Disclaimer: My story, not my characters.

Five

A Synergy Of Sorts – PART 2

"I need to think."

Sherlock's mind was reeling. The gears in his head stuttering and coughing like a vintage car: How can a man appear from nowhere? How can he heal with a single touch? Impossible, but Sherlock paused, because he knew that nothing was impossible. Yet things like this didn't just happen without a logical explanation. Perhaps this was a very well cohered trick, perhaps to distract him from Moriarty; which only seemed logical if the man in question was behind this. It was an eccentric move on his part, but it was thrilling and had captured Sherlock's attention almost as quickly as the first time Moriarty invited him out to play. This was something Moriarty would do. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Maybe this had nothing to do with Moriarty at all. Maybe, despite all his beliefs, this was just as it was – real.

Still, he couldn't figure this out if he couldn't think. It was difficult with the others rambling on about whatever they were talking about – boring things, probably, like the British President. Sherlock went to his bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him. He needed solitude if he was to use his Mind Palace to find answers to all the strange happenings of that day. Slumping down on his bed, he stilled himself, waiting until the mattress stop moving under his weight. When all movement stopped, and he was as rigid as ice, he closed his eyes, allowing everything around him to become embedded in darkness.

After a moment, a bead of light appeared in the darkness. It began to grow, slowly morphing from a small bead into a large square of light, big enough for a man to fit through. Sherlock approached it confidently, and reached out his hands – in his room, he had his eyes screwed shut and was reaching out towards nothing – and he pushed against the light. The light folded inwards, working as two double doors and Sherlock stepped inside his Mind Palace.

His Mind Palace was made up of each place he'd been to in his life: There was a staircase from an old house where he and John had shared their first case, which appeared when he had use of it. There was his brother's office, where a figment of his brother resided to belittle him when he couldn't find answers. There was an old dungeon he visited on a school trip which held his darkest secrets. All of the places were combined into one inside his head, like patchwork, and each one held all the information he'd stored over the years, visualised in some shape or form.

At the moment, Sherlock was inside a large cathedral. He used to come here with his parents and brother Mycroft on Sundays for the church service. As he walked down the aisle of the cathedral, he noticed an elderly man at the altar. He was preparing the wine for the next service; humming hymns absently as he added water to the wine and separated it into the large goblets. Sherlock approached him slowly. When he reached him, the priest was separating small slices of wafer, as a supplement for bread. He didn't look up, but when he spoke, he was addressing Sherlock, "I remember the last time you came here. You were just a little boy." The priest, of course, was referring to the real cathedral, not his Mind Palace since Sherlock had come here many times on quiet nights to sit inside the orange light and glare accusingly at the tapestry and just wonder. The elderly man looked up at him and gave him a sad smile, "The day you lost faith."

Sherlock heard a sob, and turned his head to the left to see a little boy crouched at the altar. The boy had small clammy hands and chubby fingers clasped together. His face was soaked with tears. His curly locks were sweaty and ragged from exhaustion and constant crying. "Please." He whispered, over and over, "Bring him back. Please, please. Bring him back."

The boy was Sherlock.

He remembered that day as if it happened yesterday. It was the day something snapped inside him; a thin wavering elastic band of childlike trust. A child's trust is given so easily, and yet it is the most fragile thing ever. As a child, Sherlock couldn't trust many people. His brother Mycroft was, well…he was Mycroft, his worst enemy. His parents weren't the best of people to talk too. Other children were just stupid, annoying, whining things. There was no one Sherlock could turn to, who could lend an ear, except Redbeard.

Redbeard was an Irish Setter, a dog his family rescued after it was involved with an accident. Mycroft felt nothing for the pup, and his parents felt charitable but that was all. On the other hand, Sherlock had grown extremely attached to Redbeard. Someone who listened. Someone who knew when he was upset. Someone who knew exactly how to cheer him up. The day Sherlock lost faith was the day Redbeard had been put down. Sherlock had lost his only friend and companion that day, and he was certain he couldn't survive without Redbeard. He'd prayed. He'd prayed harder than he had ever before, but nothing happened, and he was left alone.

