Author's Notes: Well, another fairly boring chapter but action is coming soon, I promise! I didn't realize how complex this story could be until I dug up all my old notes for it. I'm glad to see at least some of you are still reading! For those of you who are new: welcome! I hope you're enjoying it! For old comers: I have missed you greatly. Am I still holding up to expectations?

Now, business: Since this week and weekend as well as the coming ones are incredibly busy I'm updating everything a day earlier than normal. This means I'll update today (Wednesday), Saturday, Wednesday and then you'll have to wait and extra day as I start posting on Sunday again (that Saturday is my graduation.)

Anyways, I did get a review but I would love to hear more of what you guys think! Tell me what you like, what you dislike, what you want to see more of! Review for me please? But most importantly, enjoy!

It had taken Dean a couple of hours to locate the unconscious ginger. The TARDIS seemed to want to give her time to recover from the alcohol plaguing her system before she was submitted to scrutiny by the hunter. He wandered through dead end corridor after dead end corridor, seemingly unable to find anything in the belly of the ship.

When he finally did find Amy, he was hesitant about going in. He had found her in a bed, thankfully. He thought Cas might have dumped her in a corner and left her there to sleep off her drunkenness. Castiel, angel of the Lord, didn't much concern himself with human comforts. It was the reason Dean had almost gone straight past the room.

Despite his boots and his bulk, he still moved silently across the floor. A lifetime of training meant some habits were impossible to break. He would always walk as though he were ambushing an enemy. This was the way he approached Amelia Pond, accompanied by a grim look on his face. The memories of what he had done were still fresh in his mind.

The hunter didn't have to close his eyes to bring up memories of the cave. He could smell the damp air, hear the screams of the demon inside of her. He could feel warm, sticky blood coating his hands as he regressed into the animal Hell had created, the primal beast whose only desire was to hear the screams of those on his table, despite his excuse of looking for information. Perhaps the unholy desires of torture would never leave him, not truly.

Dean dropped heavily into the chair beside the bed, watching the ginger stir vaguely. He had killed her. The guilt he had been feeling had reached past the memory block into his waking life, the pain he had felt at betraying her that way. He should have done something else, anything else to the demon. He should have found another exorcism, forced the spirit out of her. But what had he done instead? He had murdered her.

"Dean?" A sleepy murmur brought his bowed head up to look at her. Her green eyes were blinking slowly at him, confusion evident. "Dean? Where's Cas?" The sound of her voice brought a new flash of guilt, cutting him to the heart. He could hear the deceptions whispered by the demon, hear her words as she begged him to end it, to save himself and the others in the arena.

"Dean. The demon's trying to take control. You have to do it now. I can't control it for long. Please. Dean."

"Goodbye, Princess."

"Dean? Are you okay?" She was looking at him with concern now, sitting up on the bed with a puzzled expression on her face. She wasn't dead now, was she? Somehow, they were alive. They were both alive. Sherlock Holmes had shot Dean in the head but somehow he was still alive, his heart was beating. Forced hallucination? But why was Amy involved? And why block the memories?

"Looking a little green around the gills there, princess. You feeling alright?" It took every effort to keep the shake out of his voice. It was more than a little frightening, looking at her and knowing exactly what it looked like to see the life drain out of her eyes, to feel her body limp in his arms as the chill cave air pulled the heat from the corpse.

"I-" As if suddenly reminded by his words, she clapped a hand over her mouth, jumping up and darting across the room towards another door. Dean, knowing that this was certainly a result of whatever drinks Cas had gotten into her system, followed slowly. She curled over the toilet, emptying her stomach into the bowl. Without a second thought, he came forward to pull her hair out of the way, ever gentle with the ginger locks. The cinnamon smell was familiar to him and it almost brought him to vomiting himself, though his cause was not a hangover, but guilt.

When she finally finished, she collapsed back onto the tile floor, leaning her back against the edge of the bathtub. "Remind me never to get in a drinking contest with an angel." She told him, lifting a hand to her head. A faint smile was on his face though it vanished soon later. "Looks like he pulled you out of the dream root anyways."

"You tried to stop him?" He asked, looking down at the top of her head as she leaned it into her knees, groaning slightly.

