Disclaimer: I wish I owned the Weeping Angels, because they are terrifying, but sadly, I do not.

Three

Unseen Ones

There was a path of ivy crawling up into the doorway, which was empty since the door itself had been kicked in and was sprawled on the floor in two pieces. It was half-buried under the mess of broken plaster and strips of lifeless wall paper, like it had made a grave for itself. Through the mess, a path had been cleared through years of people entering the house – the only evidence that people came in here before they disappeared.

One by one, Sherlock, Dean, John and Sam entered the first room of the house, all quiet with anticipation.

The room was bright since it was facing the west were the sun was setting. Orange light poured through tall, narrow windows and lit up the pale yellow wallpaper. The room was a beacon, luring them further and further into the confines of the house… However, when they went into the corridor, all the light seemed to shrink away. The four of them had to rely on their torches – or flashlights, in Sam and Dean's case – to guide them around the building.

Sherlock marched ahead and then came to an abrupt stop at the foot of the stairs. He began to rapidly move the light from his torch in different areas: wherever his eyes went, the light followed, as the great detective took in every detail as he would a single breath: a means to survive. He noticed a light switch, but it was clear it wouldn't work because the casing was cracked, as well as the fact that no one would have bothered to replace the light bulbs in a dis-used house. The detective paused and closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply taking in the scent of dust – specifically concentrate and stucco, which told him the house could have been built as far back as the 50's – and the thick smell felt wet in his nostrils.

Behind Sherlock, Dean was staring at him. To Dean, the detective seemed to be having a fit, waving his torch like that, and then when Sherlock suddenly stopped and inhaled, he just raised his eyebrow. He was about to tap Sherlock on the shoulder to make a snarky comment about wasting time, but Sherlock seemed to restart and he swung round and took a large stride into the next room. Dean didn't follow for a moment. He looked up the stair case, but he couldn't see anything beyond the top few steps. It made him nervous to have a blind spot, and his hand fell to the knife in his pocket. After a moment or so, Dean moved on, determined that there was nothing there.

For now.

John followed Dean, his footsteps silent even though he was wearing boots. His treads were perfectly co-ordinated, placed with extreme care, like he was walking through a mine field. He stopped, his torch light darting to the roof, when he thought he heard a creak from upstairs…it's just the house, he told himself. He rolled his shoulders back and stood up taller.

Behind him, Sam was glancing in every direction, looking over his shoulder from time to time to see if they were being followed – something that happened often on the hunts he went on with Dean. Each time Sam looked over his shoulder, there was nobody there, but still he couldn't shake off the daunting feeling that they were not alone.

Something hissed under his foot.

Sam jumped, but relaxed when he realised it was just him stepping on plaster. John had spun round in alarm, but Sam quickly held up his hands to signal that it was only him. John's shoulders sagged in relief, and then he turned towards the second room where Dean and Sherlock had already entered. Sam paused by the door. It was much lighter in the second room, much to his relief because the darkness was beginning to grate on his nerves. However it wasn't the only aspect of the house that was grating against Sam's nerves; the Syndrome feeling seemed to become stronger the closer they were to this particular room, and it made Sam hesitate to enter it.

"Do you feel that?" Sam asked John in a quiet voice, barely breaking the silence.

John blinked over at him, "Feel what?"

"That…tingling feeling." Sam replied, though it was hardly a tingling sensation any more. Now it was as clear and heavy as a thick coat over his shoulders; a great mass weighing down on him. Surely John could feel it? Everyone else had.

John gave him the answer he was not expecting. He gave him a reassuring smile, "It's probably just your imagination." He replied and moved to follow Sherlock and Dean into the second room.

This room was a greyish green overall compared to the other. There was a large window with no glass that showed the view of a greenhouse and, like every other garden they had seen today, it was untidy and growing out of control. The wall paper was once a rich blue with a repeated white flower pattern, but over time it faded to a dismal grey and was hanging off the wall. As the four of them explored the room, the floorboards creaked and moaned in protest.

On the far wall, where the wall paper had been ripped away to show a bright green beneath, there was a strange message scrawled messily in black ink:

BEWARE THE WEEPING ANGELS. OH AND DUCK. NO REALLY. DUCK! SALLY SPARROW. DUCK NOW!

LOVE FROM THE DOCTOR (1969)

Dean smirked when he saw it. Not your average love confession, he thought, most people write their initials in a heart. Of course, Dean would know. He had done it with quite a few girls himself, especially in High School. He never really paid attention to meaning behind it however: he was young and wanted excitement between hunts and he knew that girls liked a touch of romance; although the message on the wall was anything but romantic. And what was that about ducks?

