Hi hi hi!
Thank you for your patience, though at this point our fandoms have pretty much mastered patience. (Sherlockians, I'm looking at you.)
Special banana-fudge sundaes to everyone who Followed/Favorited and Reviewed this story—it's very much appreciated.
As usual, if you recognize the name of the characters, then I don't own them. If I did, then you can bet your bottom dollar Dean wouldn't die (as often).
Enjoy!
Meet the Other Team
"So, where are we going to go first?"
"Umm . . ." He points. "That way. No hold on . . ." Brow bunched in thought, he scans the night sky carefully before pointing again. ". . . That way."
She points. "That way?"
"Nn?" He looks at her, questioning, like a child looking to his parents for confirmation that he chose well. She smiles.
"Yeah. That way."
He beams. With a small laugh, the two turn their bright faces to the heavens, eager to begin their exciting new adventure, lost among the stars. . . .
The Doctor jerked awake. He didn't recall falling asleep, but the dream he had still lingered. He knew that moment very well—that was the night Rose agreed to be his companion again, even though regeneration left him a completely different person.
It had been freezing cold that night, but never before had he felt so warm.
"Bad dream?"
The Doctor jumped. In the leather seat across from his, Dean sat with an ice-cold beer in one hand. The Doctor frowned and murmured, "Not quite. It was a good dream, but it left a bad feeling."
"Mmm. I know what you mean." Dean took a mouthful of his drink and followed the swallow with a satisfied "Ahh . . ."
The Doctor sat up slowly. Underneath his soles he could feel the soft whrrr of the engine. This was his first time on an airplane, and so far the experience wasn't all that exciting. Strange, for sure, but not exciting.
After the meeting with Director Fury, Agent Coulson introduced the trio to Agent Shaw Harris, a graying man in his late forties, who in essence would act as the team's—
"Babysitter?" Dean said incredulously. "You're tacking us with a babysitter?"
"Not a babysitter," Coulson had assured. "Just additional team members hand-picked by S.H.I.E.L.D. to supervise the mission, provide back-up if needed, and inform you of the rules and procedures S.H.I.E.L.D. operates under. We do the same for any other new recruit."
"So a babysitter."
Coulson sighed.
After that, Agent Harris led the group to a hanger within the helicarrier and boarded a jet that Harris referred to as "the baby brother of the CXD 23 Airborne Mobile Command Station", whatever that meant. The aircraft was a massive jumbo jet, painted matte black with a silver S.H.I.E.L.D. logo on the side. Inside contained fully functioning facilities, such as a laboratory, kitchen, and sleeping quarters, in addition to a spacious cargo hold that held various S.H.I.E.L.D.-branded crates, Dean's Impala, and a tall rectangular object covered in a thick tarp.
Just as Sherlock, Dean, and the Doctor were about to step on, Coulson pulled them aside and said, "Just as a last word of advice, the people you are about to meet are some of the best operatives we have and they're good people, honestly, but they've been a team for a while now so if they come off a bit defensive or paranoid . . . be patient with them."
"I love them already," Dean had quipped.
"You're not coming with us?" Sherlock asked.
Coulson smiled faintly and said, "I have my own team to get back to. Don't worry—you three will be fine."
The Doctor was a little sad to watch him go; he would have preferred to have a friendlier face on his team.
Speaking of unfriendly faces . . .
"Where did Sherlock run off to?" asked the Doctor. "How long was I asleep?"
"Not too long," Dean said. "Maybe an hour. As for tall, dark, and antisocial, he's making a quick call before we gather 'round for a little powwow with the rest of our group."
"Powwow?"
"Oh that's right, you didn't hear that last bit because you were out as soon as butt hit leather. Agent Harris gave us time to get acquainted with where we bunk for the night before have a meet-and-greet with the rest of the crew, which should be pretty soon."
The Doctor sat up straighter. "There's enough space on board for each of us to have our own room?" Was that even possible for a human aircraft?
Dean twitched. "Not exactly. The three of us newbies are stuck in a comfy little hole together while I'm sure the secret agents have rooms to themselves. All of us have to share one bathroom though, so try not to spend so much time fixing your hair in the mornings."
"I hate to break it to you, mate," the Doctor said, running a hand through his spikey tresses, "but this? This is all natural. No fixing required."
Dean smirked.
Ping.
