Hey guys! It's that time! I thought in honor of Sherlock airing in the U.S. tonight (Even though I've already seen it thanks to various people online) that I'd post the first chapter! Please enjoy it, and if you're one of the few who haven't seen Sherlock, it is unbelievable and also everyone dies.

Chapter 1

Dean Winchester rubbed his forehead tiredly. Beside him, Sam Winchester was checking the last remaining room in the house. They'd been through this already; Dean knew there wouldn't be anything. This was the fourth house that they had checked and Dean was slowly getting more and more pissed off. He wouldn't have come in this one in the first place, but Sam had insisted they at least try to get the job done. Sam walked out up to him, sighing in frustration. "Nothing," he said in annoyance.
"What'd I tell you, Sammy," Dean said, shaking his head. "This wasn't going to turn out to be anything."
"There's something going on here, Dean," Sam argued. "People don't just disappear out of one area normally."
"They probably just ran away and faked their disappearance so they could go live some double life," Dean suggested.
Sam shot him a glare. "This isn't the movies, Dean, no one does that," he said.
Dean shrugged. "Still, what else could have happened?" he asked.
Sam was silent. Despite his protesting, he really had no idea what was happening here. "They couldn't have just disappeared, Dean," he insisted.
"And I'm telling you, they probably ran off," Dean responded.
"Why would they? All the people who disappeared, they had happy lives. They weren't in such bad shape they needed to disappear," Sam pointed out.
"Maybe they wanted a little more adventure in their lives," Dean suggested, spreading his hands. "Their lives were certainly boring," he muttered under his breath.
Sam hid his smile behind his hand. No matter how hard times may get, he was always glad to have his brother with him. But they still had a problem in front of them. "What are we going to do then?" he asked Dean.
"We'll go back to the motel, start over, and if nothing comes up-" his tone indicated he was positive of that-"then we'll find a new job."
Sam frowned. "We can't just leave after promising to find the victims," he protested.
"We said we'd try, not that we would stay here until we did," Dean pointed out. He hesitated. "Look, man, I don't like it as much as you do, but there's no point in staying trying to catch something that isn't there."
Sam hesitated, but Dean knew that he had him. "Fine," he sighed. "But we still need to check this area first," he said.
Dean held up his hands in a yielding motion. "All right, then we'll skip town," he said.
They went to work, double checking every inch of the house. He didn't find anything, and judging from Sam's silence he didn't find anything either. There was a feeling of uneasiness in the pit of Dean's stomach. Despite what he said, there was something odd about this. The whole case had been weird from the start. A newspaper had been left open to the page with an article on the disappearances at their motel and naturally Sam's eye had fallen on it. Then they came to the town to investigate. It was all a bit fishy to Dean, but nothing had happened. That didn't mean his uneasiness disappeared, however.
The first three houses had been a bust. There was a very small, old, abandoned neighborhood the victims all went to before their actual disappearance. Dean and Sam had checked the other houses previously. This was there last shot at figuring out what exactly had happened and if it was their area of expertise. There wasn't much evidence in favor of that, but Sam had insisted.
And here they were, Dean reflected in slight annoyance. Searching houses on a goose chase. The case had had potential and now it just seemed like a bust. Dean shined his flashlight around what appeared to be the old living room. The furniture had long been since cleared out with the exception of a few of the larger pieces and the entire place was falling down, creaky, and dusty. One of Dean's least favorite places to be.
"You know, Sammy, I'd say this is the perfect place for a ghost," Dean called. "But ghosts don't kidnap people. Well, not like this," he said after a moment.
"Yeah, the thought crossed my mind," his brother called back. "There's usually some sort of trace for pretty much everything...this is too clean." A hint of worry underlined his words.
"I'm sure it's nothing," Dean said as reassuringly as possible.
"Dean, when has anything been nothing?" Sam called.
"Well, there have been a few cases that have turned out to be a bust," Dean said, thinking back.
"Yes, but that was before life got more complicated than it was normally," Sam pointed out.
