Chapter Seven: Sherlock
"An angel," The Doctor repeats dubiously.
Sam and Dean are both rolling their eyes at Castiel like they're used to hearing this.
John wonders if maybe Castiel has a Condition. Maybe he should recommend his therapist.
Castiel nods solemnly. It seems to be his default emotion.
John can sort of see how the man might believe himself to be an angel. There's a sort of self-righteousness about him and –what is he saying? There's no such thing as angels!
The Doctor sighs, "Castiel, was it? Right. This isn't the time for that. I'm sorry to break it to you, but I've been monitoring this planet for a while, and there are no such things are angels. Besides the weeping ones, of course"
"-What the hell are these stupid crying angels you keeping talking about?" Dean interrupts.
"Weeping Angels." The Doctor responds, "They're aliens that enjoy sending unsuspecting fellows like you back in time. They feed off the energy from the time rifts." Then he seems to realize he's been making small-talk with the current subjects of suspicion. "Now what are you really?" He turns back to Castiel,
Besides in denial, John doesn't add aloud.
It's Castiel's turn to sigh and look impatient. "Truly," he says, "I am an Angel of the Lord. Can we please focus on the matter at hand? The demon has escaped."
"That is not currently the matter at hand." Says the Other Sherlock (the old one, well, okay he's not so old, maybe late thirties, early forties. Who was John to talk? He'd passed his twenties years ago as well. Amy and Rory were easily the youngest –and on that note, energetic –of the lot of them. Hang on –no, John. Bad; stay on topic. Focus.)
"This conversation is pointless." Castiel declares, heaving another sigh and looking up in exasperation.
"Hardly," The Doctor says. He holds up the sparking-thing from earlier. "My sonic's gone mental, and best guess, it's because of you." A dark look crosses his features.
"Yeah, it probably is," Dean breaks in, looking more than a little irritated, "And it's not because Cas is a freakin' alien, okay?"
Uh oh, John thinks to himself. Dangerous territory has been crossed and the guard dog has been revealed.
"Dean," Sam says in a low warning voice. John can see how he might be stressed. They're stuck in the 1800s without the Doctor.
"We appreciate your assistance," Castiel says quietly to the Doctor, "But we need to rid this city of the demon, return to the future, and kill the 'weeping angel'," -here, he inserted exaggerated air quotes – "that sent us here."
"You can't kill them," the Doctor says, "They're stone."
"Well you can break stone," Dean says.
"It doesn't work like that. You'd blink first."
"They get you when you look away," Amy explains.
A look of understanding crosses Sam's features.
Castiel frowns, "Blinking is not an issue."
Dean smirks at that.
"The issue is that I'm not taking you anywhere until I know what you are." The Doctor says stubbornly, bringing the conversation back in a circle.
"I would perform a small miracle to convince you, but I've found that in the past it hasn't worked. And I'm cut off from Heaven at the moment."
"Dude," Dean says, "Just try doing something."
Castiel reaches out and the 'sonic' sparks again in the Doctor's hand, crackles with electricity and falls silent as the Doctor jumps and drops it on the ground.
"What was that?" the Doctor says, "What was that? You call that a miracle?" He stoops down and picks it back up gingerly. "That's a terrible miracle."
"I assure you," Castiel says, "It is fixed."
The Doctor stares at his sonic, "No it's not! It's going to take days to repair. You've short circuited almost everything." The sonic let out a last sputter of a spark as emphasis.
"My apologies." Castiel frowns, "That was not my intention."
"Intention or not"
"-Hey, hey." Dean interrupts. He's positioned himself so that he's standing in between Castiel and his brother, and the rest of them. His arms are outstretched, keeping everyone at a distance, away from each other. "Look, you've gotta trust on this, Doc. I mean, even if you don't believe Cas is an angel, you must've met a good alien before, right? Aren't there good aliens?"
The Doctor relaxed his defensive stance a little.
"I suggest," says the Other John, "That if there's not going to be any more fighting, we move our conversation to somewhere a little more private."
Everyone looks around, as if just remembering their standing in a public park. A couple of woman passing by watch them with curiosity.
And that's more or less how they all end up in 221B Baker Street. Introductions are finally put into order when Sam Winchester mentions that he doesn't even know their names.
"Amy Pond," The Doctor points around the room, "Rory Williams, Dr. John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes.
Dean raises his eyebrows at this.
The look on his face when the Other John offers him a cup of tea is comical. John lets out a snort of amusement. The Other John glances at him and although his solemn expression does not falter, his mustache twitches and there's a glint in his eye that suggests that he finds hilarity at Dean's expense as well.
Sam takes a cup of tea out of politeness while Castiel and Dean end up turning down the offer. They all settle down around the main room of the flat.
John looks around the apartment and notes that the small burn in the corner of the room that he always that Sherlock had caused was already there in 1891.
There's tenseness in the air.
Sam scows and scratches his ear, then switches to rest against the left side of his chair, as opposed to the right.
John remembers Sherlock and the Other Sherlock discussing Sam having hallucinations. He wonders if they're going on at the moment.
Dean stands restlessly by the window while Castiel stands rooted in the corner he stands, completely unmoving.
"Alright," Dean bursts out, "If we're done with afternoon tea, can we please get moving? We've got a demon to catch, and we've got the apocalypse back in 2012, so"
"What?" Rory chokes and sputters.
Amy pats his shoulder.
"Well it's not exactly… doing anything," Sam assures. "I mean, it's probably going to blow up in our faces, but for the moment, you could say the volcano is dormant."
"Your ability to create metaphors is appreciated," Dean mutters sarcastically.
The Other Sherlock fidgets in his armchair and sets down the pipe he's been holding in his mouth and reaches down and picks up an old violin. He plucks tunelessly and appears to space out completely.
Sherlock's eyes narrow and he glares across at the Other –oh what the hell –Holmes (that's less confusing isn't it?).
A few moments pass.
Watson looks unperturbed by Holmes's plucking.
"Stop that," Sherlock demands finally,
"Stop what?" Holmes sits up straight and looks around.
"Plucking." Sherlock says.
Holmes looks down at his violin and shrugs, tucking it under his arm. He returns his pipe to his mouth and crosses his legs. One foot swings up and down, hitting against the tip of his bow.
"Holmes," Sherlock snaps.
Holmes raises an eyebrow and uncrosses his legs.
John coughs and brings his cup up to his mouth to hide his grin.
