AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was inspired by a GIF set created by Tumblr user vanehwasreal, so all credit where credit is due. I merely expanded her premise into a full storyline. This is my first story on here; I hope you enjoy it. Updates every Monday. (Reposted due to some errors in the first chapter.)
London, England—12:35 PM
Sherlock Holmes bent low to examine the body. Behind him, John Watson watched with a look of casual interest.
Someone tall and brown-haired appeared in the doorway to Sherlock's left, pulling off a pair of recently sterile gloves. He gestured to the corpse in question. "Uni kid, if you ask me. Got drunk with some buddies, maybe they had an argument—"
"Do shut up, Anderson," muttered Sherlock. "Speech wastes oxygen. The more air you breathe, the less I can use to do something useful." Behind him, John sniggered.
Anderson sneered at the detective. "I'll plant a tree later, if you want. Just hurry it up, will you? You might be useful, but I still want you gone as soon as possible."
"John, get him out of here, please. The ignorance is suffocating."
John nodded, turning to Anderson. "Er, I think you'd better give him some space," he said, though the trace of a smile still curved his lips. "Sherlock works best alone."
"He's not alone if he's with you, is he?"
John shrugged. It was true, but John knew by now that in Sherlock Holmes' mind, his company wasn't the same as that of other people. "Just—space? Please?"
For a moment, it seemed that Anderson would protest. But eventually he turned and was gone, calling a nasal "Five minutes!" over his shoulder. John shut the door behind him and came back to the body, kneeling for a closer look.
"Well, John? What do you make of it?" Sherlock's voice carried that hint of amusement it always had when he asked John to make a deduction.
John frowned. He glanced up at his friend, but Sherlock's expectant eyes did nothing to ease his mind. "You know I'm no good at this, Sherlock."
"On the contrary. I find your observations to be of great use to me. Now, concentrate. What do you see?"
Recognizing that he would lose this argument, John sighed and did as he was told, planting his gaze firmly on the corpse. It was the body of a young man with long brown hair, lying on his stomach. He wore plain enough clothes—a plaid shirt layered beneath a tan jacket, with sensible jeans and trainers. But the plainness of the rest of him only made the cause of death more gruesome in comparison.
Stab wounds perforated his back. The blood oozing from them put in John's mind the morbid thought of a cherry pie, with filling showing between slits in the crust. He tried quickly to shake off that particular association. A knife—quite a large one, from what the army doctor could guess—had sliced through the layers of clothing and plunged deep into the man's torso in half a dozen places.
Blood polished the wood floor in a neat pattern around the body. The edges of the pool reached out, half-congealed liquid rounding at the edges and almost-spilling to the next millimeter of oak.
Reaching out a steady hand, John felt several points on the man—his neck, his wrist, the opening to one of the wounds. Then he cleared his throat.
"Those stab wounds are at least three centimeters thick, most of them probably more. They were made by a common hunting knife, so no real way to trace the murder weapon. Cause of death was most likely blood loss or a punctured lung. He's young, maybe mid-twenties, though I'd have to get a closer look to be sure." The body's face was hidden behind a thick curtain of hair.
"Lestrade said the landlord found him this morning," continued John. "He wasn't a boarder—the whole building's empty. Nobody heard anything, except a neighbor across the way. Said she saw a big flash of light around ten o'clock last night. They're dusting for prints, but Greg isn't too hopeful on that one. It's too clean—no ID, no cell phone, nothing useful. At a guess, I'd say an angry family member thought they'd take him to a quiet building and boot him off. Took his ID so he'd be harder to identify and probably skipped the country by now."
Sherlock held one of the man's hands, flipped it over, studied the long fingers.
"Well?" asked John. "How'd I do?"
"About as capable as always, John," replied Sherlock. "That is to say, while you did miss almost every crucial detail apart from the completely obvious, it was a fine effort. Oh, don't be that way," he said, noticing John's scowl. "Sulking never solved a case."
"Then explain what I missed, Sherlock," said John. "Who was this man? Why's he here? Do you have any ideas at all?"
"Five so far. But let me get a glimpse at the face before I say anything more."
