Chapter Eight, Part One: Supernatural
"Let's take inventory." Dean says, pacing back and forth, "And maybe I'm going to get this wrong. There's us: Hunters and an angel; there's the Doctor and the Alien Hunters; there's Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Squared; and then we've got weeping angels and demons with currently unrevealed motives, running around London. Oh yeah, and time-travel. Did I miss anything?"
Lucifer raises and waves his hand from where he's perched against the windowsill.
Sam sighs.
"There's a chance," Castiel says from where he stands looking out the window, "That this is not just a coincidence. I've been … attempting to reach out to Heaven, but I've still been unable to contact anyone. I am also unable to fly back."
"So what, you're saying someone's setting this up?" Dean asks, "We're in a trap?"
"Duh," Lucifer rolls his eyes. He sighs heavily and walked over to Sam, leaning over his chair back, "Sammy, I'm bored. Come on, let's do something fun."
Sam's eye twitches but he remains facing the group, polite expression on his face as the Doctor and Sherlock start talking with irritation at the same time.
"Sammy," Lucifer whispers, mouth close to his ear. His breath has no heat, "Sam. You should be going after the demons? Get a move on. Kick some asses, huh?" he cackles and pokes at Sam's shoulder.
The younger Winchester winces once and then composes himself and stays still. He does his best to ignore Lucifer and tunes back into the conversation. While he wasn't paying attention, John and Sherlock had risen to their feet. God, he needs to listen more carefully. He has no idea what is going on.
"-Was I supposed to know you were alive?" John yells.
"Um," The Doctor's attempts to interject are drowned out by Sherlock, who even arguing seemed rather calm;
"You weren't."
"You could've told me"
"-I didn't contact you to keep you safe!" Sherlock raises his voice, yelling this. "There were things I had to take care of!"
"And you!" John says, brandishing a Finger of Accusation at the Doctor. "You helped him fake his own death?"
"Well, I owed him a favor," the Doctor says, clearing his throat, "It was years ago but ah…" he trails off.
Watson suddenly barks a laugh. He's sitting straight backed at the edge of his seat, his sword-cane leaning against his crossed legs as he sips his cuppa (Sam's pretty sure that's what was mentioned earlier. He thinks it means tea, but he's not sure because when he opened his mouth, pretty much everyone in the room looked and him with an expression that quite obviously said Oh you Americans.)
"Do you have something to add?" Sherlock says curtly, looking at the mustached man with critical eyes.
"No," Watson replies with a matching tone of voices, "Only that I can sympathize with death-faking Sherlock Holmeses."
Holmes, staring out into space with an idle expression, gives an exaggerated long-suffering sigh of Oh God, not this again; I thought we talked about this.
"Can you?" John says, throwing Sherlock a Look, "It must run in the… name."
"It must. Holmes all but threw himself off a cliff." Watson said calmly, putting down his tea.
Holmes rolls his eyes, "Yes, and the public is exactly aware of my return thanks to your Adventure of the Empty House."
"Don't get any ideas," Sherlock snaps at John.
"Oh please," Lucifer rolls his eyes, "It's not like you actually died."
Sam shoots a sharp look at him because these are sensitive topics. Then he remembers that nobody even heard the Devil.
"Um, can we get back to the part where this is all a huge trap?" Dean interjects.
"Right, that," Amy says. "Do you reckon it is a trap, Doctor?"
"With everyone in this room and the circumstances of our gathering?" The Doctor says, adopting a thoughtful expression. He nods, lower lip jutting out a little and gaze directed toward the ceiling, "Most likely."
"There's a great chance that this is a trap," Castiel agrees gravely. He's doing that thing where he repeats facts, saying it the same way every time -like it's something new and should be regarded with caution.
"Ooh, traps," Rory enthuses flatly.
"And we can assume the demon is behind it somehow," Dean says.
"And how's that?" Amy challenged.
"Well, not to offend your weird alien hunting culture, but those quote Weeping Angels (unquote) don't seem like the diabolical planning type."
"Don't seem like," the Doctor says darkly.
At this point, a moment of silence falls over everyone. Amy fidgets uneasily.
"Well, in any case," Sam inserts, speaking out loud in an attempt to ignore Lucifer, who is now making the lewdest of gestures in the corner, "We should keep our eyes open."
"If we go out and split up, we can track different leads and cover more ground," Dean says,
"Excellent," Holmes says begins someone else, which Sam completely misses because now Lucifer is flopping around on the ground in order to prove some sort of point.
"...don't want anyone ganging up on"
"-That's a bit unfair, don't you think?" Rory is criticizing Dean.
"Oh no no," Holmes says, "It's a wonderful idea. Lovely. I love it, don't you love it Watson?" He bounces his bow against his crossed legs and looks far too innocent.
Sherlock narrows his eyes.
"How about this," Holmes proposes, "Dean Winchester leads the group with Amy and"
"-There is no need." Castiel interrupts, "I will look for the demon and return once I determine its location and purpose."
"Cas," Dean says disapprovingly, in a voice that clearly says what if you get hurt?
"Aw," Lucifer croons, "He's worried. Sam, he's worried. Sammy, look."
"Heaven may not be answering my call;" Castiel says evenly, "But Hell is still on Earth. I suggest you all stay here."
