Chapter One
Upon Meeting
It had been three weeks since Sherlock Holmes's return to 221B and John was readjusting to life with him. The usual mess of papers had stacked themselves up again, leaning haphazardly over the edges of counters and tables and occasionally spilling frantically down to the floor. Random body parts had materialized almost overnight in the fridge and John had been shocked one Sunday morning when he opened the door to the fridge to find a dismembered head staring back at him.
And most people would definitely be annoyed with the tall, frequently grumpy genius parading around the flat with his violin at three in the morning. But John was just the opposite. In fact, since Sherlock's return, John couldn't have been happier and he was currently in the process of restoring his blog, which he had deleted on the one-year anniversary of Sherlock's "death."
Sherlock himself was sitting on his usual chair, knees clutched to his chest and head tipped towards the ceiling. "Bored." He was saying. "Bored, bored, bored…"
"Really Sherlock?" John sighed, his fingers tapping away at the keys of his computer. "Why don't you eat something?"
"Not hungry." Sherlock replied almost immediately.
"Do you want some tea at least?" John asked, an ounce of worry in his voice.
"No." Sherlock waved his long, thin hand dismissively. "But I could take a nice murder." He began drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair and his feet tapped restlessly.
"You finished a case just a week ago, Sherlock and honestly I'm surprised you even got the one! People don't like ghosts, and when you appear it's like they're seeing one." John groaned, for a genius Sherlock sure had a problem knowing how people and their emotions worked.
The two men returned to their private thoughts, and just as they were getting immersed, the doorbell rang. Both Sherlock and Johns heads snapped up and they looked at each other with sly smiles. "Client." They both said and Sherlock sprang up to answer the door.
Behind the door stood two men. American by the look of them. One of them was very tall and had long, chestnut brown hair. He wore a red and white plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows and dark jeans.
The other was also tall, though his size was dwarfed in comparison to the taller man next to him. He had shorter hair and dazzling green eyes that opened wide in surprise when Sherlock answered the door. He had on several layers of shirts that were topped off by a green overcoat with its collar upturned. Both men looked very tough and had eyes that spoke sweetly of danger.
"Dude." The shorter one said in a low, gruff voice as he nudged the other man with his arm.
Sherlock stood in the doorway, taking in every detail of each man, so John called them in, reminding himself that he should be the one to answer the door for clients.
Either way, John nodded to the couch across from Sherlock and himself and the two strange men took their seat, grunting awkwardly as the couch sagged with their weight.
"Names." Commanded Holmes, folding his hands and looking at the men with even eyes.
"I'm Sam," the taller one said, sitting up a bit straighter and brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. "And this is my brother, Dean."
"Hey." Said Dean and for a few awkward moments the two groups stared at each other, neither knowing what to say, Johns left hand began clenching and unclenching nervously and Sherlock continued to sit, staring at Sam and Dean, who both looked around the room, presumably for something that wasn't there.
"I'm going to make some tea." John said before hurrying off into the kitchen.
"Sherlock Holmes correct?" the bigger brother said, clearing his throat.
"Correct?" replied Sherlock, "And how may I be of service?"
"We have a mystery." Dean said with a smile, his eyes shining.
"Don't waste my time with the obvious Dean, what is it?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.
When both of the brothers looked at each other uneasily, a sly smile spread across Sherlock's face. "What is it?" he repeated. "Is the family dog missing? Car stolen? Has your home been robbed? Obviously not, and since you're both American and fresh off a flight from New York I can't see why you would be here. That's the big question and I can't quite put my finger on it."
"We're here to solve a mystery, Sherlock." Said Sam seriously. "We need your help."
"I don't dabble in foreign affairs, especially common ones. That's more Mycroft's department I assume." Sherlock said unenthusiastically. He was quite disappointed at the fact that there was most likely no case to work after all.
"It's not so much foreign as it is international." Sam argued and Sherlock sighed, figuring he could listen to the Americans story and potentially turn them over to Mycroft, "What exactly is the it you're dealing with?" he asked.
"A string of disappearances." Dean replied as Sam pulled a manila envelope out of the grey backpack he was carrying and began pulling out papers.
