A/N: So sorry for the longish wait. I do have a good reason though. I finally finished season 5 of Supernatural! But no spoilers, please! Disclaimer: I don't even have a job, what makes you think I could own two shows?
Sherlock and Dean heard it at the same time; the voice again. It spoke, though it sounded duller this time. "Welcome to London. You are meant to be here. You need to be here." Dean snorted. "London? Why London? Couldn't we go somewhere normal like, oh I don't know, America!?" He then glanced at Sherlock, who seemed completely unfazed. Slowly it dawned on him and he remembered something about the way Sherlock talked. It was almost like he had an accent... A British accent... "Oh my god, you lived here? In London?" Sherlock looked at Dean. "Glad to see you finally catching on, Dean. Only took you forty years." The voice sounded again, and Sherlock and Dean covered their ears. "Work together. You will find something that suits both of your talents soon enough. Goodbye, Dean Winchester, Sherlock Holmes." There was a faint sound, like wings, and the light was gone.
Sherlock and Dean were in a cemetery, near a black headstone. Sherlock stiffened, deducing quickly. It wasn't hard. All you had to do was put together the angel's clues -of course it was an angel, what else could scare demons?- and you arrived to the conclusion. Just to check, though he knew he was right, Sherlock walked around to the other side of the grave. There were two words chiseled into the black stone, nothing more. Two words that were impossible, considering the man looking at them. Two little words that made up a name. Sherlock Holmes.
Dean followed Sherlock, who had suddenly grown tense. He looked where Sherlock was looking, saw what Sherlock saw. "Wait, are you kidding? We're at your freaking grave? " He twitched his eyebrows upwards. "Do we need to get salt and a lighter?" Dean chuckled at his own joke, but Sherlock said nothing. In fact, all he did was stand there, looking slightly disoriented. Any other man would have an expression of complete and utter shock and disbelief on their face. They would be stunned. Not so with Sherlock. It was actually kinda unnerving, or at least Dean thought so. A man looking at his own grave, and he only looked slightly disoriented.
The man in question finally looked away from the black, and towards the street. He saw a taxi drive closer, saw it stop, watched a person get out. Upon closer inspection, it was a short, blond man. Sherlock realized who it was. "Quick, Dean, over there, behind the trees. Come on, quickly!" Dean walked over grudgingly. "OK, OK, sheesh. What the hell, man?" Sherlock could only point at the man walking closer. Dean didn't realize who it was, so he did some finger gestures of his own. Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "It-it's John..." He trailed off, and Dean remembered what Sherlock had told him. 'I jumped...to save my friends...' Apparently this was one of Sherlock's friends, though Dean was hard put to know a name, seeing as he had never been told any. "OK, John. Was he one of dudes Morifarty wanted to shoot?" Sherlock smiled sadly at Dean's nickname for his nemesis. "Yes, that is John. Uh, John Watson. My, uh, flatmate. He, um. He was the one I, uh. I talked to before... Um, well, before I fell." Sherlock had more emotion in his eyes than Dean thought he was capable of. "You mean before you jumped." Always the comforter, that was Dean. Sherlock flinched. "What an apt description. Um, well, he was my partner in crime. Literally. The last thing I did before I got to the hospital was kidnap him and run away from about twenty of London's finest. Well, I say finest... Finest idiots." Dean almost chuckled, but he then remembered that the hushed voices and hiding were for a reason.
For a while, the two sat in silence and watched John.
John wasn't feeling his best. It had been four months since that terrible day, but it felt like four years. Four long months of flat-hunting, fishing for pity dates, and mostly sitting around Baker Street in Sherlock's chair. It was painful at first, but John had taken to drinking every other night. He could see why Harry liked alcohol so much. It dulled the pain from gunshots all over his body to a much better sharp knife in his gut. He looked up as he got closer to Sherlock's grave, and he thought he saw someone in the trees near the black slab. A specific someone... But he was dead. Dead and gone. Just a cold corpse in the ground with a bashed-in head.
A/N: Well that was somewhat depressing to write. To be honest, I hadn't been planning on including John at all, but he demanded to be a part of this story. Maybe next time will bring a bit more Supernatural...