Dean conceded his point. Perhaps they'd be lucky this one time, he thought. However, that was about as likely as all the political parties getting along without debate. "Dean," he heard Sam call.
"Yeah?" Dean called back, moving towards his brother's voice.
"Check this out," Sam's voice was coming from one of the back bedrooms.
Dean walked in, shivering slightly in the cool air. "What?" he asked.
Sam shined his light out the window. "Check it out," he said.
Dean peered out into the night. There was nothing out there in the surrounding area. Then his eye fell on what Sam was trying to get him to see. "That statue wasn't there before..." he said slowly.
"I didn't think so," Sam said, looking closer.
Dean looked away. "That is one ugly statue, even if it is an angel," he muttered. "Then again, maybe it's because it's an angel statue," he reflected on the angels they'd met.
Sam snorted quietly next to him, but otherwise didn't say anything. His gaze never left the statue, his eyes taking in every detail. Dean, however, was more than happy to look away. There was something about that statue that gave him the creeps. "Other than being used to scare the crap out of the neighborhood kids, I'm not sure how important it is," he said.
Sam didn't respond for a moment. Then he turned to Dean. "I don't know, I got a feeling that it's somehow involved," he said slowly, as if realizing as he said it how ridiculous it sounded.
Dean raised his eyebrows. "You think the statue had something to do with the disappearances," he said. "I don't know, Sam, unless it somehow was a moving statue, I'm fairly sure it had nothing to do with the disappearances."
Sam looked down, then out the window again. "Yeah, I guess you're right," he said.
Dean nodded. "Of course I'm right." Noting the frown that appeared on Sam's face, he asked: "what's wrong?"
Sam shook his head. "Nothing...it's just, I feel like it's somehow...closer."
Dean rolled his eyes. "I think it's the darkness playing tricks on you, Sam," he said, before turning and walking out into the main area of the house. A minute or two passed before he heard Sam's footsteps behind him. "So, there's nothing here," he said. "Shall we call it a night and head out? I'm starving," he added.
"Yeah, might as well," Sam said.
Dean stopped to do a quick once-over to make sure they hadn't missed anything important. Once he was satisfied, the brother turned and exited the house. "Huh," Dean said, looking over the yard.
"Hm?" Sam said, glancing over at him.
"There's more than one angel statue, look," Dean pointed. There was one angel statue in the trees ahead of them.
"What makes you think it's a different one?" Sam said, slightly teasing.
Dean glared at him. "It's in a different position," he said, his tone mocking.
Sam looked over at it. Indeed, this statue was in a different pose than the one before. This was uglier than the first; this one had its arms outstretched. Though they were far away from the statue, the hands looked like they were extended in claws. "More accurate depiction of the angels," Sam noted.
Dean chuckled in agreement. "C'mon, let's go," he said, turning towards the Impala waiting in the driveway.
Sam followed his brother, the two of them carefully moving across the front yard of the house. "As soon as we get out to the towns that are actually inhabited," Dean began. "I'll stop for some food and then we'll head back to the motel. How's that sound?"
Dean continued walking for a moment, waiting for Sam's answer. Silence. "Sam?" Dean prodded, figuring he was lost in thought. When Dean didn't get an answer, he whirled around.
No one was there. "Sam!" Dean shouted. He only heard himself shouting. Dean took a step forward, calling his brother's name again. "What the hell," he had just muttered to himself when all of a sudden the world around him vanished.

*****

John hurriedly shoved his hands in his pockets, fighting the chill that was in the air. Sherlock was walking briskly ahead of him, seemingly immune to the cold. The fact they were in the countryside with very few trees around to block the cold wind as opposed to the city didn't help. John shivered as another gust of cold air blew in. At least it wasn't raining, he reflected. Up ahead, Sherlock had reached the peak of the hill.
The wind ruffled his dark hair and his coat, giving him the appearance of being in a film during the hero shot. John huffed darkly to himself before hurrying to catch up to him. "What are we doing here, Sherlock?" he asked his best friend, repressing the urge to turn back and head for shelter.
