Beta: Ikira
Characters/Pairings: Lestrade, John Watson, Sam, Dean, Sherlock, Eleventh Doctor; gen
Author's note: I wasn't listening to The Chambers Brothers when writing.
Thanks to Ardna, a fascinating piece of art depicting Supernatural's Crowley and Sherlock's Lestrade crossed my bow some time past and I've been itching to write for it. A SuperWhoLock contest appeared and so did motivation. Managed to score first place with this, and I can't help but be a bit proud. Not bad for my first time writing Sherlock (which is ridiculously fun, by the way).
The rules have changed today
I have no place to stay
Oh my Lord, I have to roam
I have no home
Now the time has come
There's no place to run
The Chambers Brothers
He didn't expect the insistent hammering at the front door, and it wasn't much appreciated right after he'd just sat himself down. Greg Lestrade, former Detective Inspector, set aside the tumbler of whiskey with an irritated sigh and walked through the modest flat, calling out when the pounding continued, "All right, knock it off! I'm coming. Ass," he added in a grumble, just before flipping the latch and opening the door as far as the chain allowed.
Surprise lifted his eyebrows and voice. "John? What are you- is Sherlock in trouble?"
Dr. Watson's forehead was wrinkled in worry, but he shook his head. "No, it isn't… Greg, I need you to come with me, right now." He was so serious, instantly bringing to Greg's mind the last time they had tangled with Moriarty and how John was purely soldier, working frenetically against the madman's machinations, trying to find his friend.
Slipping the chain off, he gestured John inside the small entryway. "I can't really do that. I mean," he corrected, trying to present his friend with an indifferent demeanor, "I've got plans for this evening. They can't really be shifted, sorry." The despair curling around his innards twisted sharply. I won't be able to go anywhere anymore.
John's eyes narrowed into a flinty stare. "They've already been bumped. Now come on." He was already holding Greg's jacket out expectantly and his expression brooked no argument.
Biting back the sudden angry retort rising to his lips, he checked the time. He had five hours. Shaking his grey head in resignation, he shrugged into the offered jacket and followed John out the door, snagging hat and scarf on the way out.
He found himself in John and Sherlock's shared flat not even twenty minutes later. John's urging—and large wad of notes—had the cabby making the thirty-eight minute drive in terrifyingly record time. Greg couldn't recall ever being so grateful to be standing on solid ground. John had practically shoved him inside and up the stairs, and then disappeared back downstairs. Alone in the sitting room, Greg took a moment to run his eye over the place. It'd been some time since he'd been in 221B, but it was as crammed and eclectic as ever. He stifled a grin; there were probably human parts in the refrigerator, just as usual.
Whiskey was under the sink, and he wasn't sure whether John had hid it or if Sherlock had absently stowed it there. Finding a clean glass was more difficult.
The front door opened and two distinctively American voices filled the entry. Greg placed them before the bootfalls reached the second floor and had two more glasses prepared when the Winchester brothers entered with Sam calling ahead, "Hello?"
"In 'ere," he replied and gave them a friendly nod when they rounded through the sitting room into the kitchen, holding up the glasses. "What're you boys doing back again?"
"Ah, you know," Sam shrugged, "trying to get Dean over his fear of flying." He was as monstrously tall as Greg remembered, with the only physical difference being the trimmed beard and hair long enough for a ponytail.
Dean, wearing a few more scars on his face and missing the tip of one pinkie, shot his gigantic brother a sour glare and took the whiskey from Greg. "How you holding up, Lestrade?"
"All right, retired now. Hate it."
The brothers chuckled, Sam moving away to disentangle himself from his heavy coat in the warm flat and eventually get it up on a coat hook. "So you have anything going on, anything important?" he asked, regaining the glass.
His tone was casual, yet his glance was too keen over the tumbler's lip.
"No," Greg replied and immediately mentally knocked himself in the head. He'd spoken too quickly, defensively even. He and Sam looked at each other, the moment stretching taut and he discovered he needed to put the whiskey down, trying to hide his trembling hand. "Everything's fine."