"All agents please report to the lab," said Agent Harris over the PA. "All agents please report to the lab."
"That's our cue." With a grunt, Dean pushed himself out of the seat and guzzled down the last of the beer, leaving the empty bottle on a small table. "Let's get this party started already so I can take a quickie before dinner. All this runnin' around's got me beat."
"I'll go get Sherlock," said the Doctor, "just in case he didn't hear that."
Dean snorted. "Leave him. I've had enough of his arrogant ass for one day."
"Hold on." The Doctor halted Dean before he walked off and looked him dead in the eye. "I know we all got off on the wrong foot earlier, but if we want to save our friends, we need to start working as a team instead of biting each other's heads off. One of you has to stop first or this whole thing will fall apart before it has a chance to begin."
Squaring his jaw, Dean met the Doctor's stare evenly and replied, "Since you missed the grand tour, the lab past those doors and through that glass door on the end. I'll meet you and Detective McGruff there."
Before the Doctor had a chance to open his mouth, Dean turned on one heel and left. The Doctor sighed through the nose. So much for that.
Finding Sherlock wasn't as difficult as the Doctor expected—he found the detective in front of the bathrooms, staring at the setting sun from a window as he spoke on the phone. Not wanting to interrupt, the Doctor waited just around the corner.
In a surprisingly gentle voice, Sherlock murmured, ". . . I can't tell you that either, I'm afraid. But don't worry, I'll find him before—" He paused, then laughed quietly. "Yes, I'm sure you would. . . . Yes . . . yes, I will. Take care of yourself, Mary. . . . Goodbye."
Sherlock hung up and turned, inhaling sharply when he saw the Doctor. He frowned. The dying light made the angles of his face sharper, more hollow.
"How long have you been eavesdropping?"
"Not long," replied the Doctor, matching the detective's neutral tone. "We need to join the others."
"So I've heard."
. . . .
"We should get going then. Wouldn't want to keep them waiting."
"Absolutely."
Neither moved, with not a sound between them save the muted hum of the engine. For all his talk of unity and cooperation, the Doctor still wasn't sure how he felt about his new compan—teammates, especially the consulting detective. Normally he could get a feel for a person's true nature pretty quickly; Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, was quite possibly the most closed-off person he ever met. It was evident that the man took pride in being cleverer than average people and used every opportunity to use his abilities, but other than the superiority complex, there was not much to be gleaned from the surly detective.
Then again, there was no denying the warmth in his tone only moments before.
The Doctor blinked.
". . . Okay then. I believe the lab is this way."
"After you, Doctor."
"With pleasure, Mr. Holmes."
The glass door closed with a hiss. Dean, Agent Harris, and two other individuals were already gathered around the main worktable sitting in the center of the lab. Sherlock's eyes roved hungrily over the monochromatic shelves lined with all sorts of scientific instruments and treasures. All of the experiments he could do—way more than what Mrs. Hudson allowed him to do back at Baker Street.
Oh yes, he could do business here.
"I see you're a man of science, Mr. Holmes," Agent Harris's voice cut into Sherlock's scientific—and possibly sociopathic—daydream. "Maybe if you ask nicely, our resident geniuses will let you have a look-see at some of their toys."
"I just might," Sherlock replied, mostly to himself.
Once the two stragglers filled the empty places around the table, the Doctor found himself once again in between Sherlock and Dean. It was the one spot in the room that hit subzero temperatures, and the Doctor never liked the cold. Too late to move now; all he could do was stand very still and pray another fight didn't break out.
"There's still one missing," said Agent Harris, "but she should be down shortly. In the meantime, we can get down to introductions. As you boys know, I'm Agent Shaw Harris, the head of this team. This here is our biochemist and one-woman medical personnel, Agent Coral King."
Long and lithe, Agent King embodied the royalty carried in her name. Her inky black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she wore a smart, mottled green and brown dress under her pristine white lab coat. Her face was angular, calm, and relaxed, but her eyes were sharp and watching. Her lips pulled into a warm smile. "It's nice to meet you."
"This gentleman," Agent Harris continued, pointing to the tall, burly man with pale blue eyes and close-cropped blonde hair, "is our pilot and tactical specialist, Agent Elliot Gordon. He doesn't say much."
The agent dipped his head at the trio.
