(A/N – hey again. I managed to get this chapter written a lot earlier than I expected, so I'm quite happy. Apologies in advance, as it's just setting up the plot for now, but I promise the next chapter will have a lot more drama in it. Big, big thanks to my friends on Tumblr, as well as everyone who reviewed my first chapter. I don't own any of the right to these characters, they belong to the creators of Supernatural, Sherlock and Doctor Who. Enjoy!)

"I freakin' hate planes . . ."

Dean Winchester looked around the airport, searching through the endless assembly of tourists, businessmen and families, scanning for any sign of John Watson.

So far, he and Sam had been sat waiting for John for a good three hours. Dean, who had a natural aversion to flying, automatically suspected the worst. The plane has, without a doubt, been hijacked by some soul-sucking demonic parasite and everyone died in a horrible, bloody massacre. Despite Dean's best attempts to convince him, Sam seriously doubted it. Although, with John's plane this late, it was difficult not to worry. Especially under the circumstances which brought him here.

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and glanced at his wrist watch. "Just after eight," he commented, watching as Dean jumped out of his seat and began to pace. "We'll give it one more hour, and then . . . I don't know what we'll do."

"We shouldn't have mentioned his friend, this Sherlock guy. I bet we scared him off. He doesn't want to have to face . . . . whatever the hell happened between them. What did happen, anyway? He never mentioned –"

"Never mentioned what?"

Dean spun around, startled, relieved and a bit confused, and then began to clap. Slow, loud, and furious.

"You took your time, didn't you?" he said sarcastically. "Nice job, Doc."

John Watson flashed Dean a dry smirk, and then proceeded to embrace the two brothers in an awkward, uncomfortable way. Neither of the men were fond of hugs.

"So, no ghostly encounters on the plane trip, then?" Sam asked.

"No such luck I'm afraid. One of the passengers had some sort of fit, and we had to make an emergency landing." John explained, lacking the enthusiasm he should have for a story as exciting as this.

Dean raised an eyebrows, and folded his arms across his chest. "That's weird. Do you know what happened?"

John let out a sigh. "Absolutely no idea. I thought maybe it was some sort of allergic reaction, due to the swelling and the fever, but . . . I can't explain it."

The three men shared with each other a knowing look. To them – or, at least, to the Winchesters – nothing was ever a coincidence, and definitely not at a time like this.

"Uh, well . . . I guess we should probably get outta here, then. John, how much luggage do you have?" Sam enquired.

John looked down at the floor, and then back up to Sam. "None. I didn't bring any. I can get some stuff if I need it. Come on. Let's go."

Once in the car, nobody spoke. John had taken to staring aimlessly out the window, and Dean was preoccupied with the diving - although Sam had a feeling he was also envisioning one of the female baggage scanners they had ran into on the way out.

Sam had his own thoughts to attend to, but most of them had to do with John's flight. He knew that delayed flights were perfectly normal in today's world, but he couldn't quite shake the vibe he got whenever he thought of it. There was something too coincidental about it. He knew John and Dean felt the same way, but not as he did. It seemed that, to Sam, they had just dismissed it completely, as if it wasn't of any importance.

Was it important? Whenever these things happened to the brothers, it usually tied in somewhere with a case they were working on, and a place they were visiting. Maybe it was paranoia, but Sam just had a feeling that this connected with the Doctor, whoever he was, and the attacks.

He was just about to fall asleep, when John's voice, soft and hushed, brought him back to reality.

"Do you think he did it? The Doctor – I mean. Do you think it was the Doctor who killed all those people?"

Sam sighed. He could tell from his tone that John resented the idea, but he had to admit, there wasn't much else to go on.

"I don't know. I don't want to rule anything out," Sam turned in his seat to look at John. "How do you know of him, anyway? Have you seen him?"

He shook his head. "I haven't – but my friend has. Her name's Martha. Martha Jones. Brilliant doctor, she is. I've only worked with her a couple times, but we meet up quite often for a drink. She's lovely, really."

Sam smiled patiently. "Okay, but how do you know she isn't just making it up?"

John laughed humorously, his smile fading almost as soon as it appeared. "I knew you'd say that. But Martha; no, she's not crazy, and she's not one to lie. She's too kind. And either way, why would she make up something like that?"

