wasn't the same – after all, his soul had purposely been left behind for a while.
The two began their usual packing drill before leaving to go on a long car journey – chuck everything in their bags and stick it in the back seat of their trusty Impala. Sam didn't have much to pack, so sat for a couple minutes with his coffee while he waited for Dean.
Ohhh, Sammy! Luci's home! I see you got some yummy coffee – what kind? Is it burnt and ripped to shreds like your soul?
Lucifer was sat in the chair Sam had been sat in previously, his legs up on the table. A tormenting grin revealed too-white teeth, and a quick open of it revealed his forked tongue – causing Sam to shiver.
Looks like I hit a soft spot. Hey, Sammy, why don't you talk to me? I get ever so bored when dear Sammy won't talk to me –
"Ready, Sam?" Dean had his bag slung over his shoulder, his bottle of beer still in hand. He reminded Sam of the scar on his hand, and he discreetly pressed down on to the mark. A quick glance, and Sam saw Lucifer was gone,
"Yeah," He replied quickly, and picked up his stuff. Still not too comfortable, Sam took another look at the chair – okay, now he was sure Lucifer was gone. The two walked out of the motel room, slamming the door shut behind them.
The Impala sat in the nearly abandoned car park, looking blacker than usual against the bright, early morning sky. The two brothers lugged their bags towards the car, and once reaching it they flung open the back doors and dumped it all in the back seats. Once the two had clambered into the car themselves and were comfortable, Dean took another few swigs of beer. Sam sighed,
"Dean, you shouldn't drink that and drive," He knew he sounded like a whiny father, babying his son along – but Sam didn't want to have to deal with Dean driving lousily for 6 hours, "Look, I get you miss Cas –"
"Who's saying this is to do with him?" Dean grumbled, placing the bottle in the drinks holder. He revved up the engine, beginning to reverse out of the parking space,
"Well, before he died you didn't drink this much. I mean – that's saying something, since you drank a lot back then anyway," He started, "Look, I wish you'd just tell me how you feel, okay? You made me tell you about seeing Lucifer, and you helped me." Sam quickly took a look at the rear-view mirror, making sure Lucifer wasn't sat eavesdropping. Fortunately, he wasn't – Sam sighed with relief, "Why can't I help you, Dean? I'm not just your baby brother anymore." He folded his arms, expecting a furious reply from his older brother. However, none came. Not even a dirty look was thrown at him.
Minutes dragged on with no reply, which was unlike Dean. Sam turned his attention to the window; his brother was clearly too mad to answer or even acknowledge Sam's existence for the time being. Unlike the tense atmosphere inside, the Impala hummed along the road calmly, it's stereo muted for the first time in months.
Another few minutes passed, and suddenly the car was being pulled over to the side of the highway abruptly. It was still early morning, so there were cars to honk at them angrily. Sam glanced at Dean, who avoided eye contact,
"Dammit, Sam!" He yelled, smacking his fisted hands against the wheel. A moan of frustration tumbled out of his mouth, "That stupid, bitching angel means more to me than anyone will ever know. And he freaking died on me, Sammy. That son of a bitch died, and left me. I really needed him, and he left!" Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. Silence was thick for a few sluggish seconds, "Losing him is worse than... Worse than losing Dad."
He looked at Sam at last; his eyes were glazed - full of tears. He looked more broken than when he had been describing Hell to Sam for the first time,
"If I could just stop this stupid hunting, I would. But I'm not done until I slay every single one of these leviathan bitches and then send every demon back to the damn Pit forever. After that, I'm done. I refuse to lose another damn person because of these dicks."