He came to the conclusion that God, wishes, faith, dreams coming true - everything a child should believe in - were nothing but ludicrous fantasies.

But now things were different. It was like everything he'd ever believed had been forced into a tiny vase, and now someone had that vase in their fist and was squeezing. Cracks were appearing in its delicate shell. As these thoughts went through his head, the walls of the cathedral began to splinter and crumble. The priest vanished in a puff of urgency, as a large crack appeared in the floor. It spiked towards Sherlock, who leapt back. He glanced round. The whole room was covered in cracks, about to break. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to picture an escape, but he was panicking too much. Sherlock heard shattering glass and grunted, raising his arms to protect himself. The cathedral melted away. His eyes were open, blinking away the images of his Mind Palace still dancing around his eyes.

He noticed someone was knocking at the door. Who would disturb him? Not John; he had enough intelligence for that. Sherlock didn't bother opening the door, hoping that whoever it was would go away so he could re-piece his Mind Palace together and finally focus on the problem at hand. But whoever it was didn't leave. Instead, the door opened and in stepped…not John. It was one of those annoying American brothers, holding a tray of what smelt like coffee. Sherlock frowned; what was his name?

"...Simon?"

The other man smiled, "Sam." He corrected. He seemed to take that as an invitation, since he walked right in, closing the door quietly behind him. Sherlock watched him like a hawk as he placed the tray on the beside table and took one of the cups. There was a period of silence. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He's given me the coffee, why isn't he leaving yet? Sam took a deep gulp of his coffee, letting it warm him up inside. He knew the situation was becoming awkward and he'd have to break the silence soon. After a pause, he said, "Look, I know what you're going through."

"I doubt it." Sherlock muttered. He waved an arm as if to dismiss him. "I can tell. You experience these anomalies every day, do you not?"

Sam couldn't argue with that. It was true that he'd seen what most would believe as impossible regularly, however today's events were new and uncomfortable for him also. He gave a small shrug and said, "It's been a rough day for me to."

"Yes, yes..." Sherlock drawled, "I could have told you that. Now get out."

Sam scowled. He didn't like this man's attitude at all, but in a way he reminded him of Dean when he was annoyed or upset. Suddenly, it was easy to see why the two of them had clashed so harshly. Sam found himself wanting to help, like he would want to help Dean. But what could he say that the detective didn't already know? He chewed his lip in thought. He didn't want Sherlock to retreat into his shell. If he could help Sherlock, perhaps he could help Dean also – he'd be able to find out what was bothering him recently, and he might even be able to fix it. That's what Sam wanted the most. Not to mention, he'd been a big fan of detective stories as a kid and he was determined to reach the man who was, in more ways than one, his childhood hero.

"You like logic, right?" Sam said at last, "Well, monsters have logic behind them too. Dean and I have to figure out the monster and how to defeat it."

Sherlock seemed to think about this for a moment. It had merit, to say the least, but Sherlock couldn't live by 'if's and 'maybe's. He needed solid logic, clever mysteries and, most of the time, answers. He asked, "How do you differentiate truth from fiction?"

"Most of the time? We just go with it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

Shit. Sam should have known the second that tumbled out of his mouth that it was the wrong thing to say. He stuttered trying to recover, "Um…we use our…logic to figure out what to do. Like…" what was the word he used? "Deduction!" he cried in triumph, and Sherlock raised his eyebrow at his outburst. Sam cleared his throat, "It's all deduction, really. Narrowing things down to the right monster and the right method of killing it." – Which was true, in a way. There were many times were Sam and Dean had to solve a mystery before they could defeat the monster.

Sherlock peered at him for a long moment. It was a little unnerving, Sam thought, like looking into the eyes of a doll. For a moment, Sam thought he saw Sherlock's pupils shrink, but it was probably just a trick of the light. At last, Sherlock looked away and grabbed his laptop – actually it was John's, but Sam assumed it was his – and began typing rapidly. Sam raised his eyebrows, but figured he wouldn't get anywhere else with Sherlock, so he left the detective to his thoughts.

