Sherlock Holmes sat in his chair in 221B Baker Street, deep within his mind palace. You owe me… It has to be him, Sherlock thought, it's the only explanation. It was only a matter of how he had done it. The nature of the dead bodies was only one of Sherlock's now major problems. There was a more pressing reason why it couldn't be him. Because he was dead…

He could hear the clank of some dishes as his flatmate offered him tea for the sixth time. "Tea, Sherlock?"

"Yes, fine." Sherlock reluctantly took the tea, hoping it would stop John from bothering and questioning him further. John didn't need to get involved. Not again.

"Sherlock." Sherlock could tell John wasn't going to give up anytime soon. Sherlock sipped the tea. "You can't just sit around and sulk all day."

"I'm thinking, John, not sulking," Sherlock argued.

"You only prove my point."

"No, John. In what way does that prove your point?"

John sat down next to Sherlock, making a face that Sherlock would describe as a John-sympathy face. John sighed deeply…

"What, John?" Sherlock prompted, annoyed.

"Sherlock…you know, sometimes, you just can't solve a case. It just happens. Even to you. You have to just… accept that."

No, I can't accept that, John. You don't understand. Not on this case. Not when he is involved. Not when he could cause so much damage. Not when he could hurt Lestrade, or Molly, or Mrs. Hudson. Not when you could be in danger.

Sherlock just grunted in response to John, turning away in an attempt to escape further questioning.

"Sherlock…"

"I'll solve the case, John."

"I…well, if anyone can, you can, Sherlock. I'm just saying that if you can't, that's alright too…"

Luckily, Sherlock was saved from further awkward emotional moments by the sound of the doorbell ringing. He jumped up instantly.

"Someone's at the door," John commented.

"Oh, thank you, John. I do love it when you point out the obvious."

Sherlock leaped down the stairs to the door before John could reply, though he knew his loyal companion would be following behind.

He opened the door to find three men standing outside the flat.

"Excuse me, we're looking for a Sherlock Holmes, with the police department…" one began, with a distinct American accent.

The tallest spoke up, reaching inside his suit jacket. "We're with the FBI. I'm…"

"No." Sherlock stated, before the man could pull out his fake I.D.

"Uhh…" the tallest continued. "What…?"

Sherlock noticed the other slightly shorter man stand unconsciously slightly in front of the taller man, indicating the unconscious need to protect him. Sherlock noticed the same slightly shorter man's right hand twitch towards a weapon that he did not have, probably lost on the plane ride from America. One of them wearing a trench coat just looked very confused.

"You're not from the FBI." Sherlock reached into the shorter man's jacket pocket, and quickly snatched his I.D.

The man stumbled slightly, unable to react in time to prevent this.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock heard John protest from behind him.

"What? Hey… give that back! I'll tell our supervisor about this…"

Sherlock snorted at him. "Please, let us not play silly games, 'Mr. Dean Pascow,'or whatever your real name might be. I've seen better fake I.D.s. You could have at least not used your real first name."

Dean's fist clenched and the three stared blankly at the detective. "How could you…?"

"I think he's the detective, Dean," the trench-coated man whispered.

"Yes, well done. If you keep working on that you could almost surpass the intelligence of Scotland Yard," Sherlock noted.

"Uh, thank you," the trench coated man said confusedly.

Dean rolled his eyes, unable to realize that Sherlock was actually not being sarcastic.

Sherlock smiled his best fake smile. "Now then, I'm Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, and this is my blogger, Doctor John Watson. Why don't you take your brother and your friend, come inside and tell us why you're really here. I'm sure John will make you tea. Maybe even coffee if you prefer!" He patted John on the shoulder and ran back into the flat.

John stared awkwardly at the three confused fake-FBI agents. He had no idea if they were dangerous or not, because Sherlock inviting them in was not an accurate way to tell such things. He knew they were trouble, as he'd been around plenty of that, and hoped they wouldn't immediately try to kill him.

"Umm, come in," he invited, and the three dumbfounded men followed John into the flat.

The four men stood around Sherlock in his chair.

"Err, make yourselves comfortable. I'll make some tea," John said, but the three still stood.

"We prefer to stand," Dean said.

"Yes, fantastic. Clearly, you aren't here to kill us, or you would have already…"

John was not really that reassured.

"…So, you're here for the case. Now, I will ask again: Who are you and why are you here?" Sherlock whined impatiently.

"We might as well tell him, Dean." The taller one pointed out.

Dean sighed. "Fine, I'm Dean Winchester, this is my brother, Sam, and that's Castiel. We saw the case on the news and it appealed to our…special interests of...?"

"Weirdness?" Sam supplied.

"Yeah, weirdness," Dean agreed, "We help people…we hunt monsters, demons…"

"So do I," Sherlock remarked, though not talking about the same sort of monsters. "You came all the way here for this case? Well, you should get back to America soon. You can't solve it. Only I can."