Dean snorted and then tossed back the whiskey, grimacing. "Sure. Shall we?" he said, bumping Sam's arm lightly. Without glancing down at him, Sam nodded and retreated to his hanging coat, digging through its large pockets silently. He produced two cloth bags and tossed one to Dean, who caught it easily and vanished out the door, boots tramping down the stairs. Sam headed for the windows in the sitting room and Greg trailed after him, already past puzzled and moving into bewildered.
"Sam? What're you two doing?" The tall American loosened the drawstring and shook black grains into his palm, displaying them briefly.
"Goofer dust," he said cryptically and then began to line the window sill with the dust, laying it down thick against the wooden frame, and copied his actions on the matching window. Greg gaped at him, slowly moving toward the door. Glancing out of it, he saw Dean mimicking Sam, pouring the 'goofer dust' in front of the door. He looked at Sam, then back to Dean in time to see him pull something that looked like a curled vine from his jacket. Dean cut a section off with a wickedly sharp knife that shouldn't have passed Customs and hung it on the lintel, making certain no one entering would knock it off.
"And what's that?" he called down.
Dean glanced at him, an eyebrow lifted. "Devil's Shoestring." He turned his back and cut another piece of the vine.
"Viburnum," Sam supplied from directly behind Greg, making his shoulders twitch up in surprise. "Used for protection against the devil. In this instance, we're using it to hold off hellhounds."
"Hellhounds." Damn his voice, betraying him. So much for sounding skeptical.
"We know, Greg," Sam said gently, and he never wanted so badly to just slump into a chair and have a good cry. He wasn't alone, at least for a few more hours. Sam's hand settled firmly on his shoulder, a comforting and reassuring weight.
"Dean, Sam." John stepped out of Mrs. Hudson's flat, the old woman visible behind him. He turned and murmured something to her. She nodded and closed the door, the bolts clacking loudly shut. "Thanks."
"Have you gotten a hold of him yet?" Dean asked, face serious as he angled toward John.
He nodded, already moving quickly to the stairway. "Got him the date and time. He'll be here."
"Hey," Dean called.
John paused at the top of the stairs, crowding Sam and Greg, to look quizzically down.
"Do you, ah, do you know which one is coming?"
"Not yours," John said quietly. "Sorry."
Dean's face twisted unhappily for a second and then he turned curtly. John drew the other Winchester and Greg into the sitting room, indicating the latter should take a seat. "I've a friend coming, someone who can help you," he explained. Greg couldn't help snorting.
"I don't think you get it. There isn't a place in the world I can hide, not from this. And John, it isn't a waste. I've seen what I bargained for come true, and I have had several years to watch it grow. Just… let me go. I'm all right."
"Not a chance," Sam growled. His face was a thunderstorm and his dark eyes bore fiercely into Greg, and suddenly he seemed to tower over him without moving an inch. "We canstop them."
We won't lose another friend.
It hangs in the air for an interminable moment.
"That'll get me in trouble," he gaped. "It'll piss him off."
Dean laughed from the doorway. "We've just gotta hold the hounds off long enough."
"Oh yeah," Sam interjected, "so your friend can show up. And who is that again?"
"The Doctor." John was grave, leaning against the mantelpiece with his arms folded. "We're doing the stalling, he's doing the saving."
"He can break the deal." The hope rising inside him felt like it would tear him apart.
John lifted his hand quickly. "Now, I don't know about that." He exchanged a fast glance with Dean. "We can't make any promises about breaking it, but getting you safe and away can be done. He just has to show up in time," he muttered.
"Who has to show up in time?" a deep regal voice drawled from behind Dean, still standing in the door. Dean jerked away, scowling at Sherlock. The detective flicked a cursory glance at the shorter man. "Lestrade, brothers Winchester."
"Holmes," Dean said in a voice a half step above rumble.
Sherlock didn't acknowledge him. "John?"
"Ah, Sherlock," he said hurriedly, "I asked for them here."
"Obviously." Sherlock breezed between Dean and John to rummage in the kitchen. Greg suspected he did it solely to appear too busy to pay any attention to the other occupants of the room.
"Greg needs our help."
"Who?"
"That would be me, Sherlock." He waved a hand. Sherlock frowned at him.
"Why are you calling yourself Greg?"
"Happens to be my name."
Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt to deliver some dreadfully clever, dry retort, and was cut off by a most curious sound. Greg had never heard anything like it in his life. Something like an animal groaning in pain, a person out of breath wheezing heavily, and a key being drawn up and down piano wire combined into one long, exhaustive noise that brought every hair on his neck to attention.
"John." Sherlock was backing out of the kitchen, eyes wide and focused on the refrigerator. No, wait. Greg leaned over in his chair and nearly toppled out of it; a large blue box was fading into existence in front of it. With each shuddering wheeze, it became more solid. Loose papers on the kitchen table were flying haphazardly in the breeze generated by the old fashioned police box's unusual entrance.
With a deep groan that almost sounded like a clang, the indoor wind died and they were confronted with an impossible thing. Tall and blue and impervious to three men staring agog, it simply stood there, tucked between the table and fridge.
The door opened. Greg and Sam jumped at the same moment.
"Came as quickly as I could, John, thanks for the ring." The Northampton accent preceded the young man bounding out, dressed like an old history teacher in a tweed jacket with elbow patches and a red bow tie over a striped button-up. He had ridiculously long legs, a funnily shaped face, and no eyebrows Greg could make out. "Ah. I did make it in time?"
"We have a few hours left, Doctor," John said, popping off the wall with a relieved expression, easing the weary lines carved in his face. "Well done."
"Marvelous!" the youth—practically a child, Greg mused distantly—beamed and gave John a cheery hug, kissing the air by both his cheeks. "Dean, hello!" He went for the rigid Winchester, arms spread wide, and nearly received a fist on the chin.
"Doc."
The Doctor sighed, shoulders slumping dramatically. "It's been years, Dean—it has been years, right?—can't you overlook that? Bygones?"
"I had to fly home." Dean was glowering fit to melt scrap metal. "You dumped me on my ass in another country."
"And you made it back to America, clever fellow!" He was still holding the cheerful expression.
Dean's lip curled in a muted snarl. "Asshole. Do you have any idea what I had to do-"
"Sorry, excuse me?" Sam leaned forward intently, snagging the Doctor's attention. "Hi, I'm Sam. That's Sherlock and this is Greg. We can all catch up later, okay? We're kind of on a timetable here."
"So you're Greg." The smile remained on the Doctor's face as he approached the former DI, yet not a shred of humour was present in his gaze. "The man who made a deal with the devil. Well, a crossroads demon, not thedevil."
"And I wouldn't take it back, even if I had the chance," he said defiantly, lifting his chin. "I stand by what I did."
"John, have you drugged me?"
"Sorry?"
Sherlock hadn't moved from the corner he'd backed into when the police box appeared. "Is this a revenge scenario you've created for the purely scientific experiments I have involved you in?"
John rolled his eyes, bringing a smirk to Dean's face. "No."
"Mycroft?"
"No. Look, Sherlock-"
"Then how is this explained?" he thundered.
"There are things you wouldn't understand, things I couldn't tell you!" John shouted back, snapping Sherlock's locked gaze away from the Doctor. "'More things in heaven and earth.'" Sherlock scowls tremendously. "You don't have to believe it or accept it, but I… we would like you to come along. Never know when we're going to need a crack detective, you know."
"Moving along here," Sam urged, glancing from John to Greg pointedly.
"Yeah, time to get a move on," Dean added. "Lestrade? Let's go."
"How's a magical police call box going to help, exactly?" Greg wasn't sure he should move from his chair. There was a good chance he was still in his flat and down a few whiskey bottles. The firm grip on his arm wasn't an illusion, however, and Sam hauled him up to his unsteady pins.
"Mrs. Hudson's all right, by the way," John said to him. "She's warded and the hounds won't be interested in the slightest in her." It's a small relief, but relief nonetheless.
"What're you going to do then, Doctor?" Greg asked and the slender man's eyes twinkled.
"It's not so much what as where," he said cryptically. "Right, in the TARDIS, the lot of you, because I don't think I can leave any one of you without being strong armed into bringing them." He aimed a purposeful glare at John and then Dean.
Greg, steered by Dean, walked reluctantly toward the police box as John tried to urge Sherlock out of his corner. Their muttered conversation was fast and he only caught John's last sentence.