Sam was shocked to hear Dean say that – he'd always been the one who wanted to keep the business going. He'd always thought Dean felt like he had no other options, now that Lisa and Ben didn't remember him. Awkwardly, Sam placed his hand on Dean's shoulder,
"I swear the second this is over..." Sam paused, wondering if he should be humorous or not. Deciding now was clearly not the right time, he spoke in a serious tone, "When this is over, we're gonna find Ben and Lisa. You're gonna have a life-"
"They won't want me, Sammy –"
"Shut up, Dean. I'm pretty sure we could find an angel somehow and force them to make those two remember you. They owe us that at least. You'll move in with them and have a family, then I'll move in some place close by. Maybe I'll even find a girl I'll love as much as I loved Jess," He bit his lip – almost 8 years, and he still missed the love he'd had with that gorgeous woman he was so sure he'd end up marrying happily. Though Sam knew he shouldn't, he still blamed himself for her death.
Dean looked Sam right in the eye, the tears now spilling over his freckled cheeks. They made the poor man look almost childlike as her cried. Not for the first time, Sam felt responsible for his big brother – he wanted to help him like Dean had always done for him,
"This time, "Sam grasped his brother's shoulder tighter, "This time it's going to finish. After we freaking burn all those leviathans, we're running." He let go, then gestured towards the wheel, "We better get going if we want to be there before dark."
With no reply, Dean started the Impala once more – calmed by the steady purr of the engine as it rolled along the highway.
London, England, July 13th
Just after John has walked away
"I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."
Fire – that was all Sherlock could see. Fire, black smoke and the intense feeling of metallic chains tangled around his ankles and wrists. Sherlock could scream until his voice turned into a rough, feeble cry. His skin would be sliced and torn – the sickening sound of ripping flesh was no stranger to him. Once he had been well and truly destroyed, he'd just get put back together again like a living puzzle; over and over – for what seemed to be centuries.
Those had been his dreams, but now they were his reality.
One second, he'd been totally in control – then someone seemed to be puppeting him around. The next, he was flying – then collided with the solid ground. For a second he'd been there – leaking and cracked like a carelessly tossed egg. The next he was burning, always burning,
"John!" He cawed, his voice shattered like a mirror. The usual mantra of yelling John's name and never hearing a reply was all Sherlock ever received. So why did he try? There was no logic in it whatsoever.
Reddened metal seared his already burnt ankles and wrists, causing a yelp of pain to fall out of Sherlock's throat. If this was where the "sinful" souls ended up, forever burning and breaking, Sherlock hoped not another person would suffer this – for the first time in his life, Sherlock wished for the ending of pain inflicted on other humans suffering the same fate as him.
A slice through his chest told Sherlock he was going to regenerate soon – he'd be fixed for a couple seconds, and those couple seconds without hurting would be heaven to him. How ironic – a few seconds of heaven inside what was literally Hell.
However, the slicing turned into a white-hot grasp – Sherlock tried to scream, but his vocal chords felt as though they'd been violently torn open and out of his throat. Light flowed into his eyes, and he continued to silently scream.
What felt like a moment later, there was only darkness; nothing burned anymore. Hell's fire did not bite him with its blistering, acidic flames. There was not the dizzying stench of smoke, death and rotting flesh – no more echoes of skin being shredded.
Sherlock experimentally wiggled his fingers, and when he felt the delightful sensation of painless movement, Sherlock lifted his head. It hit something solid above him – powder fell on his angular face and into his mouth. The moist taste of soil was powerful and slightly nauseating.
A ridiculously smart man Sherlock was, and one would be a fool to deny it, but it took him a couple of seconds to realise he was indeed inside his own coffin. He furiously kicked and punched upwards, more soil caving in on him. After he managed to crack the majority of the lid, he began paddling his hands furiously through the black substance, grunting and spitting out any soil that ended up in his mouth. Sweat dribbled down his neck and face as time went on, mixing with the earth and plastering itself against his pale skin like bandages. Breathing was difficult in the stuffy dirt – there was only used air that was contaminated with dust and rot.