Dean huffed. "Yeah, pal, well you don't know me."

Sherlock got up and stood face to face with Dean. "Really? I think I know you well enough."

"Sherlock…" John warned, but, as usual, his warnings were ignored, and Sherlock went into super deducing mode. It always ended badly.

Sherlock stood slightly taller than Dean. Dean just stared back firmly. "I know you travel a lot, you were willing to come all the way across the ocean just for a case. So, you're obsessive. Your work is all you have. Then again, what is your work? I know you handle weapons, guns, knives, whatever works at the time. You have calluses all over your hands, and your hands never shake in fear. You always carry a gun on you, you reached for it when you felt threatened by me, but it's not there because you couldn't bring it on the plane. You don't show it, but you've been beaten, stabbed, punched, many times; I can see every scar. But, these things don't bother you. Your work is filled with danger; you expect it. But, you're not FBI agents. Your suits are cheap and wrinkled, your I.D.s are clearly forged, but everyone falls for your lies because no one pays any attention to what is actually written on an I.D., they just accept it as true. You work closely with your brother, you don't work for any official organization. Then, you don't get paid for your work, that's not why you do it. So, you probably gamble or get money as you can, you could get enough to get by. I can tell you're very close to your brother, a sentiment you and I do not share. You subconsciously step in front of him when threatened, you clench your fist as I mention him. You must be the older brother. But the way you protect him; the way you would put your own life before his, I can see it in your face. You're more than an older brother; you feel a responsibility, a deeply-rooted responsibility to protect him, as if it's your sole purpose in life; the kind of responsibility a parent shows, which you had to replace. So, which parent was it that died?"

With that, Dean broke. He charged at Sherlock, punched him square in the nose, grabbing the sides of his coat, and shoved the detective against the wall. "It was both…" Dean growled, raising his fist again.

"…always something I get wrong," Sherlock muttered. John could shoot his friend, sometimes.

"Oh… I'll show you something that's wrong, you arrogant son-of-a—"

"DEAN!" Sam grabbed his brother by the shoulder before he could punch the detective in the face again. "He's had enough."

Sherlock wiped his bleeding nose. John sighed deeply, walking over to him. "Well, you're the first one to actually punch him in the face, but I'm really surprised that hasn't happened sooner." He gave an apologetic smile to the three men. "I'm sorry, he doesn't know what he's doing, he just really can't help himself…" John pushed a tissue onto the detective's bleeding nose.

"I'm fine, John…" Sherlock tried to protest, but didn't resist.

"It's…uh…its fine…" Sam stated, awkwardly. "We just…umm…hope we can work together to solve this case…"

"Of course!" John said, glaring at Sherlock and hoping he wouldn't speak, "We'd be happy to help you. If the case can actually be solved, that is…"

John discarded the bloody tissue, and reached for another.

John saw Sam nudge his brother.

"Yeah…sorry about the nose…" Dean mumbled, quietly.

"It's okay. I will fix it." John was surprised when the trench coated man, Castiel, spoke. He walked over the Sherlock.

"Oh, no, it's fine, I-" John began, but the man placed his fingers on Sherlock's nose, and a bright white light shone quickly. Then man took his hand away. John stared blankly at Sherlock's now completely normal and healed nose.

"John, why are you staring at me as if I suddenly turned into an alien?" Sherlock remarked.

"Your… your nose is healed…" John was confused, and tried to rationalize it, "he must have fixed it…" in some new medical way…

"I am Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord. I can use my power to heal you."

"Oh please, you're a tax accountant," Sherlock argued.

"This is merely a vessel that allows me to travel within your Earth. This is not my true form," Castiel explained, as if it were obvious.

"Yeah, I never thought angels could be real either," Dean said, "But, like I said, we deal with the weird. Angels, demons, ghosts, vampires, the freaking apocalypse. You name it, we fought it."

"Sure…" John said, unconvincingly.

Sherlock just stared at them. "That's not possible."

"Well, sorry to break your little science bubble, but it is," Dean replied. You just saw it with your own eyes."

Silence.

"I think I'll go make some tea."

But, before John could run away to the safety of his tea-making, the doorbell rang again.

"I'll get it." John ran down to the door to avoid any further confusion. Unfortunately, the man at the door could only lead to much more confusion.

The man wore a rather silly looking bowtie and a tweed suit and a rather normal looking woman stood behind him.

"Hello!" the man beamed, whipping out a piece of paper. "I'm Detective Inspector John Smith, codename the Doctor, and this is my assistant, Clara Oswald. We're looking for a Sherlock Holmes, and possibly a few FBI agents, if they've arrived already."