Meanwhile, Sherlock began to study the scrawling. He moved his head to peer at it from different angles, the gears in his mind grinding away. He cocked his head to the side, and imagined the wall was covered in wall paper. If he was to reach up to the top and pull the paper down, the word 'BEWARE' would appear first. Then if he continued ripping the wall paper off, the next words would appear in the order they made sense in. Could be a coincidence, Sherlock thought, but the universe is rarely so lazy. He leaned forwards and took a large sniff of the ink. Sherlock licked his thumb and rubbed the base of the letter 'B' and it smudged. He sensed that the other three were watching him and smiled at that, liking to be the centre of attention.

As usual, John was waiting patiently for his friend, but part of him wondered why Sherlock was trying to deduce a wall, of all things. Sam was watching Sherlock, perplexed yet fascinated by what he was doing, trying to match this man with the detective he read about in his childhood books. Dean was just staring at Sherlock like he was insane.

At last, Dean quipped, "What are you doing, Kojak? Looking for intelligent life?"

"Any life found here would be far more intelligent than yours." Sherlock replied immediately and pushed himself away from the wall, and said, "This is Carbon ink. It's long-lasting and doesn't fade in sunlight, but it smudges in wet conditions. The words were placed here as the house was being built, before the wall paper went up, because they were placed in a fashion that would mean someone would discover them and read them in the right order."

There was a moment of silence where Sherlock's words were allowed to sink in.

"So, what are you saying?" Sam asked, "That someone is trying to warn us?"

"About the 'Weeping Angels'?" John said doubtfully, "It sounds like an emo rock band, in which case we should beware."

Sam grinned at him.

Dean was looking at the wall, intrigued by the message, when he felt a breath of air brush against his neck. At first he ignored it – it's nothing -but it happen again and again, like someone desperate for attention. Dean looked back down the corridor then froze.

The woman was stood there; the one dressed in white from his dream; the one who gave him Death's ring. She almost the same as she did before: she was still wearing the white dress and the white orchid was still tucked behind her ear. However, her hair style was different. Instead of her bronze curls spilling over her shoulders, they were tied back in a long ponytail. Upon seeing her, Dean felt a throbbing in his chest and winced.

"Dean." The woman said urgently, "Look behind you."

Dean did not. He stared at the woman, wondering if the others would see her – if they could see her. So far they hadn't reacted, but Dean didn't want to check in case the woman vanished when he turned away.

"Look behind you." She repeated, louder this time. When Dean didn't respond, she began making her way towards him. Dean held his ground, not wanting to show that he was a little intimidated by the strange woman. As she approached him, the throbbing in his chest hurt more and more, and he bit his lip against the pain until it was almost unbearable – at which point the woman passed through him like air. Dean spun round, but she was gone. The only thing that was behind him was a large window which lead to a greenhouse and in the greenhouse; surround by a fog of leaves; was a lonely grey statue.

The statue was an angel, with large wings sprouting out from its back. It appeared to a woman, with a long dress that, even though it was stone, appeared to be flowing around her ankles, which were lost in the overgrown garden. Delicate hands covered her face, as though she was weeping.

Dean glanced back down the corridor where the nightmare-woman had been, but she was no longer there. He felt someone touch his shoulder and tensed up, spinning round to see Sam.

"Whoa." Sam murmured, shocked at the movement, "You okay?"

Dean looked at him for a moment. Why hadn't Sam seen the woman? Who was she? What does she want? At last, he nodded, "Yeah, yeah. Fine."

Sam raised his eyebrow, "Are you sure? You zoned out for a second there."

"Yeah, I'm fine. I was…" Dean hesitated. Lying to Sammy felt wrong, but it didn't mean he should tell him the truth. "Thinking." He finished. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't exactly the truth either.

"God help us all."

Dean spun round and glared at Sherlock. "I heard that!"

As John rolled his eyes at the two men's bickering, he heard the sound of rustling leaves and turned to the greenhouse. He frowned, eyes squinting, and without turning around, he called out to the others, "Um…Guys?"

No one had heard him. Dean was busy glaring at Sherlock, while the detective returned the gaze neutrally. Sam was holding his brother back by the arm.

"Dean – don't." Sam was saying, "Not again."

"Listen to your brother. He clearly has a slightly above average IQ, which is a lot more than your own, and it's unnecessary to start any stupid brawls, especially since I'm trying to do you a favour. Stop thinking, Dean Winchester, it is both physically painful and hideous watching you try."