"And why would I be interested in helping you with something going on overseas?" Sherlock said quietly. "And if these disappearances are in fact not a problem of mine or my home countries why should I worry and why would you be here? Who exactly are you two…?" Sherlock mused as the hair on the back of his neck stood up and his eyes opened wide, a smile played its way across his face. Sam and Dean… he had heard those names before.
At the same moment, John burst into the room, presenting a look a pure terror. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed. "Sherlock those are Sam and Dean Winchester, remember? An anonymous user suggested them on my blog!"
"Wha- How?" Sam looked back and forth from John to Sherlock and Dean's eyes narrowed. "Goddammit Chuck!" he cursed, pounding his fist on the table.
"What?" Sam looked confused and then he sighed. "The books."
"The books." Dean repeated.
"Yes!" John said excitedly. "An anonymous internet user recommended them to me in the comment section of my blog."
"They didn't recommend them John they shamelessly promoted them." Sherlock interjected.
"But Sherlock, Sam and Dean Winchester are the main characters of the story. They're hunters, but they hunt demons and things… you know, the Supernatural." John explained, looking at the brothers in awe.
The brothers, looked at each other and shrugged, "In the flesh." Said Dean.
"Impossible!" Sherlock raged, jumping out of his chair and beginning to pace. "The things that series were written about are fiction, and perhaps the main characters are based off of you two but that's it. John, they don't exist, they can't exist!"
"Whoa but they can deerstalker boy." Dean smiled proudly at the fuming man in front of him.
"Things that defy the laws of physics and matter, not to mention the fact that what's dead will stay dead no matter what. The laws are called laws for a reason, and that reason is that they cannot be broken! They are written in stone! Absolute! So you can go back to whomever set you both up to this and tell them it failed. The prank is over!" Sherlock was shouting and his thin face was bunched up in frustration.
"We are Sam and Dean Winchester and we are here to investigate a series of disappearances." Sam said slowly and sincerely.
Sherlock and John looked at each other dubiously, and John nodded at Sherlock as if to say, "Hear them out." Sherlock plopped dejectedly back into his chair.
"Ok," he said with a nod. "These disappearances, what's so special about them?"
"Like we've said before." Sam started to arrange crumpled pieces of computer paper and notes lines with messy handwriting on the table. "There's been a string of disappearances, all happening in strange places. We've found no pattern to them aside from the connection of one thing." Sam rummaged around a bit before coming out with two fuzzy photographs taken from what Sherlock assumed were street security cameras.
"All of the places where abductions took place had these two things in common, a statue of an angel and a glimpse of this man." Sam presented the second and more obscure photograph of a wacky looking man with wild eyes and long brown overcoat.
"Is that it?" Sherlock said, dismissing the two brothers as lunatics and the case as a fluke.
"No, because get this," Sam went on, "we've found several photographs of the same man disappearing into this old phone booth, and by old we mean old. Circa 1963- and on the tapes, the phone box just disappears. There one second and gone the next."
Sherlock drummed his fingers against the arms of his chair, "And what would the phone box have to do with these disappearances?" he asked.
"We think that whatever being has the box is kidnapping people and taking them who knows where. We think it might be some sort of trickster or God, possibly even a demon." Sam answered.
"No. Such. Things. Exist." Sherlock took deep breaths between each word and folded his hands up to his mouth as if in prayer.
"Beg to differ." Dean put in his two cents.
"Listen. All the things you've showed me could easily have been photo shopped or edited by some techy teenager with a workshop tool on their computer." Sherlock rubbed his fingers against his forehead.
"Sherlock, whatever's in that box is dangerous and we need your help to stop it." Sam dug through his envelope and pulled out another piece of paper full of hastily scribbled notes.
And after a few seconds of complete silence between the recently introduced foursome Sherlock hissed two venomous words. "Get out."
"What?" an amused smile spread itself across Dean's face and Sam gave Sherlock a look of complete and utter astonishment.
"Did I mispronounce one of my words or are you two really just that daft?" Sherlock sighed.