The clock chimed at midnight; a quiet hollow sound echoing through an equally quiet house. Both fascinated and perplexed, Castiel raised his head to the sound and blinked at the clock on the mantel piece. He never really understood why humans had clocks – as an angel, time meant nothing to him: He was millions of years old, as old as the earth, and after all that time watching the earth grow, time itself lost all meaning. So, why did humans obsess over counting every second of everyday? Didn't it just make their short lives feel even shorter? Or did it somehow help them order their lives? Humans never ceased to be interesting. It would never grow old – trying to categorise them, figure them out. To every category the humans had, there was always one, or one thousand, that didn't fit in. And his Father knew all of them to their very core? It seemed impossible.

When he and Dean had made their way back down stairs into Sherlock's flat – or apartment as Dean called it, which confused Castiel into what he should call it: a dwelling? – it was late into the night. He was still waiting for Dean or Sam, probably Sam since he was better at it, to explain to him what was going on. Dean had said 'angel problem' but if their where any angels nearby he'd sense them. He didn't understand why Sam and Dean were with the other two strangers, Sherlock and John, either. And then there was the Doctor…How could it be that they'd run into the very man Castiel had tried to avoid?

When he saw the Doctor, Castiel had been gripped with fear. He'd wanted to run. He wasn't ready to face the mistakes he'd made so long ago, to face him. But at the same time, he was also longing to see him, speak to him, reminisce about old times, and make up for the time they'd lost. He wanted the Doctor's forgiveness. But he knew he couldn't have it because when he looked at the Doctor, the Doctor hadn't even looked at him. He was still angry after all these years. Castiel felt a lump settle in the bottom of his stomach. He knew this feeling was guilt. It had become a very familiar sensation recently.

Castiel hadn't failed to notice that no one seemed particularly pleased to be here, so much so that his presence was soon ignored. John had told them he was going to bed and stumbled away without another word. Not long afterwards, Sam and Dean went upstairs to do the same. Dean complained a lot about it, but despite this he rebuffed the Doctor's offer to stay in the TARDIS, probably because of his fear of flying, but Castiel couldn't help but wonder if what he said to Dean had also influenced his decision. It wasn't his intention to make him uneasy, especially now he knew that things where already unstable between them.

After the others had left, the Doctor didn't say much to Castiel, which gave the angel a sensation that confused him. He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"Will you be all right?" the Doctor asked, barely meeting his eyes. He was tense around the shoulders, and Castiel knew this was because he was holding back a lot of rage. He looked away in shame.

"Yes." He replied quietly, and then, because it seemed appropriate, he added, "I don't sleep."

"I remember."

Then he went into his TARDIS, and the TARDIS roared into life before it vanished from the room with the Doctor inside. Castiel knew the Doctor hated to stay in one place too long and would probably go on several adventures before the night was over. Again, time: It had no meaning to beings like him and the Doctor. The Doctor could go away and age a few thousand more years before he came back. Castiel could do the same. He could go back in time to see the Neanderthals and listen to their beautiful poetry. He could leave and do anything he wanted.

But he didn't. He needed to think, and he had a whole night to do it.

Ever since he fell from Heaven, he'd had to make so many decisions. He'd fallen because it was the right thing to do, and ever since he'd tried to do the right thing. Of course, it was a lot more difficult than he had anticipated. Castiel closed his eyes as guilt gnawed at him. He'd made the most terrible mistakes; one's he could never forgive himself for, despite that his intentions were pure. Now, he was trying to atone for what he's done: helping people, helping Dean and Sam. He had to repair what he's broken. And now, his friendship with the Doctor had been added to that long list.

He had to fix it. Had to. He couldn't get it wrong this time. Castiel knew that this could be the key into fixing everything. If he could gain the forgiveness of the Oncoming Storm, quell the Fury of the Time Lord, then surely he could gain the forgiveness of his angelic family and then the Winchesters. This was the right thing to do. The question was: how?

Part of him wished he could share his problems with someone; help fight this isolation he was suffering with. But who was there to listen? It almost scared him. Last time he was alone, he'd taken the wrong path, betrayed his friends, and killed many of his brothers - including the ones he called his friends. But this wouldn't happen again - Castiel swore it to himself. He'd fix everything, whether he had to do it alone or not.