When Dean managed to untangle the mess of words that Sherlock spat out at him – halfway through he registered a quiet "hey, men?" but chose to ignore it for what the detective was saying – he stopped short and glared at Sherlock. He snapped, pointing his finger close to Sherlock's face, "Don't insult Sammy!"

There was a pause, in which Sam frowned and Sherlock just stared.

"Um…" Sam said at last, "He wasn't."

Sherlock huffed, "Moron."

Meanwhile, John was looking between the three of them. He didn't really want to use his soldier-voice, but it appeared he might have to; since the three of them where so far gone in their argument to even notice that he was trying to get their attention. He waved his hands in exasperation and tried again, a little louder, "Guys? Hello?"

Dean growled at Sherlock, "You're a dick, you know that?"

"Yes, yes…as you are keen on reminding us all." Sherlock drawled, "Are you capable of doing anything else?"

"Gentlemen!" John barked, his voice so commanding that it could not be ignored. It reminded Dean of his father, and he almost shivered, looking over to where John was stood.

Everyone had now stopped talking, and was looking over at John.

John looked between them and when he was sure he had their full attention, he turned, and pointed his torch at the gardens, "Was that statue like that before?"

Everyone was silent. They all stared at the statue. Sam's eyes were wide. Sherlock's eyes were narrowed. John was squinting, shifting from one foot to another. Dean was gawking a little, his eyes big.

The statue of the angel was stood in the greenhouse, but it was a lot closer than any of them remembered. But that wasn't the strangest part – its hands, which had covered its eyes, were now lowered, and two freakish eyes with no pupils were staring back at them.

Dean took out his Colt M1911A1, "No. It's moved."

"Don't be absurd!" hissed Sherlock, but for the first time that day, he didn't sound sure of himself. He looked confused, and he was agitated because of that.

"Beware the Weeping Angels." Sam murmured, reciting what was on the wall. He glanced over at Dean, then at John, who was staring at him.

"You don't actually think…" He stopped, glanced over his shoulder at the statue, and then back again. John shook his head, "No. We probably just imagined it."

Their attention snapped back to the statue as they heard leaves in the greenhouse rustling. But it was just the wind, and the statue hadn't moved. Maybe they had just imagined it…

The wind became blustery, picking up the leaves in the room and swirling them around. The bushes outside bent double and flung about; the gate outside rattled; the leaves in the room began to swirl. It was terrifying after the place was so still and lifeless a moment before. John frowned, as he thought he heard an odd echo on the wind that sounded as though it was coming from all around them, but then it seemed to focus in one place. John turned around, "What the hell is that noise?"

The others turned too. Dean and Sam confused, as they just thought it was just the wind. Sherlock was sharp and focused, for his hearing was trained to be better than that of Dean's, John's or Sam's and he heard something else on the wind, like a warping metallic sound. He also heard shuffling on the floorboards and within a millisecond his brain told him: None of us are moving.

Sherlock turned, but there was nothing. That's strange. I could have sworn I heard…

A creak.

Sherlock twirled back around to come face to face with a pair of cold, dead eyes. The angel statue stood nose-to-nose with Sherlock, its teeth sharpened into two rows of stone fangs, barely a millimetre away from piercing his skin. Sherlock let out a quiet, strangled sound and stared, wide-eyed with disbelief, fear and shock, into the cold stone eyes of the angel and found himself unable to look away.

"What the hell?" Sam breathed, backing up.

John pulled out his Browning L9A1, and pointed it at the statue, only hesitating when logic questioned his actions, "How does it do that? It's just a statue."

Dean's hand gripped his knife out of instinct – but what then? Dean couldn't stab a statue. He thought about salt, or iron, but how could he know what to do without knowing what he was fighting? He glanced over at Sam. "Sammy?"

Sam didn't look at him. He was stock-still, staring hard at the statue. He shook his head: He was just as clueless as Dean was.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had taken a small step back. He shifted the torch in his hands and pointed it at the angels face, lighting up the horrifying snarl with a pale ghostly light. Then he gingerly reached his hand out towards the angel.

John sucked in a sharp breath, "Sherlock…"

Sherlock touched the angel. His slender fingers delicately traced the wrinkles around the statues snarling mouth. "That's not…" he pulled his hand back sharply.

Sam twitched at the movement.

John licked his dry lips, "What is it?"

"It's granite." Sherlock said, shaking his head slowly, "But it can't…"

Dean stared at him with disbelief, "Wait – are you saying that that thing is…" Dean was briefly distracted by his flashlight flickering "…stone?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again.

"We should get out of here." Sam said.

