There are some changes made to canon in this story, they are important. Please read this.

Sherlock

-Moriarty is actually dead.

-After the fall John never left 221B. He still lives there.

-John has not met Mary.

Supernatural

-Meg isn't dead; she was captured by Crowley in Goodbye Stranger, and after escaping went into hiding.

Why am I posting another story when Angelis Alis still isn't finished? I don't know! I shouldn't be posting this but I don't really care. I wrote this after watching His Last Vow and crying for a bit. I was in the mood to write Sherlock.

(To point out, I am Canadian and this is not brit-picked so sorry for any mistakes, I tried.)

HEY! THIS IS IMPORTANT!

This will be updated slowly, VERY slowly, as Angelis Alis is my first priority.

Okay, now that I have rambled on for a paragraph, you may read on.

(Nimphidelle why? This will spoil stuff, stop reading this, you haven't seen season 2 yet)

Word count: 1459

Chapter 1

It was an awful day to begin with. First, John discovered that a moth had chewed a hole through his favorite jumper, and then he had fallen in the shower. And finally, when he investigated the strange smell in the kitchen, he had discovered a casserole dish full of rotting animal entrails in the oven. Which led to Ms. Hudson finding him sitting on the kitchen floor, staring off into space, feeling like someone had reached into his chest and pulled out his heart with bare hands.

And finally, when it seemed it couldn't get worse, the man had showed up on the doorstep, a knife stuck in his chest. He had glanced at John, grinned slightly, and asked, "is Sherlock home?" Before promptly collapsing into John's arms.

John had dragged him to his flat and put him on the couch. He knew that he should have brought the man to the hospital, but he had two reasons not to;

1. He knew Sherlock, which could be important. If he went to the hospital, John might never see him again.

2. John found it difficult to return to the hospital after Sherlock had jumped.

And so, John had stitched up the stab wound and wrapped it in a clean white bandage. And left him on the couch to sleep. Or die. Possibly both. John really couldn't care less. Okay, that was a lie, John did care and hoped that he wouldn't die, especially on his couch.

By the time the man awoke, John had made two cups of tea, one cup of coffee, and explained to Ms. Hudson why there was blood all over the flat and that, no, the gold haired man was not his boyfriend, he didn't know him, and he had no idea where he had come from.

He woke quickly, launching himself off the couch and whipping around, before zeroing in on John, who was standing in the doorway holding his third cup of tea.

"Who are you, what are you, and where the hell is Sherlock?" He demanded.

John looked at him, frowning, what kind of person asks what you are, was he not human or something? "I'm John, John Watson."

The golden haired man shook his head, "I don't care, Watson, where is Sherlock." He snapped, then, seemingly as an afterthought, added, "and why do I have stitches in my chest?"

John opened and closed his mouth several times, before saying, "you were stabbed..."

"Then why didn't Sherlock fix it?" He demanded.

"I'm a doctor." John snapped.

The man huffed, "Whatever, where is Sherlock?"

John shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to say.

The man walked up to John, looking rather intimidating. As if he had a higher power backing him up. "Watson, where is Sherlock?"

John swallowed uncomfortably, looking into the surprisingly golden eyes of the stranger.

"He's dead. Sherlock Holmes is dead."

It took the stranger a full minute to absorb the information. He then slowly turned to John.

"Who stabbed him?" He demanded.

John shook his head, "he killed himself."

"He stabbed himself, the idiot." The man muttered.

"No! He jumped off a building." John snapped, "you can't just barge in here and demand me to tell you where my best friend is, he's dead, dammit. He's dead."

The man seemed to consider this, before shrugging and saying, "Gabriel, my name is Gabriel. Sherlock is my brother."

John dropped his teacup. It shattered on the floor, pieces falling everywhere, spattering the floor and walls with splashes of tea.

"You're his BROTHER?" John yelled the last word, making Gabriel lean away from him.

"Yes, and your breath smells awful." Gabriel said, making a face.

John looked at him, blinking slowly, "I tell you your brother is dead, and you comment on my breath?"

Gabriel rolled his eyes, "he's not dead, idiot," Gabriel looked over John's shoulder, smirking. "He's standing right behind you."