John looked closely at the badge the man held. He was pretty sure it looked very real, as he had seen a similar badge many times when Sherlock stole it from D.I. Lestrade.

"Yes, they're all here. I assume it's about the case?" When did it get to be 'the case'? John wondered.

"Oh yes, it is of course about the case!"

"Well, do come in then. I'm Doctor John Watson; I…work with Sherlock."

"Ooh, a doctor! It is a pleasure to meet you!" The man shook Watson's hand wildly, and walked up the stairs to the flat; Clara followed after him.

"Well, everyone" John Watson said, as they all reached the top, "We apparently have more visitors." John pointed at Sherlock. "That's Sherlock, over there."

However, Sherlock walked over the the both of them, frowning quizzically at John Smith.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes! The great detective! It's wonderful to meet you! I', Detective Inspector John Smith, codename the Doctor, and this is my assistant, Clara Oswald." He his badge up in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock's frown deepened. "That's just a blank piece of paper."

"No, Sherlock," John corrected, "It's a badge. It's not blank."

"Really, John? I like to think you're at least slightly less of an idiot than everyone else, but even Donovan could realize it's blank. Probably not Anderson, though…"

"Well, you really are a clever detective, then, aren't you?" 'John Smith' grinned at Sherlock. "Psychic paper. It doesn't work on clever people."

"Soo… you're not really from the FBI…" Sam walked over to them, with his brother and Castiel.

"No, I'm not, sorry…" 'John Smith' confessed, shrugging.

"Are you all fakes here?" John Watson sighed, rubbing his head. He was beginning to get a headache.

"We're all just here to solve this case," Dean reaffirmed.

"Yes!" the man with the bow tie agreed, "Just here to help. And, not to brag, but I knew there was something off about you guys."

"Something off about us?" Dean asked, incredulously, shaking his head. "I suppose, while we're here, I'm Dean Winchester, that's my brother Sam, and Castiel."

"They apparently hunt monsters," John Watson supplied, helpfully.

"Wonderful!" 'John Smith' exclaimed. "John Smith is obviously a fake name, but you'd be surprised how many accept it. I'm the Doctor."

"That's not a name, it's a title," Sherlock interrupted.

"It's my name."

"No, it's not, you're lying," Sherlock pressed, staring intently at the man, "You don't believe that."

"It is what people call me."

"Another non-answer. Why won't you tell us your name? Who are you?"

"I told you. I'm the Doctor. I help people. Like these lovely gentlemen here."

"No you're nothing like them. They are an open book. I can see everything about them. You… you're avoiding the question again, Doctor."

"Yes, I seem to be very good at that." The Doctor said, staring back at Sherlock curiously, "What can tell about me?"

"Sorry, what?"

"You said you can read them like an open book." He gestured to the Winchesters. "What about me?"

"You?" Sherlock stared intently into the Doctor's gaze. "You make no sense."

"How so?"

Sherlock sighed deeply. "You're clothes are ridiculous, you grin at everything like a four-year-old, but you're not. You won't tell us anything about yourself. You're eyes are so…old…so impossible; you look as though you have seen everything, you act as if you have lost everything, yet you are so young, and act like nothing has happened. You bury everything under your ridiculous mask. I don't know what you do. You do not work with weapons, you have no callouses on your hands, but your eyes tell a different story. You have wear on your shoes, so you run a lot. Do you run from the danger? Yet, now you come running towards it, with fake badges and an impossible case, caring little about fake FBI agents. Everything about you contradicts itself. How can your eyes show so much, but your body show so little? What have those eyes seen, Doctor? Why do you call yourself that? You are clearly not any sort of medical doctor, so doctor who?"

The Doctor stared intently back at the detective, giving him a small sad smile. "That's very good, detective," the Doctor said quietly. "You are very good." He patted Sherlock on the shoulder, gently. "I'm afraid you won't get the answers to your questions."

"But…" Sherlock protested.
"Shh…" the Doctor silenced him. "It's alright, there are some things that you are better off not knowing."

"Well," Clara announced, suddenly, "I'm still Clara. No fake names here. I babysit sometimes, and sometimes I travel with the Doctor."

"That's great, Clara, would you like some tea?" John asked, desperately confused about everything ever in existence at that moment, and hoping to do something normal.

"Yes," Clara emphasized, "That would be great, thanks." She leaned in to John, and whispered, "Sorry about the confusion, but I can't say it gets any easier…"

John laughed, as the two walked into the kitchen. "Tell me about it. That's the story of my life. Or whatever's left of it after this case is over."

Clara nodded in agreement, rubbing her head.

"Headache?" John prompted.

"Yes," Clara said.

"I'll get some Advil."

"Got anything stronger?" Clara joked.

"Unfortunately not. I probably have some toes in the fridge, though."

"Some what?"

"It's a long story."

"Isn't it always?"