After hours of scrambling through thick soil, Sherlock was exhausted – he had barely dug a foot, and as far as he knew graves were 6 feet underground. He knew he was brilliant, but not brilliant enough to get out of this one – logically, it was impossible,
"John," he murmured, lips stained sooty by soil, "Please," Another first – Sherlock felt hopeless and alone. Had Hell brought out the little emotion left in his sociopathic brain? He was too exhausted to wonder, and believed it illogical to do so anyway, so shut his eyes and waited for the ground to swallow him; steal the air from his lungs. Letting himself die again was the logical thing to do.
Something hot looped around his wrist – not like the chains of Hell - more like a comforting kind of heat; the heat felt when sat in front of a fire during the bitter winter months.
Cool air filled his lungs – like liquid pleasure was being poured down his gullet. A whip of a comforting breeze slapped him right in the face, so Sherlock inhaled and exhaled. The air was sweet like sugar,
"So this is the boy you wanted dragged out," A female voice rang in Sherlock's ears, "Cute. His cheekbones are rather... fine," She sounded like the kind of woman who purposely tried to sound bad, and she was foreign – an American accent rolled from her tongue,
"Yes. A man made a deal with Crowley to sell this man's soul to Hell. God ordered I bring him back here," A rough, male voice replied – definitely not John. It sounded stoic and monotone – a serious, possibly religious man, "A parallel of what happened with Dean, you might say." The male faltered slightly at the name Dean – obviously he was important to this man, and they had been apart for some time.
Sherlock abruptly opened his eyes and sat up, bored of lying like a dead cat on the floor. He noticed the dirt caking him, but he decided to ignore it – he stood up, and examined the two people in front of him.
Both looked rather confused as he stood. The female was dressed all in black with long, waving hair – a snarky aura made Sherlock dislike her instantly. Next to her, the male looked like he'd received the same fate as Sherlock – his suit was stained with black and ripped like an old rag,
"Sherlock Holmes," The male spoke, taking several steps forward. Sherlock remained straight faced, continuing to inspect the man, "Do not be alarmed,"
"Alarmed?" Sherlock scoffed a frown on his face, "I have no reason to be." He could see he'd thrown the man off guard, so instead raised his head ever so slightly and removed the scowl, "Who are you?" He didn't bother asking how the man knew his name – many people seemed to. He was used to it,
"My name is Castiel – this is Meg - and I am an angel. I will explain later. Right now, I need you to come with me." Castiel raised two fingers and held the hand of Meg – were they lovers? – And Sherlock chuckled,
"Alright," he spat, "No time to get used to home, I see – how long was I in there for? Must have been years." Sherlock look intently at Castiel's hand as it faltered,
"Time in Hell is different. You were there for a month, which can feel like anything from 10 years to 10 centuries. Now, you're coming with me," The man gave Sherlock no time to reply and touched his fingers to Sherlock's forehead – barely anything – and Sherlock was ready to throw his head back and laugh. However, he stopped – the graveyard was gone, and now replaced by what looked like the control room you'd expect to see in sci-fi films on a space ship,
"What?" Sherlock saw three other people – two men, one with an abnormally large nose and the other sporting a bow tie and a tweed jacket. The other was a carroty haired girl, whose skin was far too much like white porcelain for Sherlock's liking,
"Sherlock Holmes," The man in tweed said, slightly awed, "What a pleasure. My name's The Doctor! I see you've met Castiel and Meg, here." He gestured towards the two awkwardly, clearly only having just met them,
"And where are we?" Sherlock sighed, flicking off a ball of dirt from his tattered sleeve. The large nosed man watched his warily,
"This is the TARDIS. Time And Relative Dimensions In Space. Yes, spacey wacey wibbley wobbley timey wimey things. I'm far too lazy to explain – let's get these Winchester boys!" The Doctor walked towards the console that was littered with levers, buttons, screens – all the usual space ship things. He flipped 3 switches, then slammed down a large button – and a strange noise echoed throughout the room.
Sherlock did not register any emotion, which was what he was good at. Strange this was for him, but he did not wish to react.