"I agree." John said, looking at Sherlock nervously, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded. He began to back away from the statue and come round to where the others where the stood. He saw that the angel had moved from the greenhouse to next to him in less than a second. Impossible! Nothing could move that fast… He turned to John – sometimes John would say just the right thing; the thing that would help him solve the mystery. John seemed to sense that Sherlock was looking at him because he looked up at his friend and shook his head. Dean and Sam turned and glanced at him also, and then…

"Jesus Christ!"

The angel had moved again. It was barely a metre away from them, reaching out towards them with its sharp claws like it wanted to carve into them.

"Every time we look away it's closer!"

"Okay then." Sam gulped, nodding to reassure himself, "Don't look away. There's just one, so if one person at least is looking in its direction the whole time, it can't follow us right?"

"That might be a bit of a problem." John breathed. He cleared his throat, struggling for air as he tried to keep his breathing quiet and steady, like he would have done in the war. "We only have torches and it's almost night-time." He cleared his throat again, "…It's going to be a bit difficult to see it, don't you think?"

It was true. The sky was becoming a mauve-blue now that the sun was gone. The twilight was their only source of natural light. What was worse, the moment John pointed this out, every light in the room decided to flicker all at once.

John shook his head in astonishment, "Oh, that's not fair."

"Any one got any bright ideas?" Dean asked, a tense smile on his face. His flashlight flickered again and he gulped.

"Time and a place, Dean." Sam said, breathing heavily.

There was a rustle, and everybody stopped.

Something was moving behind them.

"Don't turn around!" a voice cried, suddenly, making Sam jump who was closest to it. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, "Don't blink, okay? You're doing great. Here, take this." Sam felt him push something thin and cool into his hand, and then the stranger gently grabbed his elbow and lifted his arm up. Sam saw that he was holding a hand mirror, with the reflective side facing the angel.

"What are you doing?" Sam hissed, resisting the urge to flinch.

"Just use the mirror." The stranger said, not answering his question, "Oh, and don't look into its eyes."

"Why?!" cried John, confused and alarmed.

"You'll thank me later." was the reply.

Sam used the mirror like the man said had and held it up between him and the glaring eyes of the Weeping Angel, so he could no longer see its face. When the statue showed no signs of movement, his shoulders shagged in relief. He risked a look at their saviour.

He moved swiftly and mysteriously, with a skip in his step, his long purple-brown frock coat flapping about. He wore a grey waistcoat beneath it, and black trousers and black ankle-high boots. He also wore a brown bow-tie and a blue shirt. There was a strange contraption over his chest, held there by a leather strap over his right shoulder. It was mostly black with a grey circular panel in the centre that appeared to be a light of some sort, although it was switched off. There was a mirror attached to the top with a flexible tube, which jutted out over the man's left shoulder. The man glanced in the mirror constantly.

Dean had also been handed a mirror, and was looking between the stranger and the Weeping Angel cautiously, almost questioning which one would attack first.

"I only have two spare mirrors." He looked apologetically at John and Sherlock, who just stared back and then turned to Sam and Dean, "Two of my companions left those behind, so be careful!"

"Look at us…" Dean scoffed, "Using mirrors like we're fighting frigging Medusa!"

"Nice comparison, only Medusa turns you to stone when you look at her, but when you look at an Angel, they're the ones who turn to stone!" He pushed his brown hair back from his eyes. Raising a finger, he declared, "Now, we need to get out of here before it gets too dark, or the mirrors will be useless." He looked pointedly at the torches they were carrying, and nodded to them with his large chin, "And those won't do you any good, I'm afraid. They can drain the light out of them."

"Who are you?" Sam asked.

"The Doctor." The other swiftly answered, "Now, no more questions. Make your way out the door, I'll cover you."

No one moved, either too scared or too distrusting; it was hard to tell. However, that was until Sam moved, deciding to put his trust into this stranger, and he inched towards the door, constantly pointing his mirror at the statue. On instinct, Dean followed his brother, doing the same as him. The Doctor nodded encouragingly, turning his back on the angel. He adjusted his mirror so he could walk forwards and watch the angel at the same time. He gave John a friendly tap on the shoulder, and the man started, but was encouraged to move. After John began to move, Sherlock began to stalk out as well.

When Sam and Dean made it out of the room, they turned to run out of that house forever, but then they jolted to a stop. Another Weeping Angel was blocking the way out, its teeth bared hungrily and its arms out stretched so they couldn't get around it.

"Upstairs!" the Doctor cried behind them.

Watching the statue with wide eyes, Sam moved up the steps first, followed by Dean and then John. Not one of them dared to look away.