Sherlock didn't look at him. Instead, his eyes were forward, casting his glance in the area in front of them, searching for something. John sighed impatiently, but he knew that sooner or later Sherlock would tell him. Luckily it looked as if that would be sooner rather than later. "What's going on, Sherlock?" he prodded.
Sherlock glanced at him. "Research," he said briefly.
John groaned internally. "Brilliant," he muttered. They could be here for hours while he just watched. John took a seat on a large boulder that was thankfully nearby. The wind blew again, ruffling his hair, and John felt the familiar twinge of annoyance. This wasn't the first time he'd been dragged to the middle of nowhere for "research". It won't be the last. Then John felt the annoyance fade as he watched his silent friend. Though he was frustrating as anyone John had ever met, he still was one of the people that meant the most to John, through thick and thin.
That didn't mean that he liked being out here. Perhaps if it was warmer out, or at least if the wind stopped blowing so much. John was gazing out around the surrounding area when he heard a gasp from Sherlock. John turned a questioning gaze to the consulting detective. "What..?" he began to ask.
Sherlock held up a hand and John fell silent. Then Sherlock started to run down the ledge and across the field. John leapt to his feet, muttering in exasperation under his breath. They were soon sprinting across the field, making the air even colder as it whipped past them. John squinted ahead, trying to see what had whipped Sherlock into a fuss. As far as he could tell, there wasn't anything. Then he saw it. Or rather, him.
Sam Winchester was standing-or leaning-next to another boulder in the area. John wondered briefly how he could have missed Sam, as the man was extremely tall, especially compared to John. Then his amusement quickly faded to concern as they got closer. Just what was Sam doing here?
"Sam!" John called out as they ran up to him.
Sam whipped around, his hand going into his jacket, presumably for his gun. "John! Sherlock!" he called back, relief and surprise in his voice.
"Sam, what are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, walking up to him.
Sam laughed slightly. "Nice to see you too and I'm not sure," he said, a look of confusion returning to his eyes.
"Yes, of course, wonderful to see you," Sherlock began. "And what do you mean you're not sure? How did you get here? Plane, I imagine?"
Sam shook his head. "Plane? No, no, plane." He rubbed the back of his head. "Where are we exactly?"
John gestured to the surrounding countryside. "England," he said.
Sam's eyebrows rose. "England," he repeated in disbelief.
"Yes, England, don't you know this?" Sherlock asked, a curious tone in his voice.
"No, I was in Wisconsin about three minutes ago," Sam said. "Dean and I were on a job and..." his eyes widened. "Dean! Where's Dean?"
Sam whirled around, frantically looking for his brother. There was nowhere to hide, especially if someone had the build that Dean had. The elder Winchester wasn't anywhere near here.
John turned back to Sam as the younger Winchester whipped out his phone, frantically pressing buttons. A noise made them turn to the left. John blinked for only an instant, and suddenly Dean Winchester was there in the flesh, stumbling towards them.
"Dean!" Sam exclaimed, running over to him.
"What the hell," John muttered under his breath.
Apparently Dean shared his sentiment. "Sammy? What the hell, man?" he snapped. "What the hell happened? Where are we?" Dean looked over Sam's shoulder at the other two men standing with them. "John? Sherlock? What are you doing here?" Dean asked, a grin growing on his face as he stepped forward to shake his hand. "And one of the more puzzling questions is," he said, turning back to Sam. "Why is it suddenly daytime?"
John had to chuckle. They hadn't changed, he thought to himself. John looked briefly at Sherlock, and his amusement was reflected in the consulting detective's face.
"Dean, we're in England," Sam said.
Dean stopped abruptly. "You're joking," he said, staring at Sam. "You're not joking...well, that explains how you two are here," he said, looking at Sherlock and John. "How did we get to England? We were just in Wisconsin!" Dean exclaimed, echoing Sam's previous statement.
"That's what we are in the process of trying to figure out," Sherlock said. "Now, tell me exactly what happened before you came here. Don't leave anything out," he said, looking at them warningly.