"C'mon man just hear us-"
"Out!" Sherlock shouted angrily, interrupting Dean and pointing at the door, towards which the brothers shuffled out slowly, John close behind.
…..
Once John had walked the Winchester boys back out onto Baker Street, he apologized, "Sherlock can be a bit touchy at times, especially to things he can't fathom." He said.
"It's nothing." Sam said, glancing at Dean to be quiet. "He's probably just in shock. But do us a favor and have him look at the papers again. We think he may be able to help us."
"Sherlock?" John scoffed. "Know something? Boys, Sherlock probably knows everything about you down to what you had for supper last night by now. He's a believer of science and known fact. Not whatever it is you do. As for the papers, I can try to get him to take a look, if not, to bad. Be back here by one o' clock tomorrow to pick them up." And with that, John went back up into the flat; leaving the Winchesters to crawl back to whatever hole they were staying in.
As for Sherlock, he was still sitting in his chair when John walked back in. "Are they gone?" he asked, not bothering to look at the doorway.
"For now." Replied John, walking back into the kitchen to get the cup of tea he had forgotten about.
"Good." Remarked Sherlock as he got up and walked over to the bookshelf.
"Your not actually going to give this case a thought are you?" John asked, settling into the chair next to Sherlock's.
"The case is completely ludicrous John, and you know that. But the men who presented it, they're much more a piece of work." Sherlock replied. "For instance. I've concluded they got off a flight from Chicago, not New York. That was my mistake."
"How do you know that?" John asked.
"They left their passports here." Sherlock replied. "But the real dilemma is that the passports don't say Sam and Dean Winchester. They say Carl and Brad Bundtford, two accountants from Milwaukee. That in itself is a crime. Second of all, they really believe that whatever is written in those books, and the insane story they told us was real, which leads me to believe we may be dealing with bigger psychopaths than we thought. And lastly, their body posture was all wrong, especially the bigger brother. He was rigid and his movements were stiff. Also he kept scratching the area behind his right ear and his vocal patterns didn't quite match his facial emotions. They were lying, John." Sherlock looked at his friend with an excited smile.
"They could have just been nervous." John thought aloud, challenging Sherlock and his deducing skills.
"Ah! But they weren't! You see, the mud on Dean's boots comes from the mid-west. Somewhere in Illinois and I'm sure if you examine it-" Sherlock leapt over the coffee table and grabbed a piece of mud that had fallen on the ground. He then ran into the kitchen and stuck it unceremoniously under a magnifying glass.
"Yes! Bone fragments! You see John, they were in a graveyard not long before their flight, digging up bodies to destroy I assume. How and why? I have no idea but it's probably ridiculous!" Sherlock paused. "I do have to give them credit though, they're good at fibbing and it's obvious they've pulled this kind of stunt before. But this is the last time John, because they can't fool me." Sherlock then scrambled from the kitchen and back to the table scattered with Sam's papers.
"John, get on your laptop, I want every detail you can find about the Winchesters. As for myself, I'll be going through these notes."
"But why go through all this trouble for these guys?" John asked.
"Because," Sherlock replied, "they think I was dead, John. They think I actually died when I jumped. Those boys believe I am one of their fictional creatures and they aren't here just for those missing people, which I doubt exist. They're here for me."
…..
An hour later, a gasp of surprise coming from John jolted Sherlock away from his meticulous going through of notes. Which mostly contained odd and frightening tales about various myths, leaving Sherlock confused about what actually had to do with the case and what was just ramblings. "Like pages of a diary that have been shot out of a canon and shuffled like cards…" Sherlock thought to himself.
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, looking at the computer screen with wide eyes.
"Yes?" Sherlock meandered over to see what John was causing so much commotion about.
"Sherlock, the Winchester brothers were wanted by the FBI a few years ago but were announced dead in Monument, Colorado when a police station blew up under very mysterious circumstances." John said, his voice shaking slightly.
"They've been pronounced dead more than just that once John, I can guarantee it, and your tired, why don't you go to bed?" Sherlock put his hand on Johns shoulder and John nodded, silently agreeing that he was beyond exhaustion and quite done with the events of that day, and as he shut his bedroom door behind him, Sherlock returned to decoding Sam Winchester's notes, ready for a few more hours of work.
