A/N: Please don't kill me! I am so sorry, and I'm not even going to begin to try and come up with an excuse. Without further ado….
Disclaimer: I obviously don't own either of these shows, otherwise why would I be writing fanfics?
The first person that Sherlock deduced knew anything at all was a young woman who lived under a bridge with her baby. She was able to tell them that the bridge had been haunted- and yes, she used those exact words- by a woman with black eyes. Completely black, no irises at all. At this Sherlock and Dean exchanged a look, one that said, "crap, this sucks." Really, the understatement of the century.
As the pair walked away from the woman, Dean had the inexplicable feeling of being watched. He whirled around, and saw a man in a tan trenchcoat. The man stared at him a little while longer, then disappeared. Dean could've sworn on Baby that he had seen a flicker of wings, illuminated for a second against the sun, with black feathers. He shook his head, but the image was imprinted on his retinas.
Sherlock noticed Dean's behavior, but only turned around in time to see the man disappear. He, too, shook his head, convinced that his brain was playing tricks on him. Sherlock flagged down a taxi, much to Dean's annoyance.
"What the hell, Shirly? I thought we were going to track down people who might know something, not go riding in a cab! Which, by the way, I have no money to pay for." At this, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just get in the cab, Dean." Sherlock then leaned forward and told the driver to go to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock had made up his mind that it was time to get help from a military man, someone who knew how to interrogate somebody without shooting them, because that's what both Dean and Sherlock had threatened multiple people with.
The cab pulled up to the familiar front (for Sherlock) of Speedy's cafe, and the unlikely duo got out of the cab, Sherlock telling the man to send the bill to Mycroft Holmes. At this point, Sherlock had seen multiple CCTV cameras swiveling in their directions, then back to their normal course, then back to Dean and Sherlock. He was positive that Mycroft knew he was back, but was (for now) respecting Sherlock's need to contact John.
Speaking of John, Sherlock walked up to the black door and raised the knocker, once, twice, three times, before he lost his nerve. As predicted, Mrs. Hudson answered the door, her face a little more weathered than it had been that last time she'd seen Sherlock. She opened her mouth to scream, but Dean quickly covered it, knowing that Sherlock wanted to surprise his blogger. Finally, once they'd established that Sherlock was indeed Sherlock, and that his American friend was just that- a friend- Mrs. Hudson allowed them upstairs to see John, again giving them privacy. Dean trailed after Sherlock, wanting to meet the man who had so obviously earned Sherlock's trust (and, he sometimes thought, love, but that would be impossible, right?).
Sherlock waltzed into the living room, and beelined straight for his violin. He tuned it, then played "God Save the Queen", something he was certain John would catch.
John indeed caught the tune, and came downstairs with his gun loaded and ready to shoot the intruders playing on Sherlock's violin. Luckily for Dean, John saw Sherlock first, meaning that Dean got to live another day. John faltered, sure that he was hallucinating. He pinched himself to be sure, and when he had ascertained that it was his best friend, he walked over to Sherlock and slugged him in the face. Dean had to stifle a snigger as Sherlock doubled over, his cheek cupped in one hand, his other hand holding his violin. After what seemed an eternity, Sherlock straightened and set his violin down. He looked down at John, who hugged him, then let go and turned away. Dean knew he was crying, but he didn't show it as he turned back to Sherlock and slugged him in the face again. Sherlock stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over the coffee table but managing to catch himself. John finally dared to talk, barely trusting his voice.
"You were dead. A cold body in the ground. I mourned for months, Sherlock. Do you know what that's like? Losing your… losing your best friend?" John glared at Sherlock, but Dean could tell his heart wasn't in it. Sherlock was at a loss for words, but he managed to piss John off even more by nodding. Then he started to talk. "I- John, I'm sorry. You have no idea what it was like, where we were. Stuck for what seemed like years." He started to open his mouth to talk more, but John cut him off. "Excuse me, Sherlock, we?" Then he noticed Dean.
John's eyes narrowed, a danger sign. He started advancing towards Dean, who put his hand in his pocket and took a defensive stance, which didn't help. The hunter was fierce, but he couldn't hold a candle to the former soldier when he was grieving.
A/N: You have no idea how sorry I am. I went on hiatus almost a year ago from most of my stories, because of awful writer's block and school, but I should be fine now. Please let me know if you're still interested in this story and my others, if you've read them.
~TWLS