Sherlock lingered and glared the Doctor, "What's happening?" he demanded.

"You're about to die. Now run!" the Doctor shoved Sherlock into a running motion up the stairs and then followed himself, using the mirror to watch the two Weeping Angels.

Sam and Dean had made it to the top of the stairs, where the steps spilt into two, one going left and the other going right. The brothers steered right, only to stagger to an unexpected stop. Dean gave strangled cry, and Sam sucked in a sharp breath: another two angel statues were there, teeth bared and snarling. In their shock, they dropped the mirrors they were holding and they shattered into a million tiny pieces.

John ran up next and jerked to a stop. "Oh, God." He breathed, "Oh my God."

"Not that way!" called the Doctor. He was at the top of the stairs now, blindly shoving Sherlock up the opposite steps, ever taking his eyes of the angels behind him. The two Weeping Angels from downstairs where now halfway up them, reaching out towards him with their talons. The Doctor said to Sam, Dean and John, "Walk backwards! Don't blink."

The men did as they were told, too fearful to do anything else. The Doctor guided them, giving them the appropriate 'step up' and the reassuring 'it's okay. You're doing great' at all the right moments. "Now do me a favour." He said, "Watch those two behind me."

They did. Their eyes were burning and they all wished that Sam and Dean hadn't dropped the mirrors - though they didn't understand what was happening or how, it was clear that they were helpful to them and he missed them.

Sam asked, "How many are there?"

"Just four." The Doctor reassured, walking up the rest of the steps and turning towards Sam, Dean, John and Sherlock so he could watch the Angels that were already upstairs through his mirror. "Trust me, I've been here before. Okay, now walk into the next room."

"Is there a way out?" Dean asked.

"Yep." The Doctor breathed, "Now, go."

The five of them turned and continued to the next room, placing their trust in the mysterious man who had come to their aid to continue protecting them from the Weeping Angels. The Doctor followed quickly afterwards. Dashing through the doorway, he pressed his back against the wall and pulled the mirror into the doorway. He yelped. All four of the Weeping Angels were just a hair away from the mirrors surface. Everyone had stopped in the first room, unable to keep running because the doorway was blocked by a large blue box.

John scowled, breathing in and out deeply, "Where the hell..." he breathed, "...did that come from?"

"Get in!" the Doctor cried, desperation making his voice break.

Dean just stared at him, certain that this man was crazy, "Dude, we ain't all gonna fit in that."

The Doctor snapped his fingers and the doors to the box swung inwards. They couldn't see what was inside – it was all dark like a black screen. "Just get in!" the Doctor cried again, desperately, for his eyes were raw and red from not blinking, and in the mirror, the angels were just inches away from him.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the strange blue box. His well-trained ears could hear the mechanic whir of machinery coming from within it. Curiosity getting the better of him, Sherlock bounded forwards and leapt inside, disappearing from view. The others waited for him to come back out, or for him to say something, but there was nothing from the detective.

"Sherlock?" John called, but there was still no response.

Sam, who was the closest to the box, poked his head inside. He was quiet for a moment and then cried, "Oh my GOD!"

Dean and John exchanged looks then tumbled into the box after Sam.

The Doctor allowed himself a smirk, not taking his eyes off the angels. Then he ran after them, constantly looking into the mirror and seeing the statues snarl at him from the doorway away. He ran into the box and the doors snapped shut behind him.

There was a moment when nothing happened. Then there was a hollow clunk resonating from within the box. The blue box made a loud groaning noise - it was as if it was breathing. When in breathed in, a rattling groan, the box became see-through, and then it breathed out, and it became completely visible again. With each raspy breath it faded slightly, then returned less and less, until the box disappeared completely as if it had never been. The noise lingered in the house for a moment after the box had gone, echoing around the rooms, swirling through the leaves, but then everything fell into nothingness. The house was still and empty, except for the statues that moved in the dark.

Chapter Notes: I have to thank TheDavethebiker on Youtube for helping me with this chapter. He has a video called 'DOCTOR WHO…BLINK FILMING LOCATION' which helped me describe the inside of the house in this chapter. I had to change some details to make it coexist with the Wester Drumlins we saw in the original episode, but it was nothing major. I also discovered that Wester Drumlins is actually called Fields House and is currently listed for refurbishment. Half of the house has people living there (personally, I'd be freaked).

The "contraption" the Doctor is wearing is the same one he uses in the series 5 episode 'The Doctor and Vincent' to see the Krafayis with. I used it simply because it had a mirror the Doctor could use to look behind him.

Thanks for reading, everyone.