He had just picked up a page of what seemed to be names and classifications when a strange whirring sound filled the air. Sherlock's head popped up and his body tensed, wondering what it could be and when the noise didn't stop after a few minutes, he stood up and turned around, looking to the kitchen. His thinking was that perhaps it was just the refrigerator and some wiring that had gone bad.
With a shrug Sherlock blinked and returned to his work, when all of a sudden the outside wall of 221B exploded, throwing wooden shrapnel and pieces of paper everywhere. Sherlock himself was thrown back into the kitchen, landing hard on his back and crashing his head against the refrigerator- which began to make an odd noise.
"Ugh…" Sherlock groaned and turned himself upright, his eyes trying to make out what they were seeing through blurry vision.
"Sherlock?" John's bedroom door opened and seconds later slammed shut again, loud cursing could be heard from the other side.
"I- I'm quite alright John, no need to worry!" Sherlock stood up shakily and steadied himself against the table, not quite believing what he could now make out. An old blue phone box from about 1963 sat in his living room and a wacky looking man had just stepped out of it.
"Ok, Rose, I think it's alright to come out. Bit of a rough landing though, I must say!" The odd man patted the box lovingly and turned to face Sherlock.
He was wearing a dark brown pinstriped suite with a light brown overcoat and a white pair of converse on his feet; his dark brown hair was lightly tussled. The girl who stepped out from the box after him was blonde and wore jeans and a plain pink t-shirt. Her eyes were open wide with what Sherlock could only assume was the excitement of some big new adventure.
"Where are we?" She asked, looking around the ruined apartment as John stepped out of his room again, still cursing violently.
"London, present day." The odd man said sniffing the air.
"You also happen to be in my flat." Sherlock said unhappily.
"Yeah… Sorry about the wall." the man said, looking not at all sorry. "Happens to the best of us." He shrugged and looked at the girl with a cheeky smile.
"You'll be getting the bill." John mumbled and kicked a piece of wood away from his foot.
"Who're you?" the girl asked, staring at John with confusion.
"My name is John Watson and I live here." John replied.
"And who're you?" she nodded in Sherlock's direction.
"That." The odd man smiled, and answered before Sherlock could, "Would be the infamous Sherlock Holmes."
"How do you know me?" Sherlock asked incredulously.
"We've met before. Bit of a hassle if you ask me! You're quite hard to get along with, though I suppose you must have changed since last time!" the man had pulled a small device out of his pocket and was waving it around the room.
"I can assure you we have never met before and I demand you tell me who you are and why you've destroyed my living room." Sherlock said, straightening his robe and letting go of the table.
"My name is the Doctor and this is Rose." The man pointed to himself and his lady companion.
"Come again?" John said tilting his head a bit. "Doctor Who?"
"Just the Doctor." The Doctor said with a wide smile.
"I can assure you we've never met." Sherlock said, and the Doctor's face fell.
"You don't remember anything, do you?" he said with a hint of reverence. "Anything about how you survived the fall?"
"Nothing." Sherlock said and his hand gripped the table, this time with deep, white-knuckled fear. "I jumped, and I was going to die. I was supposed to die! Prepared even! But I can't remember a thing… not even hitting the ground." Sherlock's voice was low and dangerous. "I'm supposed to be gone and in the ground! I woke up, and I was someplace dark, and cold, and then I was on Baker Street with no recollection of how I got there, or what happened to me. I was supposed to be dead!" the nights shadows and flickering lights of the apartment cast a darkness upon the detective's face that made him seem fierce and terrifying, so much so that even John took a step back from the madness and panic that flashed in his friends eyes.
"I'm essentially a dead man walking." Sherlock glanced at John again. "And no matter how much I try, I can't figure out how. I jumped from the top of a building. I should be dead."
"But you're not! You're here!" John said, trying to be consoling.
"You don't get it John! Yes, I'm here!" Sherlock shouted out angrily. "But I shouldn't be!"