When the clock finally stopped chiming, Castiel turned back to the fire. He watched the flames lick and dance around one another as they completed for which could rise the highest. The angel found himself transfixed. The vibrant orange colours reminded him of a red planet with two Suns and giant mountains capped with golden snow. He remembered the beauty of the place; the deep red pastures sloping up the hillsides to meet silver leaves and disappear deep into the forest. He remembered the two boys who ran across them, cawing up at the sky as if they were birds, and leaping, shoving, at one another until they collapsed in fits of laughter. Castiel remembered how his curiosity guided him to the edge of the trees, where he had hidden, so he could watch the two strange children. Of course, he had no vessel, so he was just a bright light trying to hide behind silver leaves. He was spotted in no time. That's how they met: the boy who would become the Doctor, his best friend who would become his enemy, and the celestial being of light known as Castiel.

"Don't lose it, Dean. Don't lose the ring."

Dean woke with a start. The last remnants of a woman's voice echoed in his head from the realm of dreams like a warning siren. Straight away, he leapt off his bed to the hook where he hung his jacket and shoved his hand into the pocket. Part of him hoped it wasn't there. Part of him hoped that he'd just hallucinated its presence yesterday. That would make things simpler. However, he knew he didn't hallucinate the secretive research he did that day, searching through all the lore for who, or what, was following him. He was certain it was a spirit. He knew it had to be either a Reaper or a spirit to have Death's ring because only they could get that close to the Horseman. While researching, he found some myths saying that spirits could visit a person in their dreams, which narrowed it down. The thing is – something that made Dean's skin crawl – there was no way he could be given something in a dream and wake up with it in his hand, so that meant that the ghost had been with them in the motel. Then it had followed them to the UK.

When he checked his pocket, Death's ring was still there. At least he hadn't lost it – if Death came after his ring and found out that he'd lost it... Dean didn't want to think about what he'd do.

Dean scowled as he pulled on his jacket. He needed answers. There had to be a library around, right? Straight after the case, he and Sam would…Wait. What would he tell, Sam? Dean sighed and dragged his palm across his face. This whole situation was stressing him out. Some creepy-ass lady is haunting him, he has Death's ring in his pocket, there's an alien downstairs, and somehow he got stuck working a dickhead and a guy who can throw a really, really good punch! Dean wished he was in a bar so he could numb all this away with a healthy stream of booze.

He heard Sam come out of the bathroom. His hair was damp from the shower but he was dressed and looked refreshed. Lucky guy… "Hey." Sam said, "You okay?"

"Fine." Dean said quickly. He grabbed his duffel bag and began forcefully shoving his clothes and weapons into it.

Sam sighed, "Dean, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" he retorted. He knew he sounded like a jerk but he really needed Sam to get off his case. He didn't want Sam involved. This ring-business could be dangerous. "I'm packing. We're leaving. And then, we're going to kill those statues."

"Dean we don't even know how!" And there it is, Sam with his annoyingly rational thinking. Dean didn't know how worried Sam was, how afraid he was. Dean only knew that he was trying to protect Sam.

Still, Sam was right. They needed more information before they could go back. Fortunately, there was an encyclopaedia full of facts sitting right downstairs. Unfortunately, Dean wasn't too keen to talk to him. But it didn't matter. Killing the monster came first - or second, after saving people - and Dean said, "Then let's ask Mr Peabody."

The Doctor was downstairs, in Sherlock's apartment. Any evidence that he'd actually moved since Dean and Sam last saw him was subtle: his clothes and hairstyle had changed slightly and the TARDIS was a few inches to the right of what it had been the other day. He was wearing a different bow-tie, a dark blue one instead of a red, and his grey waistcoat had changed to a lighter blue. However, neither brother picked up on this and it was left remaining that only Castiel knew that the Doctor was now a few months older than he was yesterday. Castiel himself was looking out through the window, but he turned round when Dean and Sam came in. The landlady, Mrs Hudson was also in the apartment. She was a nice old woman who wore a long-sleeved lilac dress and a white crochet cardigan. She was holding a tray filled with shaky cups and saucers. She giggled loudly at something the Doctor said and the contents of the tray clicking together. The Doctor beamed at her, draining the last of his coffee, and giving her back the cup. Mrs Hudson turned and smiled at Sam and Dean.

