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Raised from Perdition
John looked at the body of his best friend. Sherlock's pale face was pale and emotionless, the blood covering it contrasting with the skin. John's heart was racing; he was failing to comprehend the fact that his best friend was dead.
Sherlock was being pulled down; he felt winded from the force. flashes of grey and orange rushed past him, and he felt the temperature rising. He had no idea what was happening; the last thing he knew, he was jumping off of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, plunging to his own death to save the people he cared about. Whatever was happening now, he had no clue. He should be dead on the pavement, not falling through this... place. He seemed to just keep falling and falling, until finally he hit the ground. All he could see was blackness, and he heard an eerie sound that sent a chill down his spine, despite the extreme high temperature of the environment. Another sound was growing louder; a high-pitched buzzing, like a ringing in your ears with the volume cranked full, and there was a bright light; a blinding light, and something touched Sherlock's arm. He was rising, he was leaving that place...
Sherlock's eyelids fluttered open and his vision slowly came into focus. He was laying on a squashy couch, in a house; a house full of books and strange symbols and the walls and ceiling. Sherlock was staring at a round sigil on the ceiling above him before he heard a shuffle and he shifted his gaze.
"You are awake." A man in a beige trench coat said in a hoarse voice.
Sherlock blinked a few times, trying to take in his surroundings.
"Are you okay?" asked another man sitting across the room. He had brown hair that reached his shoulders. His voice was softer than the other man's.
"Where am I?" Sherlock asked.
"That is not important. What is important is that you're alive." said the man in the trench coat.
"No, it's not." Sherlock said irritably. "I'm supposed to be dead! If they know I'm alive they'll kill my friends!"
"Don't worry," said another man, with short, light brown hair, with a smirk. "We made sure we didn't let anyone see."
"What happened? I jumped from the building, I remember. How can I be alive now? What was that place, the hot place that I fell into? I sound like a lunatic, someone tell me what's going on!" Sherlock demanded.
"Technically, you were dead," spoke the man with the short hair. "But Cas brought you back. That place you were in? That was hell."
Sherlock stared at the man with narrowed eyes. "Is this some kind of stupid plan to mess up my head or something, because I don't scare very easily; and why are you all American?"
"You're in America." replied the man with the shoulder-length hair.
Sherlock sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples. "You're all stupid." he mumbled. "Whatever you're trying to do, it won't work."
"Okay, well this might take a while, so we may as well introduce ourselves. I'm Dean," said the man with the short hair. "That's Sam," the man with the shoulder-length hair gave a little wave. "And that's Cas, which is short for Castiel by the way; and just to add to that, he's also an angel." The man in the trench coat nodded towards Sherlock.
"I see you're finding everything a bit hard to comprehend, so I'll explain to you." Castiel spoke to Sherlock. "You did jump off that building, and you did die."
Sherlock breathed hard in angry confusion.
"However, my father instructed me to bring you back. You have used your intellect to bring justice to those who sin, and we need you on our side to win the battle against hell."
"And your father is..."
"God."
Sherlock ruffles his hair furiously and stands up, pacing the room. "What the hell is going on? Angels? Hell? Being brought back from the dead? Have I walked into some ridiculous television program? And I'm in America!"
Sam and Dean exchanged looks.
"How many days since I died?" Sherlock asked, going along with their crazy ideas.
"None, this is the same day." Dean replied.
"If anyone saw you save me..."
"No one did, you were raised out of hell!" Dean said impatiently.
Sherlock talks to himself as he paces, muttering things about the fall being broken.
"Look, believe what you want, smarty-pants; it doesn't really matter. We just need your help and that's that." Dean crossed his arms.
"What about John? If anyone finds out I'm alive, he'll be killed, and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade."
"I can arrange their protection." Castiel stepped forward.
"Good. But now, if I help you, you need to help me." Sherlock placed his palms together and rested his chin on his thumbs.
"With what?" Dean asked.
"I need to kill Sebastian Moran." Sherlock stated.
"Oh, don't worry; he's already on our list." Dean smirked.
"Oh? Why's that?"
"Well for starters, he's a demon."
"You can't be serious."