"Yeah. The Doctor needs to be fixed before we do anything. You and Sam were the best chance he had. Now Sam and those other two are the best chance." She moaned again, pressing brightly colored nails into her temple. "I have a headache like you wouldn't believe." Dean smiled faintly and moved to scoop her into his arms. The noise of surprise she made intensified the smile, nearly turning it into a laugh.

"Come along, Princess Pond. Back to bed with you."

"I am perfectly capable of walking."

"Sure you are." He still didn't put her down, carrying her out of the adjacent bathroom and back into the bedroom, placing her gently on the bed. "Is this your room?"

"No." She pulled the white blankets back around her before laying her head on the pillow. Her bright hair fanned out, a sharp contrast against the white. She was as striking as ever. It wasn't hard to see where Dean's nickname came from. She could have easily been royalty, a queen in a crown, issuing orders to thousands of men ready to die for her.

"This is the Doctor's room. I've only been in here once before."

"The Doctor. How do you know him? I don't suppose you're an alien too."

"Well, we're the aliens to him, aren't we? But no. Scottish bred and born." She began to describe her initial meeting with the Doctor, outlining the childlike wonder at the magic box and the raggedy man inside. She then went on to explain how she met him later, how they became friends and traveled together before she finished with how she was trapped in 1940.

Dean was grave as he listened to the descriptions of everything the Doctor had done and her admiration for him. She described him as a great hero, someone who would sacrifice anything for those he loved, including Amy herself. The more he listened the more he realized that she must adore him. He thought it could even go beyond that. He thought she loved him. He should have realized.

"He sounds great, Amy."

"I simply can't find the jelly bellies."

"Well, don't worry about it. You've got to get back to you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Here, take this." The Doctor took the strange device, looking it over with a look of understanding. "Good luck!" Clara smiled at him, her childlike face giving her an air of innocence and trustworthiness. The Doctor smiled at her before following the instructions of the device and heading out of the kitchen to go and merge with his other selves.

"How many is that?" John Watson asked, looking between the impossible girl and the consulting detective.

"Too many." Clara said with an exaggerated sigh. "Do you think we need to eat while we're in here?"

"It seems highly illogical." The cold voice of Sherlock Holmes put an answer to her question. "You can't feed an illusion. It's ludicrous."

"Well, I'm hungry anyways so I'm going to make us a souffle." Clara smirked at him, spinning on her heel and sending her hair flying out in many directions. John watched them with an amused sort of smirk. Sherlock clearly did not know how to handle the spunky girl. He was far too cold, too somber for her. He would have to loosen up a bit if he wanted Clara's full cooperation.

"You boys had better make yourselves comfortable." John did just that, pulling a chair from the corner of the kitchen. Sherlock remained standing, watching Clara carefully. John knew that look. It was one that Sherlock had when he was trying to figure out the best way to approach a situation involving human emotion, something with which Sherlock was completely clueless.

As Clara went around the kitchen, pulling out things from around the kitchen, Sherlock's eyes followed her. It was hopeless to try and figure out what was going on in his mind. John had learned that most often it was better to not even try, simply let Sherlock think out his problems on his own. He thought faster than normal humans, a fact that made him impossible to keep up with.

"I once knew a woman who could learn anything she wished from anyone she wanted. Her name was Irene Adler." Sherlock spoke only to Clara and didn't look at John when he cast a look at the taller man. Sherlock moved closer to the woman, eyes glued to her face as he watched her facial expressions and reactions to his words.

"Was she you girlfriend?" Clara glanced at Sherlock with a smirk, her hands never stopping with their work. She moved with the practice of someone who had done the act a hundred times over the years. Her hands knew what they were doing almost without conscious thought. It was a talent that came with practice.

"She was an adversary. I defeated her." John watched the consultant detective carefully. Irene Adler, to the best of John Watson's knowledge was dead. Mycroft had told him so and there was no reason he had to disbelieve him. "She had dark hair, bright red lips." John was puzzled now as he listened to Sherlock going on to describe Irene's appearance in full detail. What was he getting at?

"She sounds nice." Clara put the souffle into the oven, smiling slightly. "But why are you telling me about her?" Sherlock didn't answer but turned on his heel, a vague irritation in his eyes. As he passed his friend, John could have sword he heard him whisper something. But it must have been his imagination. There was no reason for Sherlock to say such a thing.

"Because I'm trying to get you to remember."