"Good morning, dearies. How was the flat?"

"It was good, Mrs Hudson." Sam replied with a polite smile. It was better than the dirty, rotting motels they'd stayed in previously. "Thank you."

She turned and peered into the kitchen, where Sherlock was sat at the table, leaning over some papers. "Sherlock, dear," she said, gently, "You really should have something to eat. I'll ring your mother."

Sherlock groaned loudly. "Don't you have something else to do? I'm sure there are biscuits or something…"

"Oh! I do, actually." She looked at Winchesters, "Biscuits, boys?"

Dean brightened up instantly at the thought of food, but born-guilty Sam quickly said, "No, that's all right…"

"Just this once. I'm not your house keeper."

"Um…"

"Just this once."

As Mrs Hudson tittered downstairs, the tray she was holding rattling as she went, John came out of his bedroom. Fatigued, he dragged his feet behind him, yawning and stretching. His blondish-brown hair stuck up in clumps and there were big bags under his eyes. It was obvious that he hadn't slept well. He sighed, pressing his palm against the side of the TARDIS as he leaned on it. When he saw what he was leaning on, he jumped and swore sourly. "Oh God…"

Dean raised his eyebrows, "You okay, padre?"

For a quick fleeting moment, John glared at him like he was a hair in an omelette. Then his face became neutral; military discipline kicking in. He said, "I woke up this morning and thought yesterday was just some weird dream." He shrugged, "There goes my good morning." He headed into the kitchen, reaching to get something out of one of the top cupboards when he glanced at what Sherlock was looking at. His arm dropped like a stone and smacked against his side, and he sighed, "Are those the missing person reports?"

Intrigued, Dean, Sam and the Doctor went into the kitchen and, sure enough, there were the same reports they'd laid eyes on just yesterday. Castiel moved a little closer, but kept his distance from the others - more specifically, the Doctor. Sherlock didn't say anything but gave a grin that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame. John pinched the bridge of his nose, "Sherlock please don't tell me you stole from Scotland Yard again…I could have easily have gotten a copy."

"Takes too long."

"Don't you think you've given them enough trouble?" John accused. Dean was almost expecting him to send Sherlock to his room, like what Lisa did with Ben - apparently it was a common punishment, but Dean wouldn't know since he was too afraid of his father's disapproval to misbehave at home. "You know, after harpooning the pig yesterday?"

"He actually did that?" Dean looked at him with disbelief and then smirked, "Awesome! You do have some redeeming qualities."

"Unfortunately, I am yet to find yours."

The Doctor braced his hands against the table as he read the reports with dark sad eyes. "So these are all the people the Weeping Angels took…" he said mournfully, "I should have come here sooner."

Sherlock had his chin resting on his fingertips and maintained this position as he looked up at the Doctor. "You knew about this." he stated as fact, "You were the one who left that message on the wall. 1969? You are older than you look."

'Love from the Doctor' - why hadn't they noticed that before? Dean wondered. Well, in fairness, the monster-statues and the small-but-giant blue box were a little distracting...

The Doctor nodded, "It's a long story, but basically I came here a few years ago, but the Weeping Angels sent me back in time. So I left the message to a friend so she'd figure out what to do. She managed to stop the Weeping Angels, but it wasn't exactly a long-term solution…"

"So that was why the disappearances stopped." Sam said, pointing at the records, "According to the reports, there's an eight month gap between these two victims: Katherine Nightingale in June 2007, and March Denton in February 2008, whereas everyone else were weeks apart at the most. They both disappeared at the house where the Weeping Angels are."