Sam made no effort to reply, so he continued. "She's mature for her age – wise, compassionate. She . . . she sees the world in a way we don't. I asked her about it once, at the pub. She didn't say anything. Not for a long time. And then she started to open up. She said she once met a man – the Doctor – and he took her away to have adventures in a Police Telephone box from the 60's. She said he was a . . . a Time Lord, and the kindest man she ever knew, and that he saved the world more times than we could possibly understand. I probably would have thought she was insane, too, except I'd heard similar stories all around London. Just talk, you know; a man, in a box, saving the world. I never really believed it, actually. Until I saw . . . that thing . . . in the house with you and your brother that night. And I suppose now I'll believe anything."

Sam nodded thoughtfully, and Dean said nothing. He didn't want to upset John by saying something stupid. He respected the guy's blind faith in this Martha girl, but he knew that when it comes down to it, some second-hand account of the event was not going to cut it. He needed some hard, unbending evidence for him to even consider the idea that the Doctor wasn't involved in this.

"Uh, I don't know if you're up for it, man, but I was wondering . . . who's Sherlock?" Dean asked suddenly.

Even in the middle of the night, surrounded by darkness, it was obvious that John had gone pale. Dean's heart lurched for a moment, thinking he might be sick. But John managed to compose himself, although not enough to force a smile.

"Sherlock . . . um . . . my friend. My best friend, actually. Best friend, flatmate, co-worker; I . . . yeah. He was great. I mean, he was an arrogant prick, but he was . . . he was a genius. Literally. I mean, he could tell your whole life story from one quick glance. And that's the truth, no matter what he, or anyone else says." John pursed his lips tightly, as if to contain a sob. He gave a short, sharp nod, not unlike that of a soldier. It was obvious to Sam that he didn't want to continue the conversation, but Dean, who was still focused on driving, persisted.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked curiously. "'What others say'? What are they saying? What happened?"

John made a strange choking noise and cleared his throat. For a minute, Sam thought he saw tears in the doctor's eyes, but they disappeared before he could think about it.

"He . . . he . . ." John took a deep, shuddering breath. "Jumped. Of St. Bart's. I thought you'd have heard. Everyone . . . they're all talking about it. About him. Being a fraud. They say he faked everything, and paid people to help him. He told me himself, actually. Over the phone. Said he was a fake and it was all a trick, right before he . . . died. Except, I know him, and I know his heart. He was more real than anybody I've ever known."

There was a long, painful silence. Dean gripped the steering wheel tightly, cursing himself for even bringing it up. Sam was thinking deeply.

Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. "Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes! I heard about him! Over the radio. It was only brief, but I remember they were talking about him. They said he payed some actor – Richard Brook? – to pretend to be a criminal mastermind or something. Who did he play?"

"Moriarty," John whispered. "And it wasn't an act. Moriarty was real. I know he was. He has to be."

Sam and dean shared a look, and it was as if they could read each others minds. Of course Moriarty wasn't real. 'Criminal masterminds' hardly ever existed, and if they did, nobody would know about them, because they'd be smart enough not to get caught. Sam felt a sharp stab of pity his friend; the poor, confused war veteran, who had obviously been used, played and deceived by someone he'd believed to be a friend. And now he was suffering, because said 'friend' was gone. Or was he?

Sam hoped that the man the little girl had described was the guy John was talking about. He hoped Sherlock was alive, and travelling with the Doctor. Sam made a mental note to find this guy, and kill him for hurting John the way he did.

Even in the darkness, the light of the moon perfectly revealed where they were. Somewhere in South Carolina, on an empty highway lodged between to vast corn fields. The setting was peaceful, silent. Sam shut his eyes, relaxing his body, trying to get a least an hour's worth of sleep. Murmuring a quick goodnight, he rolled over and cleared his mind.

Vworp, vworp, vworp

His eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright in his seat. Dean narrowed his eyes.

"What. The hell. Was that."

Vworp, vworp, vworp

"Dean, pull over." Said John quietly.

"Why? What is it?" he demaneded.

Vworp, vworp, vworp.

"Just do it!" John ordered. Dean stomped on the breaks and the car came screaming to a halt.

Just seconds before a huge, blue police box came flying past.

(A/N – I know, it's a horrible cliffhanger! I wasn't sure how to go about the idea in my head, so it really, really sucks. But oh well. Thank you so much for reading! If you could leave a review with some tips, I'd appreciate it so much! Thank you!)