And so the Winchesters told their story. The case, the house, the ugly angel statues, all until they were here in England, standing right in front of John and Sherlock. John glanced at his friend; Sherlock was looking at them thoughtfully, his mind somewhere far away. "So, that's all?" John asked.
"Pretty much," Sam said.
"Fascinating," Sherlock murmured. "You have no idea what these angel statues were?"
Sam shook his head. "No, why? Do you think they're important?"
"Oh, I think they're very important," Sherlock said. "How many were there again?"
Sam glanced at John before answering. "Two," he said.
"Are you positive? There's no chance they were the same statue?" Sherlock pressed.
"Statues can't move, man," Dean put in.
Sherlock looked him in the eyes. "And why not? After what you and I, what Sam and John have seen, how can we say what is possible and what is not?"
Dean opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Logically, there was nothing he could say to disagree. None of them could. "But moving statues, I don't know, Sherlock," John said doubtfully.
"However, it is a possibility," Sherlock pointed out.
Sam rubbed the back of his head. "Maybe the Doctor knows what they are, should we try to contact him?"
John took out his phone and dialed the familiar number. His heart sank slightly when the dial tone continued on and on. "Not picking up," he said, surprise in his tone.
Dean noted the look on his face. "That's not usual?" he asked.
Sherlock shook his head. "The Doctor is usually pretty good about picking up when you call," he said thoughtfully. "Something must have happened."
A dark cloud settled over the group as a feeling of worry for their friend came over them. Dean was the first to shrug it off. "I'm sure it'll be fine, the Doc can handle himself," he said, forcing a smile.
"So, what are you two going to do?" John asked the brothers.
"I'm not sure; probably try to get back to America. For now we should probably find a motel," Sam said, with Dean groaning at the thought of going on an airplane.
"I would check the local motels later though, it's only noon," John said.
Dean and Sam whirled on him. "What did you say?" they demanded.
John looked at them. "It's only noon," he repeated.
Dean turned to Sam. "Son of a bitch," he muttered.
"It's ten o'clock where we were," Sam said. "How is that possible?"
Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. "It's not," Sherlock said slowly, his mind clearly trying to work out possibilities.
"So, somehow you not only traveled in space, more or less, but also in time," John mused.
"The same as if you were to use the TARDIS," Sherlock mused.
"Wait," Dean interrupted. "I knew the TARDIS traveled in space, but time," he said incredulously.
John and Sherlock nodded their affirmation. "You didn't get the chance to do much time traveling, but it's possible," said John.
"Huh," Dean said. "The bastard's being holding out on us."
"Well, the Doctor has many secrets he holds out on all of us," Sherlock said.
"Really? Huh. He didn't seem the type to have many secrets," Sam noted.
"Oh, you have no idea," John laughed.
The four of them shared in his amusement, though Sherlock seemed to understand more than Dean and Sam. There wasn't anything they could do, so John invited them back to their flat, an offer which Dean readily accepted. The idea of warmth and food out of the cool windy weather appealed to everyone. As they were walking off, Dean felt a certain prickling on the back of his neck. He turned around, his eyes searching the area. However, there was nothing. Dean shook the feeling off, resuming his walk with the rest of the group.
It them less time to get back home than it did to get there, most likely because Sherlock wasn't stopping to continue whatever the hell he was doing, John noted. As they walked, his mind stirred with questions. How was it possible the Winchesters were in America one minute, and then in England the next? Why were the statues so important according to Sherlock? And what were they going to do about it?
All of these questions would be answered in time; John had no doubt about that. The only problem was, would it be soon enough that something helpful could be done?

They made it back to the flat in good time. Mrs. Hudson was out; John wasn't sure what for, so the house was quiet as they went upstairs to 221b. Dean chuckled as he walked into the room. "Wow, you guys really don't change your style, do you?" he said, walking around the room.
John looked at him in amusement. "It works, why change it?" he pointed out. Dean acknowledged his point with a nod.