Dean rolled his eyes, "Okay, nerds." he exclaimed, "If you guys are so smart and the Weeping Angels just love the house they're at – then why do half of these people go missing somewhere else? Like this guy, Albert Cunning, last seen at the Celtic Manor Resort?" he smiled, feeling proud of himself for coming up with that, and his his smile grew when no one else responded. But, of course, Sherlock Holmes had to go and rain on his parade. Again.

"That's obvious!" Sherlock cried like Dean just doubted that oxygen is needed to live, "The Weeping Angels are clearly intelligent, since at the house they knew to block our escape, so they move around to avoid detection but return to the house before anyone knows they're gone. They move quickly?"

"Faster then you'll ever believe." the Doctor mumbled.

Dean laughed sarcastically and cried, "Now moving statues are obvious! Weren't you having a fit before?"

Sherlock threw eye-daggers at Dean. "I wasn't having a fit!"

"It looked like you were having a fit."

"Guys!" John said in a tired voice, "Knock it off."

"The thing is, the Weeping Angels aren't statues." The Doctor continued, when the noise died down, "They're creatures from another world. They only look like stone when you see them, but the second you turn your back they transform and come after you. If they touch you, you're sent back in time and they feed off the potential time energy of the days you might have lived in the future."

"My head hurts." Dean mumbled. Then he got an idea, "So, hey, couldn't we just blow them up?"

John gave him a sceptical look, "You have explosives on you?"

"Hypothetically."

Everyone looked over at the Doctor except Sherlock, who appeared to have zoned out from the conversation and was staring intently at the records. The Doctor shook his head, "Hypothetically...no. We couldn't. Radiation is dinner to an angel. They feed off all kinds of energy, but time energy is like their version of chocolate."

Dean stared with disbelief. "Then how do we kill them?" Typical. Only a magic sword or stupid Latin mumbo-jumbo...

"We don't."

Okay I misheard that. Dean looked hard at the Doctor, "What?"

"Oh, I'll do a thing!" The Doctor said cheerily, and Dean blinked. The Doctor paused and frowned, "When I come up with one. Anyway, we'll need to rescue those people. And Jack, of course."

"But how are we supposed to find them?" Sam asked, "Don't get me wrong, I'm all up for rescuing them, but if they've been sent through time how can we find them?"

The Doctor smiled. "When the Angels touch someone, they pull them out of time itself." he explained, "This creates Time Dispersal Energy, which has a very distinct pattern – remember when you were inside the house? What did you feel?"

"A sort of…tingling feeling." Sam said, feeling ridiculous. He could cope with a pin-prickle, but what he felt at Wester Drumlins was anything but that. "Like the chills."

"That wasn't just your nerves…" The Doctor said, "Time Dispersal Energy leaves a scatter trail inside the Time Vortex. I can use the TARDIS to create an energy loop around the trail and ride us along it."

Dean blinked again. He suddenly wished he'd paid more attention in school instead of having flings with girls. "I have no idea what any of that meant, but you're basically saying they left a trail you can follow?"

The Doctor rolled his eyes, but grinned all the same. "Way to take all the fun and the mystery out of it, but yes, I am."

John was staring at him with high eyebrows, but eventually he shook himself, "Time vortex?"

"Think of a train line."

John said, hesitantly, "...Okay."

"But it's nothing like that." The Doctor said. John scowled, his mouth opening in a 'wha...?' position. The Doctor pranced around the kitchen table, flapping his hands about, as he spoke. "So, a train line with lots of stops, each one being a different place in time and space. Get it?"

John narrowed his eyes in his confusion, "So, just to clarify, it is like a train line?"

The Doctor stared at him like he just spoke another language. "What? No, no! But if it helps – yeah." If the Doctor noticed the deadly looks he was getting from the others, he didn't react at all to say as such. He just continued with his speech of madness, "Anyway, my TARDIS will be able to find the trails of those who disappeared from the house - that's the reason I went there in the first place, actually. We can rescue Jack. I'm not too sure about the others since the energy fades over time. Still, we'll just have to find out. Come along, gang." He stopped abruptly. His eyes widened like he'd gotten an amazing idea, "Ooh, gang. I love a gang!"

"Whoa!" Dean cried suddenly, "Who said we were working together?"