The head was face down, nose pressing into the floor—or, at least, John assumed it was, given that the hair prevented any kind of view. Sherlock scooted closer and lowered his torso so that his nose very nearly brushed the dead man's hair. John smirked as it occurred to him that Sherlock Holmes was perhaps the only person in the world who could be truly comfortable in such a position.
As he nudged the brown locks out of the way, John saw his friend's analytical eyes widen just a fraction.
It was enough to alert John that something was wrong. He felt his heart rate speed up, accompanied by that sense of vaguely giddy anticipation that always unsettled him. "Sherlock?" he asked. He couldn't see what the detective saw—he was on the other side of the body—but something about it was capable of surprising Sherlock Holmes, and that usually meant trouble was coming. "Sherlock, what is it?"
Sherlock's jaw clenched. Worry tightened his mouth. "John." The word was almost conversational, but John could hear the edge in it. "You need to see this."
As John hurried to his side, Sherlock leaned back into a crouching position, his mind already elsewhere, racing, calculating. John hadn't seen him this excited in months. This man, whatever his identity, was the beginning of something big.
John knelt just beyond the pool of blood and pushed aside the hair that his friend had let fall back into place. His hand revealed a domed forehead, sharp nose, and narrow eyes.
John knew this face.
It was the face of Sam Winchester.
Clovis, New Mexico—7:00 AM
Dean Winchester woke up to the sound of his cell phone playing "God Save the Queen", which was not the way he usually liked to begin his day. Demon slaying, maybe. Pig 'n a Poke, sure. Patriotic English tunes, absolutely not.
Still, this was the ring tone of an old friend, so Dean let his ruined morning slide for the time being. He groped on the nightstand for the phone and, upon finding it, hit the ACCEPT button and jammed it to his ear.
"This is Dean."
"Dean! Oh, thank God, you're okay."
"Watson." Dean would have smiled, but John Watson wasn't the type to make social calls. "Why wouldn't I be? Apart from the usual."
Watson's voice echoed as it was bounced around satellites and beamed to Dean's phone. "Dean, we need you out here. Now."
"What, London?" Dean scratched his head, yawning. "Why? What's going on? You know, I don't really do the whole transatlantic thing."
A sigh emanated from the other end of the line. "Dean, it's—it's Sam."
Dean sat up, throwing off the bed covers, instantly alert. He threw his gaze around the room.
The bed next to his was empty. So was the rest of the room.
On the table, Sam's laptop sat open and humming. His bag was at the foot of his bed, where he had dropped it before crawling on top of the sheets when they had gotten back to their motel the night before. Everything seemed normal, but it wasn't like Sam to leave without letting Dean know. Not since Ruby.
Dean slid off of his mattress and crept softly to the bathroom. "Watson? What about Sam?"
The light in the bathroom was off. Still, Dean pushed open the door. Nothing. Sam was gone.
Dean's stomach felt kicked in all of a sudden. "Sam?" He yelled again, louder. "Sammy?"
Watson was talking on the other end. "Dean, we found a body here. In an empty apartment. Dean, it's..." His voice trailed off for a moment, but he cleared his throat and continued. "It's Sam's body."
It was so hard to breathe. Why was it so hard to breathe all of a sudden? Dean struggled for air, but it wouldn't come. Watson was saying something, but all Dean could hear was an underwater, staticky kind of noise. It was like he was watching himself on television: he saw himself lean against a wall and sink to the floor, saw the slack-jawed horror on his own face, but he wasn't a part of it. It wasn't him.
Sam, dead. Again. This couldn't be happening. Not again. Oh, God, please, not Sam. Why does it have to be us? Why does it always have to be us?
How did he get to London in the first place?
That was a thought. Dean repositioned the phone in his hand. "Watson," he croaked. His throat was dry.
"Yeah?"
"Why is Sam in England? He was here last night, he was right—" Dean's voice broke, and he stopped talking before he broke down completely. His mind still raced. Not again. Not Sammy. Take me. Take me instead.
Possibilities swam through his mind: he'd summon a crossroads demon, see if Crowley would take yet another deal from a Winchester. If that didn't work, maybe Cas could pull some strings, or Bobby could find some kind of spell—
Someone knocked on the motel room door.
