Just to clear up, this is a superwholock, not just a wholock - I'm just too dumb to work out how to do more than two crossovers in the selection thing - is that even possible? Anyway, just to let you know that this is indeed a superwholock fic :)

"Suicide?" Dean called from across the roof, glancing over the edge.

"Yeah, some detective guy." Sam replied vaguely, waving a hand as he rifled through the newspaper reporting the story.

"And there was no note?"

"There was a phone call, but it's not mentioned a lot."

Dean pushed away from the edge and approached his brother, leaning over his shoulder to read the article. Skimming over the page, his brow furrowed and he looked up at Sam.

"Who's John Watson?" he asked apprehensively, jabbing a finger at the dark ink-print of his name on the paper.

"They worked together, I think. He was the last person this guy spoke to before he jumped. Uh, he was the one who took the phone call." Sam sighed, and closed the newspaper irately. "Seriously, there is nothing strange about this. This Sherlock Holmes guy lied about who he was and then killed himself when he got found out, that's it. Why are we doing this?"

Dean let out an exasperated breath and ran a hand through his hair. "Believe me, I know. Look, the Doctor wanted us to do this. You saw how upset Rose was and you can't tell me the Doctor was alright, Sammy, I know you could see it. We'll do this for them, okay?"

Sam nodded and muttered a bitter agreement, swivelling around to glance at the grey-haired detective inspector who was watching them from the doorframe intently. "Can we talk to this Watson guy?" he asked as they approached.

"No." He said bluntly, leaning against the doorframe.

"Excuse me?" Sam tried, hoping he'd misheard.

He folded his arms across his chest and looked them up and down. "No, you cannot talk to John Watson."

Dean coughed slightly. "Look, Detective, we really just-"

"No, you look. John's been through enough these last few months. Too much. I'm not letting you two interrogate him." He said pointedly, not once breaking eye contact.

They looked from each other back to him. "Listen, buddy, we're trying to help with all the mess this guy left behind-"

"Sherlock Holmes was a good man, don't you dare insult him in front of me!" he yelled, standing up straighter. "Now, God knows why Donovan let you up here in the first place, but I think it's high time you left."

Sam opened his mouth to try and placate him, but Dean cut in, aggravated by his harsh words and commanding tone. "Hey – we're investigating this ridiculous case as a favour to a friend! We flew all the way over here in a damn ti-" Sam elbowed him sharply before he could get out the words 'time machine'. Dean just scoffed, continuing relentlessly. "Whatever! Point is, we don't want to do this same as you, so stay out of our way and we won't bother you."

"Dean," Sam muttered under his breath; a low warning.

"You are testing my patience, the both of you." The detective growled through his teeth. "Now you can get down through the door or I'll push you off the fucking ledge myself."

Seeing the look in his eyes, Sam didn't doubt it. He nudged Dean's arm and cleared his throat. Once again, his brother was staring at some man and completely forgetting he existed. "Of course, we're sorry, detective … Lestrade," he tilted his head to read the name on the badge in his hand.

Dean was reluctant, but Sam moved without him, and he wasn't staying up there alone. Lestrade nodded, still keeping his gaze locked on Dean as they walked past him and down the stairwell. He turned to look across the rooftop, turning back after only a few seconds, swallowing down the rising lump in his throat as he walked away.

The coat was a comfort, a reminder, something solid and real that wouldn't let him forget Sherlock existed. John was grateful for that. He pulled it tighter around himself and turned up the collar to hide his tear-stained face. He did that a lot – buried himself in the heavy fabric and pretended nothing existed outside of it. There was the soft click of a door opening and closing, and he pulled the coat away from his face for a moment, and huffing a gentle sigh of relief at the sight of Mrs Hudson shuffling in. He offered her a weak smile, and she returned it, walking over to where he was curled. She extended the mug she held, and brushed a hair from his forehead. He thanked her softly and she smiled gently, perching on the arm of the sofa.

"Still not your housekeeper," she murmured, managing to get a little smile out of him. Mrs Hudson was one of the few things keeping him sane. She'd bring him cups of tea when he got like this and when he was in the right mood; she would talk on and on about anything and everything until he almost forgot.

Almost.

The doorbell pulled him out of his thoughts. Mrs Hudson frowned, confusion clouding over her features as she stood up.

"Were you expecting someone today?" she asked nervously, nearing the door.

John shook his head, tightening his grip on the mug in his hands. He was never expecting anyone.

Again he heard the click of the door opening, and the voices that followed were perhaps the most confusing thing he'd heard all day. American accents – something about the FBI and being sent to investigate the death of Sherlock Holmes and may they speak to John Watson?

He felt the colour drain from his face and he began to shake, the tea in his mug almost spilling everywhere – he sipped at it to try and reduce the risk of scalding himself. And then they were stood over him, Mrs Hudson behind them was utterly dwarfed their height, and his curled up figure even more so. He felt ten times smaller than he was already feeling and tried not to gape at the human trees stood over him.

"Mr Watson," the shorter of the two began and they both pulled out an FBI badge, barely giving him time to acknowledge them before stuffing them back in their pockets, "we're here to ask you a few questions about Sherlock Holmes." He felt his mouth drop open, and he set the mug of tea down beside him before sending Mrs Hudson a help me look. She looked between them – seemingly torn as she considered the badges they'd shown her the moment they'd appeared and pushed into 221B without a word from her.

"I'm sorry boys, but he's really not up for talking about that," she decided softly.

"We understand that, miss, but this is urgent and we're going to have to make an exception." John was shaking like a leaf, and Mrs Hudson seemed just as nervous. Searching for an excuse to get out of the way, she mumbled, "I'll put the kettle on," and scurried off.

"Do you mind if we sit?" John heard dimly, and every inch of him yelled yeah, you can sit on the pavement outside. But his mouth couldn't find the words and found himself mouthing silently like a confused goldfish. They didn't pay him any mind and sat down anyway. He tightened his grip on the coat.

"We'd like to ask about the relationship between you and Mr Holmes."

John swallowed hard.

"You lived together, is that correct?"

He nodded dumbly, too shocked to do anything else but reach for the tea again.

"Were you romantically involved?"

He spluttered around the tea in a surprised choke. Jesus Christ, that was upfront! How could they ask such serious questions so quickly and nonchalantly? "We-we were just… just flatmates- I-I really don't-"

"Thank you, next question." The older of the two seemed bored with the whole situation and rolled his eyes as he spoke. For some reason, it pissed John off. He didn't want them here, asking him these uncomfortable questions. He had no right to be so snippy.

"Can you please tell us about the phone call Mr Holmes left you before he jumped?" John coughed and swallowed around the rising lump in his throat.

"No," he blinked furiously to try and banish the hot tears that threatened to fall, "I don't- I don't want to talk about that- ca-can you leave, please?"

"Mr, Watson, we just-"

"Just get out!"

John was shaking, afraid and cold. Mrs Hudson had appeared with concern on her face and as the two men left quietly, John felt even more alone than he had since Sherlock had left him.