Everything went quiet. In the whirl of excitement, most of them had forgotten to mistrust each other - but not Dean. Now everyone was uncomfortable, staring awkwardly at Dean, since it was his fault for pointing out the weakest link in this plan. They simply didn't trust each other. The air was turning bitter. Sam quickly cleared his throat and said, "Dean, can I talk to you?"

Dean glanced over at Sam, and at his brother's peeved look, the two of them left the kitchen and went over by the windows. "Sam, this whole thing is weird." Dean said quietly, "I mean the alien is bad enough, but Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson – are you kidding me?"

Sam nodded in agreement but at the same time he sighed. This wasn't a good idea. Not in the least. But it was the best idea they had, and Dean and Sam had done more with less many times before. Now he just had to convince Dean. Sam said, "Does it matter? We have a job, right? I think it's best if…"

"What?" Dean cut in. He looked at Sam with disbelief, "Don't tell me after your little heart-to-stone chat with Sherlock yesterday that you're actually on board with all of this."

"Of course not!" Sam hissed, barely keeping his voice quiet. He glanced back other at the others. The Doctor was talking to John and Sherlock – well, John, since Sherlock didn't look as though he was paying attention. Castiel was watching them, probably listening in on their conversation. "I don't like this just as much as you, and I don't trust those guys either…"

"Then what were you doing with Obnoxious?"

Sam huffed, pressing his lips tightly together. "I just wanted to see if…you know…" his eyebrows bounced when he realised that what he was saying sounded ridiculous, "If he's like the one in the books…"

Dean stared at him incredulously, "You're joking right? Tell me you're joking."

Sam sighed, "Look, we need trust them or they won't trust us. If they're dangerous, we need to make sure we're there to stop them." Dean still didn't look convinced. Ever since he'd returned from Purgatory, Dean had been shifty around others. Sam knew he was still readjusting, but sometimes he felt as though Dean wasn't putting in the effort, like life and people no longer mattered to him. Sam shook off the thought and pushed on, "I think it's best if we stick with them for now. I mean – our job is rescue Jack and stop whatever took him, and we know nothing about where he is or what those Weeping Angels things can do to us, but the Doctor does!"

Dean looked at him for a long moment, annoyed and reluctant, but at last he huffed out a loud sigh, "Fine!"

A.N: Okay, so just talking in this chapter. Sorry that the wait isn't better rewarded. But next time, our boys are going on a wild goose chase to save Jack and stop the Weeping Angels. But it doesn't end there. With rescuing Jack comes a load of new problems (and a lot of running.) Hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Notes: Things are going to be tense for this team for a while, which I thought was more in-character for these people. After all, Dean and Sam trust very few people and adding 'dickbag' or 'monster' to the equation won't really help that. In Sherlock series 1 episode 1, it was said that John has trust issues and Sherlock doesn't put his faith in people at all. As for the Doctor, he isn't a very trustworthy character to begin with and I doubt that he easily trusts others useless he has that 'spark' with them. Things will get bumpy, but I hope to build a strong relationship between each of these characters.

Interesting fact here: the original Sherlock Holmes, written by Arthur Conan Doyle, actually DID believe in God so I decided that the Sherlock in my story did once believe in God, but lost faith in him after Redbeard was put down. The Sherlock on the show seems to have abandonment issues, which is why he is so protective of the few friends he has so he wouldn't lose them. Also, before John, he didn't class anyone as a friend because he found it difficult to get close to them, which means he was lonely as a child, and Redbeard was his best companion – a friend who would listen to him and be there for him. In the show, Redbeard seems to play a significant part in Sherlock's character, since he is intimidated by the very mention of the dog, which is evidence for how emotionally attached to Redbeard he really was. When you lose something so dear to you, it can shake your faith and very few recover from that. Sherlock is one of them.

As for the 'Time Dispersal Energy' I got the idea from the Doctor Who series 2 episode 'Fear Her' which showed that whenever someone is moved in time/space, the amount of power it takes leaves a tingling feeling and a metallic smelt, so I figured it would be the same with the Weeping Angels since they do the same thing.

That's all folks. Thanks for reading.