A/N: So I wrote a thing. Post-Reichenbach for Sherlock, around Season 6 for Supernatural, and somewhere after The Angels Take Manhattan for Doctor Who.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything Sherlock or Supernatural.

„We've been through this, John," snorted Sherlock, leaning back in his armchair and putting his hands under his chin, like he always did when he was thinking. "It is not possible for people to have eyes like this. It is not possible for people to dodge a bullet—"

"Sherlock—"

"And it is definitely not possible for people to come back from the dead after they've shot themselves in the head!"

"I know…" sighed John, looking worryingly at his best friend. "But Moriarty was there, Sherlock. You saw him… We have to do something about that."

"It was some sort of a drug, obviously. Or sleep deprivation. But it was not Moriarty, John. Moriarty is dead."

"Everyone thought you were dead, too, but you came back. And you still didn't tell me how."

"It's different! And I can't tell you. Not yet, you wouldn't understand."

John just shook his head and went to the kitchen to make tea. It's been four months since Sherlock's return and the only thing he would say about the way he managed to survive the jump was that he had help and that they wouldn't understand if he told them. There was no point in arguing with him, especially when he was like that. And it was going to get worse, because John was about to tell him what exactly they were going to do about Moriarty.

"We're almost out of milk," he said, handing Sherlock the cup and sitting down in front of him.

When the detective only murmured something that sounded like "We're always out of milk, do you bathe in it?" under his breath, the doctor decided to break the news to Sherlock.

"I've called some old friends. When I was in the army… there was talk about things like that. You know, weird. Well, for want of a better word… Anyway, one of them said he knows someone who could help—"

"Help with what, John? Hallucinations? I hardly think you have to call your army friends to help with that!"

"And what if it's not hallucinations?!" the shorter man wanted to shake his friend in hope that maybe it would make him see some reason "What if there is something you—we've missed?! I don't want you to die again, Sherlock, this time for good!"

Sherlock looked surprised at John's outburst. For a few weeks after the detective's return (and this time, John did not avoid Sherlock's nose when he punched him) everyone kept asking how he did it and he refused to tell them, so after a while the questions stopped. It never occurred to Sherlock that maybe, even though he was fine, his friends might still be worried. He didn't say anything, but gestured for John to continue talking.

"If it's nothing, if it really is just a recurring hallucination, fine, we'll come back home and get on with normal… well, with our life," the doctor went on "But we have to make sure. I'll call this man and make arrangements, okay?"

"Yes, yes, fine…" grumbled Sherlock, deciding that he could do this one thing to calm John down. "Wait, come back home? Where are we going?"

"We're going to America, Sherlock."

A few hours later, after Sherlock left the apartment claiming that he had things to do before they leave, John picked a number he got from his friend. No one answered, but before he could cancel the call he heard "Leave your name, number and nightmare at the tone."

On the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, two men were packing their duffel bags into the trunk of a black car parked in front of an uncharacteristic motel somewhere in Illinois. One of them went to make sure that they didn't leave anything in their room and the other dug his phone out of his jeans pocket and turned it on. He was a bit surprised to find a message on his voicemail. Not many people had this number.

He gestured for the other man to get in the car and put the message on speaker.

"Umm, hello, this is John Watson" they heard a voice with an English accent "I have your number from a friend, Tyler Plank. He said you helped people with… unusual problems. This is going to sound really idiotic, but, umm… there's a man, with black eyes, I mean, with no whites or anything, who's following me and my friend. And the thing is… he's supposed to be dead. We'd really appreciate your help. My number is…"

"What do you think?" asked the taller man, turning to his brother.

"Looks like the guy has a demon on his ass. We should call him back and get some more info," answered the other man, starting the car and driving out of the parking lot.

"Then why aren't you doing it?"

"I'm just wondering, Sammy. When has anything good come out of us talking with English people?"

"Just give me the phone, Dean," sighed Sam with a practically audible eye roll and dialed Watson's number.

"Hi, this is Sam Winchester… You called my brother, Dean, earlier today?"

"Put it on speaker."

"Hello, yes. I hope it didn't sound too..."

"No, we're used to weird," said Sam in his comforting-people voice. "But we could use some more information. How long has this been happening?"

"About four weeks," answered John with a barely distinguishable sigh of relief. "We keep seeing him all over London—"

"Wait, London?" interrupted Dean. "Sorry to break this to you, but we're not an international company."

"Just ignore my brother, mister Watson," Sam shot his brother a warning look. "You said the man following you was dead?"

"Yes, he shot himself four months ago. Shot himself in the head, there's no way he could have survived. And we obviously don't expect you to travel to London. If you'd be willing to help, we'll come to America."

Sam turned off the speaker. He preferred to avoid Dean's involvement in explaining to Watson what exactly was after him and his friend and making arrangements. The younger Winchester was surprised at how well John handled the news that there was a demon out there who specifically wanted to kill them.

Usually people thought that he and his brother were either some religious extremists of insane serial killers. Or both. Sam had to admit that Watson's relatively calm reaction was a welcome change, but it also made him wonder what did the man experience that being hunted by a demon didn't frighten him all that much.

Sam and John agreed to meet in three days in a motel near the Detroit international airport. The Winchesters were heading that way for a simple salt-and-burn not far from the city and decided to hang around a while longer to wait for Watson and the man he kept describing only as "his friend".