John spun around and found himself staring into the blue-green eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock swallowed, "look, John, I…" he stopped, frowning slightly, "I'm sorry, John, its just that… I needed to-" he was cut off as Gabriel held up a hand, motioning him to stop talking. "We'll have time for talking later, right now, I need your help."

Sherlock looked at him suspiciously, "what kind of help? Furthermore, what makes you think I will help you?"

Gabriel grinned like the Cheshire cat, "I taught you everything you know, Sherlock, I was the one who cleaned up the mess you and Mycroft left behind, and finished Castiel's instruction, when you decided to ditch."

Sherlock glowered, his eyes seeing to glow with anger, "I did not wish to abandon Castiel, Michael and Naomi were becoming suspicious of my teachings and my so called 'rebellious nature', I left to protect him."

"You abandoned him!" Gabriel snarled "To do what? Become a 'consulting detective?' Save people?"

"At least I still protected them, unlike you, I was still doing our job, the job our Father gave to us, that you seemed to have forgotten, Loki."

Thunder crashed outside, rain battering the windows. Gabriel's glare turned murderous.

"Do not speak to me of loyalty, Sherlock. You are a warrior, one of the generals, trained by the archangels. You are an ANGEL, not some pathetic human. You are stronger than the gods of Olympus, Asgard and Rome combined, not a little human detective, running around with a little cockroach, solving crimes in dads Petri dish."

Lightning lit up the flat, illuminating a pair of dark wings behind Sherlock, filling the flat with shadows.

"Do not insult John, he is one of the best humans this pathetic planet has to offer."

"Do not forget who I am. I can destroy your very being with my blade, do not forget that I taught you everything YOU know, but not everything I know."

"I- Fine. What is it that you need, mentor? " Sherlock hissed.

Gabriel sighed, "Look Sherlock, I don't mean to intrude, but I really need your help, its Castiel, he needs help, so do the Winchesters, its important to me, just like your friend and life here." Gabriel looked like he wanted to say more, but John interrupted.

"Um, if you don't mind me asking, what exactly are you guys?" he asked faintly.

Gabriel turned to him, "allow me to formally introduce myself, I am Gabriel, archangel of the lord, messenger of god, and so on."

"Oh. Okay." John whispered.

Sherlock cleared his through, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, only Mycroft knows, and that's because he is also one of us. I meant to tell you, it's just, difficult to explain."

Gabriel sighed, shaking his head. "How you manage to deal with a human for any amount of time is beyond me." He muttered.

Sherlock turned to him, gaze stony, "well, Gabriel, what do you need."

Gabriel smiled, "I knew you'd come around."

"Whatever." Sherlock muttered.

"I need you and your little human-"

"His name is John." Sherlock interrupted.

"John, to come with me to America to wake up a comatose vessel."

Sherlock frowned a him, looking mildly confused, "whose vessel, why is he comatose, and why me?"

Gabriel looked at Sherlock with a look of pure exasperation. "He tried to complete the trials to close hell, didn't go over to well, and Mycroft pisses me off, he's too stuck up."

Sherlock squinted at him suspiciously, "who's vessel, Gabriel."

"Lucifer." He answered.

"Wait, WHAT?" John interrupted, "you mean the devil?"

"He always was my least favorite brother." Sherlock muttered distractedly.

"Oh, he's your… brother. Of course." John squeaked, "anything else I should know?"

"Now that you mention it, yes. Moriarty was a fallen angel, he's quite dead now. Ms. Hudson was a hunter, but she quit hunting after her friend died. And, um, I think that's it… oh, right, the Baskerville hound really was a hellhound, it belonged to the king of hell, actually."

"Oh, alright." John whispered.

Gabriel grinned, "now that that's done with, lets get this show on the road!"

"Not quite yet," Sherlock said, "we need to know what were doing."

"Oh, right, well. We are going to go to the hospital, preferably before Dean does something stupid, and gain their trust, by pretending to be hunters, well, John and I will be hunters, you will be our angel. We just need to pretend you heard a call for help and Voila! Instant trust." Gabriel said cheerfully. "Shall I take John or do you want to?"

Sherlock frowned, "I think I shall take him this time, he is unaccustomed to flight." He turned to face John, placing a hand on his forehead, and said, "Do try not to vomit on me, it would be extremely unpleasant."

And with that, every thing went black.