Agent Harris regarded both exits with a small frown. "Still not here . . . ah, well. Presently unaccounted for is our engineer, weapons specialist, and IT technician—"
WSSH!
"I'm here! I'm here I'm here I'm here I'm—WAH!"
CRASH!
Everyone save Agents King and Gordon flinched as a small woman raced into the room and, slipping, fell to the ground, sending the large boxes she held flying.
Agent Harris sighed through the nose. "—Agent Melissa Saunders."
Rubbing her head, Agent Saunders groaned. "Oh dear oh dear oh dear!" she said in a gentle British accent. "I'm so sorry! Oh dear, I'm such a mess." While Agent Gordon picked the spilled boxes off the floor and set them on a nearby counter, Agent Saunders shakily stood up and brushed off her lab coat. She was a small woman—barely coming up to the middle of Agent Gordon's upper arm—with mousy brown hair pulled into a sloppy bun and large brown eyes behind even larger glasses. If Dean had to guess her age, he would guess about seventeen or eighteen. I guess they take all ages, he thought.
"Agents, this is supernatural hunter Dean Winchester, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, and . . ." Agent Harris gestured vaguely. ". . . the Doctor."
"Doctor?" said Agent King, arching a thin eyebrow. "Doctor who?"
"Yes, exactly," replied the Doctor.
Agent Saunders gasped. "Sherlock Holmes?" she whispered. "The Sherlock Holmes?"
Dean snorted. "Well I certainly hope there's only the one."
Both ignored him. Sherlock blinked once. Agent Saunders's jaw dropped and she moved around the table to stand beside Sherlock. Dean and the Doctor were practically shoved out of the way. Adjusting her glasses, Agent Saunders stood on her toes and squinted up at Sherlock's face. Sherlock, gradually getting used to strange situations like this, stood there awkwardly and quietly (like the rest of the room) while the agent studied him like something under a microscope.
"You really are him!" she exclaimed after too long. "You're Sherlock Holmes!" Agent Saunders grabbed the detective's hand and shook it forcefully. "What an honor to meet you, sir! I am such a huge fan! When your blog stopped updating for the longest time, my friend Jemma and I were so—"
Sherlock started like her words sent an electric current through him. "Did you say Jemma?"
Saunders, startled and confused, stopped shaking and said, "Yes, that's right."
"What is her last name?" Sherlock demanded more than asked. "How do you know her?" His face was paler than the usual pasty white and his eyes burned. Dean and the Doctor were surprised: this was the most emotion the consulting detective has shown in the short time they've known each other. They didn't think it was even possible.
"Her name is Jemma Simmons," Agent Saunders stammered, "and she's a fellow agent. We met in Uni."
Sherlock relaxed slightly, but the tense fire never left his eyes.
"I see."
"Do you know her?" Dean asked.
". . . No," Sherlock replied flatly. "I was mistaken. My apologies."
For a few extra moments, Agent Saunders scrutinized the detective's face, this time without the fangirlish excitement. Agent Harris cleared his throat. "Mells? The weapons?"
Agent Saunders jumped, dropping Sherlock's hand to rush back to the boxes she brought in. "Whoops! Sorry, chief! Here we are now." With a grunt, the small agent heaved the larger of the two boxes onto the central table and said, "Just got these in."
With a flourish Agent Saunders threw open the lid. Everyone leaned in. Nestled inside were four matte-grey handguns unlike any handgun Dean and Sherlock have ever seen. Its design was a cross-breed between a Nerf gun and something out of a science-fiction movie. Excitement gleamed in Dean's eyes.
Agent Saunders pulled out the top tray to reveal another tray of the same four handguns. "Straight from the inventor himself," introduced Agent Saunders, "I present to you, the Night-Night Pistol."
Agent Harris let out a low whistle and pulled out one. "So this is Fitz's Night-Night Pistol?" he said, turning over the weapon in his hand. "How'd you manage that?"
"Agent Fitz owed me quite the sum from our last poker game," said Agent Saunders with no small amount of smugness. "I was willing to negotiate. There's enough for each of us plus an extra, but I suggest they only be carried out onto the field as needed. I highly doubt I can squeeze more out from that tight-fisted fool if these go missing."
"What do they do?" Dean asked as he reached for one too. Agent Saunders smacked his hand away.