Several mouths open for indignant protest, but Castiel continues, "You will not find anything. Not even you, Doctor," he adds pointedly, "There are no leads for you to follow. Ward the apartment. Do not leave." He tilts his head for a moment, "But be alert."
There's a flutter of wings and Castiel is gone.
The reactions around the room are all different this second time Castiel has pulled his angel disappearing act. Dean huffs in irritation around the same time Sherlock crinkles his nose in annoyance at the undeniable truth in Castiel's words. Holmes lights his pipe and sticks it between his teeth, sitting back in his seat.
"So," Rory says into the tense silence, "Is there any more tea?"
Watson goes to boil another kettle of water, bustling and making noise on his way out, but the tension remains.
Sam sighs, "I guess we should make the wards," he says, looking to Dean and then to Holmes, "Is it alright if you we-" he motions toward the windows and walls.
Holmes shrugs and nods, and Sam says, "Great. We're going to need a couple of things."
Chapter Eight, Part Two: Doctor Who
Among other things, the Winchesters require salt, paint, and knives.
"Is this an art class now?" Amy wonders idly as Sam begins to paint a circle on the wood flooring.
Holmes and the Doctor have both left their seats to look on, both curious and neck deep in unfamiliar territory. Fish out of water.
Sam winces as he paints the circles and obsessively repaints some places as if someone is going back and erasing them at the same time he's drawing the lines.
"What're you doing?" Rory says sharply, looking over at Dean Winchester just as he begins to press the blade of one of the acquire knives to his skin. Everyone looks over, even Sherlock, who has been brooding in a corner, remaining sullenly and uncooperative even to speaking with John.
Dean looks up, "Don't worry, it's part of the"
"-You have to cut yourself to do this?" Rory demands.
Dean sighs, "Some of the sigils have to be made in human blood." he explains.
"Well use my blood," Rory blurts, deciding on the spur of the moment.
"Look buddy, I'm used to doing this," Dean says. He pierces flesh with metal and Rory flinches, "Relax."
Amy meets his eye from her perch on the top of the sofa and nods from him to come over. "Leave them to do their job;" she advises in a low voice, "He said they're used to it."
Rory nods, but is still troubled, "But look where their job has gotten them." he whispers, glancing over to Sam and Dean, the former who has moved on to salting all the windows, and the latter who is painting signs on the wall in his own blood. "Their sense of normality is completely twisted."
There's a sudden clang of metal that claims everyone's attention.
Watson is standing in the doorway, fumbling with a tray of tea and steadying it at the last moment. He quickly enters the room and sets the tray down. "What are you doing?" he exclaims, "Holmes!" he accuses quickly, turning to his friend. "What are you letting them do?"
"Watson," Holmes says calmly, "They are merely protecting our fragile mortal lives. Sure you understand. It's most fascinating. Look here, Sam has been telling me about"
"-Is that blood?" Watson interrupts, squinting and leaning over to tap at the wall with his cane. "These stains are not going to come out easily."
Holmes sighs and looks up to the ceiling, puffing on his pipe.
"What's that?" Amy asks, pointing to the piles of fabric draped over Watson's arm.
"Oh, yes." He says, lifting them, and laying everything out on the currently unoccupied sofa, across from Sherlock and John. "These are for you all. To be less conspicuous should we go out again. Especially you." He adds, waving toward Amy and her skirt, which is apparently putting him out of his comfort zone.
"Costumes!" the Doctor says excitably.
"Rory, you, and …Sherlock will have to wear something out of my closet. I'm afraid …John, will have to borrow something of Holmes'." Watson says, "I took some of his nicer things, but even that…"
Holmes snorts loudly and the corner of Watson's mustache does his little twitch of amusement.
Amy gingerly holds up the dress and accompanying garments picked out for her.
"That's one of Mary's old dresses," Watson explains, "It was in the back of my wardrobe, I was rather surprised to find it there…"
"Who's Mary?" Amy asks, slipping behind a dressing partition haphazardly placed in the corner of the room. "Oh, did you know there's a pig head back here?"
Rory crinkles his nose; so that was the smell. He hadn't been sure what it was. He picks out some articles of clothing lain out and glances at Watson for a moment.
The man has seemingly frozen and is staring down with a lost expression, not really seeing the waistcoat in his hands. "She…"
Holmes sits forward and removes his pipe from his mouth, regarding Watson with a concerned frown. Even Sherlock watches Watson warily for a moment, eyes darting over him, analyzing details and making connections. A spark of realization lights up in his expression and his moodiness dissipates.
Rory notes that the moment is contained between Watson and Holmes.
Amy steps out from behind the dressing partition and Watson snaps out of his reverie. "Much better," he declares. He straightens up and rolls back his shoulders, as if to shrug away his moment of weakness.
"What do you think, Rory?" Watson asks.
Amy does a small spin in the dress. It's simple, dark purple, black, and gray in color, with long sleeves and a high neckline.
"Very good," he says, nodding.
"You'll just need to pin up your hair," Watson decides.
Amy bunches up her hair in a bun smiles, batting her eye lashes comically, "Like so?"
Watson blinks and falters for moment. Holmes's frown deepens but he replaces his pipe in his mouth and takes a puff.
"Just like that." Watson agrees.
"You wouldn't happen to have any fancy bow ties, would you?" The Doctor wonders off to the side.
