Saving Grace
by Steamcraft
Superwholock [Supernatural, Doctor Who, BBC Sherlock]
They're in a small town placed in the middle of Nevada's lonely deserts, no more than fifteen-hundred civilians, where at least fifty-five of them have disappeared over the last two months.
Sam and Dean Winchester are stuck. The police have told them everything they knew about the missing people, how they ranged from children to elderly, and some confined to their bed at the hospital; town status and wealth didn't matter, either. The police haven't a clue as to what could have happened to them; they've sent out Search&Rescue through the nearby mountains but there is no sign. There isn't evidence of bodies, clothes, footprints, or even blood.
So the brothers investigate through supernatural means, but only to dead ends. There's no sulfur or strange smells, no cold spots or odd sightings, no suspicious behaviors through friends or relatives, and the only witches in around are eco-friendly Pagans who are simply devastated over the disappearances of their four Coven members. There's no barriers, no strange sigils, and no connection between the victims other than ten or fifteen of them knew each other. The town is clean, and about fifty-five people are missing, and it's driving them up the wall.
There is no lead, and even Castiel hasn't a clue.
They've been there for nearly a week going through a list of mountain and lake-dwellers (the town has a lake about five miles off) when they're called to the police station.
"Thanks for coming back, Agents Smith and Smith," Sheriff Brown said, glancing at Castiel. "Who's this?"
"He's a specialist," Dean supplied smoothly. "This is Eddie Moscone, also FBI." On cue, Castiel pulled the badge from his coat. "We called him in to take a look around."
The sheriff nodded approvingly, and the three followed him up a short level of stairs. "That's good. More people on this, the quicker we can find those people. I've also called for some help." There's two men sitting at the lobby table, a blonde and a dark-haired. And if that didn't sound like the start of a bad joke... Dean coughed in his throat and nodded stiffly to the men there.
"These are Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson," Brown said. "Mr. Holmes is a detective from the UK and became interested on our case when I made contact with him through Dr. Watson's blog." The blonde made a short nod at his name and a half of a wave.
Sam raised an eyebrow at the officer. "Even when you had the FBI here." Brown turned scarlet.
"Oh, please," the dark-haired man, presumably Sherlock Holmes, scoffed under his breath. Dean narrowed his eyes at him.
"Unprofessional of me, I know," the sheriff admitted, "but we're so desperate here." He wrung his hands together. "One of those people is my niece, and she's been missing for six weeks now. If I could, I'd hire the whole Scotland Yard."
"And the Yard would have just sent me," Sherlock said loftily.
Dr. John Watson cleared his throat and leaned forward. "Uh, yes. Well, Sherlock and I had a look around ourselves just a bit ago; perhaps we could share notes?"
"John," his partner cut in crossly, "We won't share with imposters." Dean's back went straight, and saw that Sam had the same uneasy feeling.
Dean forced a laugh, too loud, but Sheriff Brown hadn't caught on. "I heard that the British hated Americans, but that's deep."
"But, uh," Sam stumbled, glancing at his brother. "We'd like that, Dr. Watson. Let's take up on that offer. Outside?" Thankfully Sherlock stood as well and excused them all from the building, informing the officer that he and John would return. Castiel held the door open for them, staring at Sherlock as he passed.
A tree stood on the yard of the department, and the five men went to stand beneath it.
Sherlock looked between Sam, Dean, and Castiel. "Down to the cut: you three are not FBI. You're not even apart of the government. So you have five minutes to explain what you all are doing before we turn you in for fraud." John gaped at his partner, and Dean felt his own jaw drop, too.
"We-we're FB-" Sam tried.
"Oh, shut up. I'm not an idiot." The detective sneered, and stepped forward and grabbed Sam by the lapels of his suit's jacket. He found the pockets and removed the badge. "Your clothes, Agents Smiths, they've been folded repeatedly that they have creases. Government officials would at least hang their clothes. But not only that, but they're dusty on the knees and smell heavily of salt. Agent Moscone's tie could at least seem more professional. And this," he glanced at the badge, "the signature has been written by a left-handed man while the calluses say you're right-handed."
He flung the badge back. "Now tell us who you three really are," he demanded threateningly.