"No touching! This is a very special weapon that can fire off up to eight .45 caliber rounds per magazine, each round holding enough dendrotoxin to incapacitate a full-grown male—the ideal non-lethal short-range weapon. It is NOT to be mishandled by someone who's only been a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent for an hour!"
"May I?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to the pistols.
"Oh absolutely!" she gushed.
"Hey!" Dean protested as Sherlock reached into the box. The Doctor slid over half a step.
Agent Saunders removed the second tray to reveal a final tray holding pieces of another weapon. From the way the pieces were shaped, Dean had to guess it was long-range. "I also managed to wheedle a Night-Night Gun out of the deal," she said as her commanding officer peered into the box. "Just the one though, and I had to pinch the extra cartridges."
"Excellent work, Agent Saunders," said Agent Harris as he put the Night-Night Pistol back in the tray. "From now on, every agent takes one Pistol out into the field and immediately puts it back when they return to the jet. What's in the other box?"
"Equipment, mostly. I still haven't finished the . . . erm . . ." she glanced at the others, ". . . project I've been working on."
"Ah, right. I want that finished ASAP."
"Yes, sir."
"Onto the main objective." Agent Harris pulled out a miniature version of the glass screen Fury used in his briefing (Dean snickered internally) and opened up a picture and a description. "As you already know, we have five crime scenes to hit in as short amount of time as possible. Our first destination is Boulder, Colorado, where the latest victim was killed."
"Jeremy Keatley," said Sherlock, noting the flash in Winchester's eyes.
The Doctor's eyebrows lifted. "How in the world did you deduce that so quickly?"
"I didn't. It was in the file."
"The folder thing on the conference table?" Dean said. "You flipped through that thing so fast there's no way you saw anything but the pictures."
"I'm a quick reader."
"Well at least someone did their homework," replied Agent Harris. "After that, we head over to where the first victim was killed and go right down the list from there."
"Hang on." All eyes turned to the Doctor. "Why start with the first victim? That trail would have gone cold by now and if we waste time there, then the other crime scenes will too."
"He's got a point," Dean commented. "By now, the cops would've done their business and cleaned up the mess. I doubt the bodies will still be in the morgue."
"You don't need to investigate the mess of the first four victims," Agent King spoke up. "That we've already covered and filed away, which you will be studying in between destinations. Agent Saunders has already outfitted your room with a holographic projector so you can investigate the remains in 3D."
"So there are holograms!"
"However," Agent King continued, "S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't pick up these cases until the Agent Wrotham's death linked them all together, so there are still some witnesses and loved ones of the victims we need to contact. Most of the statements gathered from local police proved very unhelpful."
"Hard to ask the right questions when you don't realize the larger issue," sighed Agent Saunders, and Agent Gordon nodded.
Rolling up his sleeve, Agent Harris checked his watch and said, "Just in the nick of time." He unrolled his sleeve. "I've covered everything I needed to cover. Is there anything else someone wants to add?"
"I do." Agent King raised her hand. "I would like the three new recruits to stick around so I can run a few tests, do a quick examination, and record their medical history in the event of an emergency." She regarded the recruits in question. "Will that be a problem?"
"Nope."
"Fine by me."
"If you must."
"Excellent." She smiled.
"Anything else?" asked Agent Harris. "No? Good, that's all for now. We have several hours before we land, so use that time wisely. It's going to be a long couple of weeks, if we're lucky, so I suggest you rest up and prepare for whatever may happen."
That night, after exploring the plane a bit, the Doctor returned to the lounge, back to the seat he had woken up from not too long ago. Even if he hadn't had the nap from earlier, there was no way he would turn in any sooner than he had to, not when he shared a room with two time bombs.
If only Rose were here, some small part of him whispered. She'd know how to handle them. Or at the very least she'd scare them into getting along.
The Doctor sighed heavily as he settled into the leather and leaned his head back. Plane travel was quickly losing what little charm it had to impatience; it was too slow, too inconvenient, and offered very little entertainment. If only he could use the TARDIS—they would've already been at the third crime scene by now.
If only, if only . . .
Dean also avoided conflict by taking a trip down to the cargo hold where his baby was parked. It was much quieter inside the Impala than outside, and if Dean closed his eyes he could almost pretend that he wasn't thousands of miles from . . . not home, per se. More like general normalcy. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that Sam would slide into the passenger seat at any moment with his usual "So get this . . ." or that Cas would appear out of thin air in the backseat, impart some angelic fortune-cookie wisdom, and poof away again.
