Author's Notes: Sorry for the lateness of the chapter, I only got home an hour ago. Enjoy and please review!
"Angels?" The Doctor asked.
"Yeah, angels." Dean affirmed.
Sherlock was fed up with all of them. What didn't they get? They were so unwilling to admit that the others were correct. The only one who seemed to not have trouble with all of this besides himself was the red head that had fallen on top of him mid flight. She had balanced herself on top of the railing and was watching the banter with a look of mild amusement.
Of course, he knew that bits of this were new to all of them. Except for him of course. He seemed to be the only one to remember. He could still close his eyes and smell the sweat and dirt on the Doctor as the bullet flew crunching through his skull. It was best that the Doctor didn't remember. The Doctor was a dangerous man, even if he didn't have this bigger-on-the-inside spaceship.
Dean was the same as Sherlock remembered him. Dangerous. A predator. Quite possibly one of the most dangerous men ever to exist. Smart, strong, quick. He had hunter's instincts. He was a killer. Dean Winchester was the reason monsters feared the dark. If he remembered for even a moment that Sherlock had sent a bullet in his brain, Sherlock didn't know if he would survive that encounter.
"Their friend, Castiel, saved me." The ginger put her two cents in. Confident, Sherlock immediately categorized her. Her clothes were older, two years old at least although recently laundered. There were slight wrinkles, just visible, that indicated having been folded and put away for a long time. The fashion itself wasn't that old, maybe just a year, but the cloth itself. Probably the girl had put away the outfit upon arriving in 1938 and was only just getting back to it.
"Castiel, your angel friend who can travel in time?" The Doctor rubbed his hand across his forehead and Sherlock sighed exaggeratedly, annoyed by the man's reluctance to grasp this.
"Can we move past what we've already discussed and go back to London? John and I would love to return to our own time." Sherlock interrupted, coming between the brothers and the alien man. The other woman, Clara, was hovering at the control panel, clearly a little uneasy with the strangers.
"We do?" John looked puzzled by the statement.
"I'm not getting caught in this again. We're going home, John."
"Again?" Damn. Slip of the tongue. He had been preoccupied by the mud caked on the Doctor's left shoe. Now he looked up into the face of the Doctor, noting just as he did in the arena that the Doctor's eyes were so much older than the rest of him. It was as though the knowledge of a hundred lives and the pain of a thousand losses was somehow contained in his youthful body.
"It doesn't matter. We're leaving."
"Oi, no need to be rude." The Doctor protested. "Come with me." The Doctor spun on his heel and skipped up the stairs. Sherlock tried to contain his exasperation as he followed the man, more than a little annoyed. The Doctor said nothing as he led him down hallways crisscrossing through the complex little box. He stopped finally at an octagonal door which opened automatically for him.
"This is the infirmary. We should be able to talk in here." The Doctor hoisted himself on one of the beds, his legs dangling in a child like manner off the side.
"About what I said." Sherlock assumed, not sitting but standing over him. His arms were crossed in a clear indication of his annoyance with the man.
"Weeks ago, or maybe months, it's hard to tell in here, I started crying for no reason. There was a time when I was erased from the universe and only Amy Pond could bring me back. She cried for me even though she couldn't remember. Now, you remember something I don't, I can see it in your eyes. I want to know what it is."
Sherlock was impressed. This man was quite clever. "What makes you think it has to do with you?"
"Because when I look at you I feel disappointed and I don't know why. Maybe that's why you haven't mentioned it to John. Maybe you did something. Or maybe you're trying to protect him. Whatever the reason, I want to know what's been erased from my mind and why. Now, you're going to tell me." His voice was calm but had just the barest trace of a threat behind it.
"I don't think you could handle it." Sherlock said rudely, unsure of what this Doctor was capable of. He had scarcely seen him for a few minutes in the arena. Had he been human, this would be a simple matter and he would have him analyzed down to the buttons on his shirt. But he was an alien. He was something new. Fascinating, but this made it complicated to jump to conclusions.
"You don't get to decide what I know! I tell you to do something, you do it! Now tell me!" The Doctor shouted, jumping up. Even Sherlock quailed slightly at his anger. It must be the ginger woman. She didn't make sense to the alien and that was causing his emotions to get in the way. Emotions were a dangerous thing and Sherlock tried not to let them rule him. This man clearly didn't have his restraint in that area.
