I don't own Sherlock or Supernatural. All characters in this work are fictional and if they resemble anyone living or dead, it is completely coincidental, along with names of streets, cities, places, houses, or otherwise. Enjoy!
Sherlock stumbled through the darkness blindly. His left arm was torn, bleeding through his nice suit. He was looking for a house, apartment, telephone, anything or anyone who could help him. All the lights in the alley and on the street were broken. The moon was behind a thick cover of clouds and it began to rain heavily. Sherlock inadvertently smacked into a large, dark window and fell down. He hated that his suit was now dirty.
After going through the trouble to fake his own death, he was still going to die. And it was by the hands of Moriarty. Well, not exactly hands. The hands had long claws. Did that still make them hands? Probably. He couldn't have been Moriarty, Sherlock thought. The attacker also wore jeans. James Moriarty wasn't the man to wear jeans. Therefore, whatever attacked him was something or someone wearing Moriarty's face. Not to mention, he smelled of grape juice.
He had never given thought to things like ghosts or demons or something from a religious book, but it wasn't important to him, like how the earth goes around the sun. What was important to Sherlock Holmes was solving the mystery. He wasn't afraid because he was trying to figure out what might have been his last mystery.
And he wasn't afraid at all for another reason. Too many nicotine patches.
"Sam, I'm telling you, it was just a bird that flew into the window," Dean said, lying on the bed and watching TV. He was very interested in the female guest star.
"Birds don't go thump like that," Sam replied, tying his shoelaces. The thump hadn't sounded quite right. Enough strange things had occurred in their lives that it should be expected that something supernatural had hit their window, but all Dean cared about at the moment was the new episode of Law and Order and the busty victim. Sam knew it looked like Dean was acting normal, but the truth was that Dean was worried about Cas, who was missing without a clue.
"Unless it was an eagle or something big like the thing back in Mexico."
"I wasn't there in Mexico," Sam threw on his coat.
Dean shrugged as Sam opened the door. Light poured out into the soulless, rainy night, highlighting the bloodied Sherlock. "Call an ambulance!" Sam yelled, bending down to take Sherlock's pulse. Still alive.
"The bird will fly away after a while, Sammy."
"Don't be an idiot! He's a human! Call 911!"
Dean flipped off the television and picked up the phone.
Sherlock barely understood what was happening. His head throbbed and he couldn't feel his arm. He heard Dean make the call to the hospital and then rush over, examining his arm. Dean said something to Sam he couldn't hear, but Sherlock thought it was something bad like, "oh, he's dead, all right", but wasn't sure. Before he passed out, Sherlock saw that there was a dark purple liquid in his arm being washed away by the rain.