"We've been flatmates and partners for, what, eight years now? Trust me, Sherlock." The detective's scowl shifted to a sullen pout and he grudgingly moved from the corner.
Dean paused before opening the blue wooden door, hand resting on its handle. "Sam, you go in first." Sam shot him an incredulous look.
"Send the biggest guy into the little box. Sure, Dean."
"Just... just go in and stop bitching." Sam lowered a glare at him, lips pursed, but stepped around Greg and into the box.
Two seconds later an excited "Oh my God!" erupted from inside. Dean laughed and practically shoved Greg in, following right behind.
"Whoa, redecorated, huh?" Dean remarked, glancing around. "Don't like it."
"Mother of God and all the Host," Greg gasped. "It's… it's bigger on the inside."
"Hah!" The Doctor zipped past them. "Love it when they do that." Leaping up the clear steps to the round console in the large, arched room taken out of a science fiction film, he began to adjust things Greg couldn't see.
His knees decided what his eyes saw was simply too much and gave. Dean had apparently been waiting for the reaction and caught his arm, helping him stay upright. "Yeah. It's pretty awesome."
"How does it fill you with awe?" Sherlock muttered and stepped in. He stopped so quickly John mashed his face against his friend's back with an irate huff. "John. What."
John planted his hand firmly between Sherlock's shoulders and shoved him in.
"This is what it is, Greg. I can take you away from here, away from the hounds and Hell's reach and the demon with a hold on your soul. But, if I do that, you'll never be able to come back. The moment you step foot onto Earth, they'll know and come after you. You'll be dragged into Hell if you ever return. This is the choice you have to make. Otherwise, I can't help save you."
The Doctor was standing separate from the others, one hand on the glossy console's surface, the other tucked into a pocket. His deep set eyes bore down on Greg, as though he's weighing the old man before him, judging him as worthy or unworthy of salvation.
"Where?" he said, somewhat weakly. It's all a bit mad, really, and he's quite grateful for a seat to sink into.
"Anywhere. Any planet and any time." There's a light in the Doctor's eyes, one so similar to a spark he sees in Sherlock's often: the delighted gleam of adventure. "You could live out the rest of your days on the third moon of Ichor in the Braxlfiss galaxy, where the gravity is one-third of Earth's and the natives' specialty is the finest brew in the 47th, 48th, and 49th centuries. Anywhere," he repeated softer, waiting on Greg.
He takes a long moment to look at his friends arrayed around him. John, saddened yet hopeful, calloused hand briefly clasping his shoulder in what is unmistakably a quiet farewell. Sam and Dean, the Americans he never expected to count even as acquaintances; the taller of the brothers wore a minute, peaceful smile, glad he's being offered a second chance, while Dean was doing his best to urge him wordlessly to accept the Doctor's proposal. And Sherlock.
Sherlock. The drug addict he sold his soul for. The brilliant, addled man who was going to die without the legend Greg knew should be attached to him. Watching Sherlock recover from the crippling addiction, seeing John arrive and somehow become flatmates and eventually friends with the disdainful genius, observing the crushed humanity within him hesitantly grow… The last ten years were worth the deal, simply to see Sherlock live. He had fulfilled more than the potential he'd seen buried in him; he'd become a human being. A good man.
"I can never see them again." His voice was flat and he wouldn't look at them, focusing on the Doctor.
A flash of teeth. "Never said they couldn't visit you, just not the other way 'round."
"You're not ridding yourself of us so soon, Lestrade," Sherlock said stiffly, as close to compassion or relief as Greg'd heard from him.
"Well, in that case." Greg rose and walked briskly across the space-time ship's—called the TARDIS, if he understood Dean correctly—glistening clear floor and held his hand out to the Doctor. "All right. Let's go."
A sigh rushed out of John, who promptly looked embarrassed when a smirk spread across Dean's face. Sam elbowed his brother.
"The fourth moon of Braxalfish, huh?" Greg rested his hands carefully, nonchalantly, on the edge of the console.
The Doctor beamed. "Third moon, and close enough. Now," he said mischievously, "hold on." He slapped a lever down and a squawk unceremoniously popped out of Sherlock when the TARDIS rumbled and pitched around them, disappearing out of 221B's kitchen, leaving a mess of fluttering papers in its wake.