If only, if only . . .
Dean kept his eyes wide open as he took another swig from the beer in his hand, his fourth today. Or was it his fifth?
You know, for the crap that he goes through on a daily basis, you'd think that he'd get a little more out of saving people than, say, more crap to deal with. He thought back to his time on the helicarrier, while he was waiting for Fury to show up. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had bustled in a purposeful mess so the whole floor looked like the inside of a beehive. Dean remembered watching them with interest. Those men and women were all soldiers; he could see it in their eyes and in the hardness of their faces, both of which he saw in the mirror every morning. The only difference was those guys got a federal salary out of it. If you were going to help people for a living, you might as well get paid for it, right? Air travel wouldn't be too bad—he shuddered internally—so long as he doesn't look out the windows or think about the fifty thousand miles between him and the ground. When this was all said and done, he and Sammy could switch majors and work for S.H.I.E.L.D. . . .
. . . .
Nah.
He finished off his drink in annoyance; this was definitely the beer talking. It was one thing to impersonate a federal agent—it's a completely different animal actually being a federal agent. All of the hoops and regulations to jump through just to get anything done, only a complete idiot signs up for that kind of headache.
No, it's better to dig up graves now and ask permission never.
Sherlock was the only one who immediately returned to their room after the meeting ended, eager to start pouring over evidence.
The room he was to share with his new "playmates" was small, way too small for three very grown men to use at once. One side of the room was taken up by a bunk bed, the opposite side by a single bed. Naturally Sherlock claimed the single bed for himself and contented himself with letting the other two fight out top-and-bottom bunk. There were two windows, a small bookshelf for case files in between, and enough floor space between the two beds for the overhead holographic projector to project full-body images of the victims. In his exploration of his new living space, Sherlock discovered that this section of the floor could be lifted open and used for storage.
The consulting detective first absorbed all the files on the bookshelf, giving each reference material way more time than the look-over he had given to the victim file on the helicarrier. Though he would have preferred one of the electronic tablets Agent Harris used, Sherlock was pleased to find the case files were very organized and even more detailed. There was one thick folder listing and biographing all of the potential suspects S.H.I.E.L.D. has come up with, three-fourths of which Sherlock ruled out on the spot.
Once he finished there, he used the control pad over the bookshelf to power up the holographic projector. He certainly hoped that he would have the opportunity to examine the actual corpses and not just their holograms: as detailed and life-like as the holograms were, there was something more assuring about the presence of a flesh-and-blood carcass, like his deductions were more right for examining the physical rather than the image. Still, he could make do for the time being.
The projector also had full floor plans of each of the residences the victims were killed in; he found out how to mark certain spots for future reference.
I need one for the flat, he mused to himself as he zoomed in on one victim's kitchen. Right over the living room. I wonder if Mrs. Hudson would approve. John certainly would—
Sherlock paused. Not for the first time, he had to remind himself that John didn't live at 221b anymore. He wasn't even sure where his friend was at the moment.
A very sour taste filled Sherlock's mouth and his stomach turned. If only he had at least one tiny little clue, something more than a smudged maybe-a-paw-print to go off of, something that would point to a where instead of a who or what, the more important part of the case would be solved more quickly.
If only, if only . . .
Sherlock shook his head and gave his face a smack to snap himself back to reality. This always happened the moment he let his mind wander away from the case, and it was getting harder to refocus his attention back onto what needed to be done.
Suddenly very drained, Sherlock cut off the projector.
When Dean and the Doctor finally turned in for the night, both tired and in heavy spirits, they found their room completely dark and Sherlock already in bed, presumably fast asleep. A snide remark formed on Winchester's lips, but he decided to drop it.
It took all of three seconds for Dean and the Doctor to wordlessly decide who would take the top and bottom bunks. As Dean climbed up the ladder, the Doctor closed the door and crawled into bed. The dark grew still.
Despite what they originally thought, Sherlock was, in fact, not asleep. Not even close. Like his two roommates, sleep danced just beyond his reach because his body knew something his mind did not.
Something was happening. Something greater than their three minds collectively could begin to imagine.
For now, with their weapons of choice tucked away under their pillows, our heroes subconsciously contented themselves with the knowledge that their loved ones were only missing, possibly kidnapped.
If only, if only . . .