"...know, Dean," Watson was saying. "But it's him, it's definitely him, I saw the body myself...Dean? Are you still there?"
"Yeah. I gotta call you back," said Dean. He hung up and stared at the door, puzzled. Who was knocking? No one knew they were staying here.
The knock came again, louder, more persistent. Dean struggled to his feet and walked over on shaking knees, ignoring the fact that he was still in his boxers. Somehow that didn't matter just now.
He steadied himself on the cool wood of the door, looked through the peephole, and nearly went into cardiac arrest right then and there.
"Dean! You gonna let me in?" It was Sam, grocery bags in hand. "I, uh, locked myself out by mistake. Come on, I know you're not in the shower yet."
Dean struggled to speak. "Yeah, just a minute," he called, hurrying back to the bags stashed beneath his bed. "Just give me a sec, I was still asleep."
The holy water was in a side pocket of his backpack, various knives in the main compartment. Dean grabbed a couple of choice blades and unscrewed the cap on the water, then crept back to the door. He undid the first lock and then the second. The bottle was shaking in his hand. Could he do it? Could he kill something that looked like his brother?
He didn't give himself a chance to answer.
Before Sam could do anything, Dean flung open the door and poured the entire bottle of holy water over his head. Neither of them spoke; the glug-glug-glug of the bottle was the only sound in the place. Sam's mouth opened in surprise, and his eyes screwed shut. Dean gritted his teeth, waiting for the other man to scream and writhe.
But when the bottle was completely empty, there was still no reaction from Sam other than that first shocked-looking expression. After the last glugs had died out, the two men kept standing there, facing each other.
Dean glared. Sam dripped.
"Uh...is there something you want to tell me?" asked Sam, smirking a little.
Dean punched him in the face. The latter man recoiled, one hand over a cheekbone, surprise quickly turning to self-defense. The grocery bags fell as he ducked under Dean's arms and charged, knocking Dean backward onto the floor of the motel room. As Sam tried to reposition himself, Dean kicked upward into Sam's stomach. The breath left Sam's body in a whoof. Within seconds, Dean had gained the upper hand, straddling Sam's torso and pressing a silver knife to Sam's throat.
"I don't know what you are or what you want," growled the elder Winchester, "but the gig's up. A friend of mine found the body."
Sam struggled and bucked under his brother's weight, but it was no use. "What body? Dean, what's going on?"
"Sam's body!" roared Dean. "My little brother! And guess what, pal, you are gonna pay."
The knife opened a tiny cut in Sam's neck. A small trail of blood ran down around his neck and into the back of his shirt.
"So what are you?" Dean hissed. A fleck of saliva landed on Sam's cheek. "Demon? Shape shifter?"
"Dean," Sam pleaded, "I'm Sam. I'm your brother. It's me, honestly. Look, if I was a demon—I'm covered in holy water right now. I should be in agony, but I'm not." There was real fear in his eyes. But what was he scared of? Being killed by his brother? Or being found out for what he was?
"It didn't work on my dad, either," dismissed Dean. "I'm sure plenty of you S-O-Bs can resist holy water. It doesn't matter. I've got lots of other neat tricks I can use. But I'll let you live if you tell me what's going on in London."
"I am Sam!" insisted the other man. "You have to believe me! Dean, I am right here."
Dean's defenses broke down as he glared down at his brother. He couldn't go through with this. He never was strong enough to choose himself over Sam. Anyway, what if it really was him? What if London was a trick?
"How am I supposed to trust you?" spat Dean.
"You want proof? Fine." Sam closed his eyes. "Hey, Castiel. Dean's kind of about to kill me, you gotta help me out. Come on, Cas."
There was a heartbeat of silence from above, perhaps two. Then:
"I'm here." The voice, impossibly deep, came from the back of the room. Dean looked up to see the trenchcoat-clad angel standing as if he had always been there.
Sam craned his neck to address the angel. "You can see demons, right? Am I possessed?"