Dean moved to the window and peered out while his brother dropped the duffels near the door. John watched them as they settled in before going into the kitchen. He brewed a small pot of tea, unsure of whether or not the Winchesters liked tea. When he re-entered the living area, Sherlock was seated in his regular seat, gazing intently at the vaguely uncomfortable looking Winchesters.
"All right, go through everything again. Leave nothing out, even if it seems unimportant," Sherlock instructed.
Sam cleared his throat. "Are you positive this will help?" Dean asked skeptically. "We've been through it already, I'm sure you practically have the thing committed to memory."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Dean, and then gestured for Sam to start. Sam shrugged at Dean and told the story again. As he spoke, John listened closely, trying to figure out what exactly Sherlock was looking for. Sherlock himself had his eyes closed, sorting every detail as Sam told it. When the story was over, Sam leaned backwards against the couch. Dean glanced up from where he was sitting, playing with his knife, occasionally adding a detail Sam left out and telling his point of the story.
"I don't see what you're looking for," Dean said once Sam had finished. He ran his hand over the edge of the knife. "Trust me, I've been over the experience many times in my head, I've come up with jack."
"That's because you don't have one of the most important things I do," Sherlock said, eyes still closed. "Knowledge."
Dean rolled his eyes. Sam glanced warningly at his brother before turning to the consulting detective. "What do you mean?" he said with enough patience that John had to admit was impressive. Inwardly, he wondered how long it would last.
"Once while we were in the TARDIS," Sherlock began. He jumped up and began to pace back and forth. "I took it upon myself to check out the Doctor's library. He had pointed it out to me and said he didn't mind if I took my own look at some time."
Sherlock walked out of the room into the kitchen. The other three looked at each other for a moment. "Sherlock?" John called.
There wasn't a response for a moment before Sherlock walked back into the room. He had his phone in his hand and was searching wildly, his fingers flying wildly over the screen. Sherlock walked over to Sam and Dean and held out the phone. They both leaned forward, taking a look at whatever was on the screen. John felt a slight twinge of annoyance as he wasn't able to look that he soon squandered. Dean was nodding as Sam looked at Sherlock. "That's it!" Dean exclaimed. "That's the creepy ass statue-or statues-we saw!" he said excitedly.
"Where did you get that? And what is it?" Sam asked.
Sherlock held out the phone to John, who leaned in to get a closer look. It was a picture that had obviously been taken off the phone. The picture was of a book, a rather large book that ancient; perhaps thousands of years old of John had to guess. It was most likely from the Doctor's library, perhaps taken while the Doctor's back was turned. The book was open to a particular page. John peered closer, attempting to make out what was on the page.
The words were blurry, but on the opposite page was a sketch. It was a brilliant drawing; whoever drew it clearly had a lot of talent. It was a statue of an angel, weeping. There wasn't anything about the statue that made it creepy, but the picture below it gave John a jolt. He almost leaned back, but gained control of himself in time to prevent that. The statue was outstretched, its arms extended and hands spread in claws. The look upon its face was one of pure hatred or anger. John handed the phone back to Sherlock, shuddering inwardly.
"That," Sherlock said dramatically, slipping his phone into his pocket. "Is a weeping angel."
Sam raised his eyebrows. "A weeping angel?" he repeated. "Okay. What exactly is a weeping angel?"
"To put it simply, it's an alien from another world," Sherlock stated. "It exists as a statue when a living person lays eyes on it. As soon as that person looks away, it moves."
"Moves," John repeated.
Sherlock nodded affirmatively at him before continuing. "When it's not being looked upon, the weeping angel moves more quickly than the average human could detect. That's the basics you need to know. There's a bit more, but it was written in such a way that it gave me some trouble and would most definitely be almost impossible for you to understand."
John put hands to his face for a moment while the Winchesters glanced away. "Thanks, Sherlock," Dean muttered under his breath.
Sherlock turned away to the window, not before John thought he glimpsed a bit of a smirk on his face. "So, it's a weeping angel, we've established that. What are we going to do about it?" he asked.
Sherlock gazed out the window, his gaze not seeing whatever was out there. "That is the question, isn't it," he murmured to himself.