"Sorry, Doctor but I think Sherlock is more dominant. He probably prefers top. Isn't that right, Sherly?" A voice interrupted. Both heads swiveled to find a new man had popped in for a visit. Both sets of eyes widened as they saw who was standing in front of them.
"Canton? But how did you-"
"No, not Canton, sorry. Just riding his meat suit. I'm Crowley." He snapped his fingers and the Doctor collapsed on the floor. Sherlock couldn't help the all too human reaction that put him on his knees checking the Doctor's pulse. Extremely irregular but strong. His brow relaxed as he remembered a bit of research on the Doctor. Two hearts. That would explain the irregular rhythm.
"You don't want him remembering." Sherlock stood, his coat swishing about his knees.
"Neither do you. Problem solved." Crowley shrugged his shoulders.
"Unless you don't want him remembering for a reason." Sherlock stalked around the demon, remembering their last encounter vividly. Jim must have explained that Sherlock knew by now. The demon would not underestimate the consulting detective again. "Because you're afraid of the Doctor. And you think he's going to disrupt your plans." Sherlock was reading the man as he continued his circling. It wasn't easy for a demon but doable.
"You had a plan. You stuck us in that arena to distract us. You wiped their minds so that they wouldn't remember it. But I remembered. The wrench in the plans. You can't touch me for some reason. Why is that? If you could have you would have wiped me clean but there's something off, isn't there? Something that could prove a problem."
"Well, I have to say that knowing my every thought is a turn on but I can't stick around. You should call me sometime. Moosey can give you my number. Ta." The demon vanished from the air, leaving Sherlock pacing a circle around nothing. This only confirmed his suspicions. The demon and dear old Jim were playing games. Fascinating. Also best that he alert the Doctor. He would have to explain as best he could to the man and hope the Doctor would focus on the larger problem at hand.
"Doctor." He shook the alien by the shoulder, causing his hair to flop around. "Doctor, wake up now." He frowned as the lack of response continued. "Doctor!" He slapped the young face to no avail. He muttered to himself as he stood. Perhaps there was something in this infirmary that would revive the comatose being.
He shoved vials aside carelessly, looking for something recognizable. After a moment his long fingers closed around something useful. He pulled open a drawer and found what looked like some sort of needle to put the liquid into. He jammed this into the Doctor's arms, the man's two hearts rushing it throughout his system. Sherlock frowned. He had given him enough of the medicine to wake a coma patient at extreme risk to the Doctor. Still, he didn't stir.
Sherlock stood and stuck his head out of the automatic doors into the hallway. "John! I need you!" He called through the echoing hallway. The distant chatter of voices seemed to raise in alarm before coming closer. Satisfied he had their attention, Sherlock turned back to the alien. What had River Song called him? Ah yes, a Time Lord. Last of his kind. She had seemed quite taken with him.
"My god." John was the first to arrive as he had detected the urgency in the voice of his friend. "What the hell did you do to him?"
"A man appeared. He knocked him out by snapping his fingers." Sherlock decided to play innocent for the time being. While the Doctor might understand his reason for shooting him in the head, he was sure Dean Winchester would not.
"This man, what did he look like?" Sam pressed, keen for any leads. Sherlock felt almost guilty as he looked at the man. His death had been so pointless, so empty. If Sherlock had not been so absorbed in the death of his friend which could not be undone, he could have saved him. If he had only been paying a little more attention...
But here he was, alive and well. Sherlock was actually pleased. He was smart, dangerous, and interesting. A fascinating person to say the least. There was a remarkable shortage of those types of people in the world and losing Sam was a tremendous waste of such an individual. And here, Sherlock had his second chance to focus and make sure this engrossing personality didn't see another senseless death.
"He had a Scottish accent and dark hair. I would say fairly important judging by his personality and attitude. He dressed professionally but not by obligation, I would say. He also said that someone called 'Moosey' would be able to identify him." The faces Sam and Dean made as they exchanged looks got the exasperated message across to each other.
"Crowley."