Cas studied Sam for a tense moment. Silence dominated. Dean was hyper-aware of Sam breathing underneath him, of the blood pounding in his own ears. If he's a fake, I'll kill him. I will. I can do this.
I hope I'm strong enough to do this.
Then the moment passed, and Cas looked at Dean. "Whatever was the cause of your argument, Sam is not a demon."
"Could still be a shapeshifter," muttered Dean, pressing the silver knife closer to Sam's throat.
"You've already cut me, Dean." sighed Sam. "If I was a shifter, I'd be freaking out right about now. I'm not. So you can get off me."
Dean wasn't satisfied. "Cas. Is there any way to be sure?"
"There is one thing." Cas looked from brother to brother, as if considering the possibilities of what could have happened here. "The Enochian sigils with which I branded you two. They hide you from me, and they can't be replicated. If Sam were not himself, I would be able to sense the presence of a being in that spot. I sense no such thing now, and certainly not any creature."
Dean and Cas locked eyes for what seemed like ages. Finally, Dean nodded, flicking his gaze down to Sam. "Okay. Fine."
He released his grip, and Sam stood up, rubbing at the nick on his neck.
Sam straightened his shirt and looked around at them both. "Now will you tell me what the hell is going on?"
"Yes," added Cas, "I'd like to know what had you two at each other's throats. Again."
"You'll be the first. Just as soon as I know myself," said Dean, who was already reaching for his phone.
The TARDIS—time unknown
Rose Tyler's phone rang just as the Doctor was beginning to land. The caller ID read DEAN, or at least it would if the TARDIS had stopped shaking long enough for her to focus on the readout. "Can you quiet it down a second, Doctor?" she yelled. "I've got a call!"
"Sorry, Rose," the Doctor replied. "I'm taking her around the Middle Ages and you know how bumpy those can be. Got to keep an eye on it—woah!" The TARDIS lurched as he frantically pulled levers and spun dials. "Easy there, girl!"
Rose tried not to hit herself on the mouth with the camera phone as the ship continued its turbulent descent. She held on to the console and pressed the speaker to her ear. "Yeah?" she yelled.
"Rose?"
"In the flesh!"
"It's Dean." said the man on the other end. "Dean Winchester. Is he there?"
Rose glanced over at the Doctor, who was still concentrated on not crashing his ship. "Just a bit busy at the moment, can I take a message?"
The Doctor heard that. He looked up at his companion and grinned for half a second before the TARDIS gave another painful lurch.
Dean continued, unaware of the condition his friends were in. "There's something weird going on—we wondered if you could drop by for a visit. Just to check something out. It's probably nothing, but we figure we're better off safe than sorry."
"Sure! Where d'you need us? And when?" asked Rose.
Dean gave the date. "We'll be in London, I think. Sherlock's place. You remember where it is?"
"Sure do. Great flat. Mrs. Hudson's got the best biscuits."
"Yeah, well, meet us there tomorrow morning, all right?"
There was something strange in his tone, but then again the Winchesters never called just to chat. "Dean, what is it?"
"Something weird, Rose. And I don't think it's demons. Just—get here, okay?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Winchester." Rose saluted even though Dean couldn't see her. "We'll be there."
She signed off and hung up just as the ship vworp'd to a halt. "See?" said the Doctor proudly, patting one of the pillars that ringed the console. "It's all in the wrist."
"You'll have to teach me sometime," giggled Rose.
"Yes," continued the Doctor, "but right now, outside those doors, are the Nineteen Waterfalls of the Casagouli. Never before seen by human eyes."
He reached for his coat, but Rose put out a hand to stop him. "Doctor, wait. We have to go to London." His eyes met hers. They questioned. "Dean Winchester. That's who was calling. He needs our help."
"Dean Winchester? Then why are we going to London?" asked the Doctor. "I thought the hunter boys were strictly American."
"They are," agreed Rose, "which is how we know there's something very wrong."
The Time Lord grinned, running a hand through his hair. "Well, in that case, we'd better hurry," he said. "Don't want to miss all the fun." And then he turned on the spot and raced back to the console, flipping the TARDIS into overdrive. Rose whooped as they took off once more, flying through the vortex toward London and whatever terror lay within.