Dean wanted to bite back at him, demanding how the duce he could point all those things out, all the things that have been overlooked by countless of other authoritative figures, but Sam beat him to punch.
"We're hunters-"
"Sam," Dean hissed, glaring at Sherlock.
"No, Dean. The gig's up."
"Hunters?" John spoke, "What are hunters doing- If this is a sick game to you-"
"It's not!" Sam quickly assured. "No, god no. No, uh, this is what we do for a living. We go around, finding strange cases and help out the community."
Dean continued his glaring match with the detective. "All good will and whatnot. And if you believe it, we're actually pretty good at what we do." Sherlock's lips quirked to the side distastefully.
"So, 'Mystery-Hunters'." A beat. "Get out of here."
"We won't."
Castiel spoke for the first time.
John blinked. "Sorry, you are?"
"I am Castiel," he replied, "And whatever is happening here, you won't be able to solve it. This is not something normal people will be able to understand."
Dean sighed. "Cas..." He didn't really want to shove people into the light, to let them know what really went bump in the night, but when push came to shove...
Sherlock locked on to Castiel's statement. "'Normal people'? And if I am not able to solve the case, what makes you think you can? Your faces had told me that you had no idea what was going on, and I bet a fiver that you haven't a dot on your notes."
"The people didn't just drive or walk away," Sam said pointedly, an arm being thrown towards the neighborhoods closet to the police station. "And with at least fifty-five of them gone, its hard to think a single or small group of persons could have kidnapped them all within two months, especially when there's no motive for it. There's no ransom or goodbye letters to the family left behind. And this town? Just a little more than a square mile big, there's not an establishment large enough to hide that many people at once without them being noticed." The blueprints of the town told the brothers that the majority of the houses did not have basements.
A pause. "We're not even looking for anything that's human."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but John who laughed. "You're joking right?"
"We do not joke," Castiel replied gravely. "Often."
"So, what, you think that aliens beamed them up or something?"
Dean's jaw set. "Or something, yeah." He crossed his arms. "See, what we hunt are monsters and demons-"
"Oh, do stop talking," Sherlock sneered, "You are all preposterous. I should report you three immediately, but I'm afraid I pity your conditions more." He turned and started walking back toward the front doors. Dean felt words become stuck in his throat; the threat of being turned in is too serious. "I want you all out of town by the end of the day, and do stop meddling in serious affairs at least until medicated. Come along, John." John stood for a few more seconds, expression hard, then followed the detective without a final word.
"But Dean," Castiel started, but Dean gave him a quick look.
"Leave it, Cas," he said harshly and moved to the Impala.
"We can't leave, Dean," the angel said firmly, standing where he was.
Sam gave a huff of laughter and tugged on Castiel's sleeve to start him moving. "Oh, don't worry, we're not leaving. We never quit early, you should know that." The three of them get in the car and they pull off onto First Street. The town was simple: the streets going east to west were numbered, the streets falling north to south were alphabetised.
As they passed the library, Sam said, "I should see if there's anything in the town's history that is as strange as this."
"You could probably check out the hospital again while you're there, make sure no other patients have gone missing," Dean suggested, and checked the rear-view mirror. He met Castiel's sullen look.
"Don't sulk, Cas; very unbecoming on an angel your age." The older Winchester brother pulled to a stop on First and E - the town's main street - before making a left turn. "There are some that figure us out and there are the rest that don't."
"But I could have convinced him, Dean," he stressed.
"Hold on to your feathers, Roadrunner," he said. "I give them three days tops before they leave town and we can properly continue searching again. There's zilch to be found."
Sam shifted. "Didn't Dr. Watson say they had notes?"
Dean thought, then hit the steering wheel. "We've been here for nearly two weeks!" he growled, "How the hell did they find a little something under a day!" He slowed and made a U-turn when the lanes were sparse of vehicles. "I'm dropping you off at the library Sammy, and Cas and I will run by the families again."
"You think you'll find something new?" Sam asked incredulously. "What will you ask them that we already didn't try?"
"We'll ask what they told Fred and Daphne, obviously. We'll come by the library and see if we've got anything together. Is this cool?" They nodded in agreement, and when they arrived at the library, Dean held Sam back. "Remember, call if-"
"I know." Sam gave a quick smile. "Good luck, guys."