"Miracles are like meatballs, because nobody can exactly agree on what they are made of, where they come from, or how often they should appear."

- 'The Carnivorous Carnival'

Lemony Snicket

X X X

"I'm going out."

John looked up at his flatmate, frowning as he saw Sherlock rushing about, grabbing his coat and scarf and donning them with a haste that made him seem more manic than usual. Was this case really bothering him that much? John hadn't seen him that flustered since Moriarty.

"It's bitter cold outside, Sherlock." He said, trying to be the voice of reason. "Where are you planning to go?"

"Anywhere but here; I can't think!"

"Do you want me to come?"

"No." Sherlock said shortly as he descended down the stairs, "Go back to your program, John."

John Watson stayed tense and alert a few moments longer, but finally he just relaxed and did what Sherlock had said. After all, he knew that the consulting detective would probably be out for a while, lost in his mind palace as he walked the streets he knew so well. John had nothing to worry about, so he leaned back in his chair, sipped at his tea, and turned his attention back to the telly.

He was interrupted mere moments later, however, when the doorbell rang. Normally he would've left it for Mrs. Hudson since she was the landlady, but she was out running errands, so it was up to him to leave the comfort of his chair and answer it. An unfamiliar man greeted him when he opened the door, though. He had mussed brown hair, light, honey-brown eyes, and a strange assortment of clothing that included converse somehow being grouped together with a pinstripe suit, and though he looked normal enough something about him just seemed off. But he grinned at John so kindly that John couldn't help but smile hesitantly back.

"Hello," the man said cheerfully, "Is Sherlock Holmes in?"

John shook his head, "Sorry, you just missed him. Do you want me to take a message? He might be away a while." He glanced at his watch, considering how long Sherlock's walks normally took. "A long while."

The man sighed. "Ah, foiled again. I keep getting the timing wrong."

"I'm sorry, who are you again?" John asked, a bit suspicious.

"Oh yes, how rude of me," the man grinned, "I'm the Doctor."

John's eyes widened and for a moment he could only stare, because, wait . . . was this truly him? The man who'd visited Sherlock when he was younger? But he hardly looked a day over thirty, how on earth could he have visited Sherlock twenty-three years ago? Hadn't Sherlock said he'd been a fully grown man? If that was true then there was no possible way this man calling himself 'The Doctor' was the same 'Doctor' Sherlock had been talking about. No, there just wasn't.

But John couldn't keep himself from asking. "The Doctor?" He reiterated, "Hold on, the Doctor? Are you really him? The one Sherlock . . ." he trailed off suddenly, realizing that might be a bit personal, and swallowed his words.

The Doctor blinked, "The one Sherlock . . . what?"

"Never mind," John said quickly, "But are you really him – the man who visited Sherlock twenty-three years ago?"

A mysterious smile spread cross the Doctor's face. "Oh, so he told you?"

A bit unnerved by the look in his eyes, John nodded nonetheless. "Yes, he did."

"And what was your name?"

"Watson," John said, "Doctor John Watson."

The Doctor's eyes sparkled, "So, Doctor John Watson, tell me, what has Sherlock been up to these last twenty three years, hm?"

X X X

Dean rifled through his duffle bag mechanically, going by memory of how many times he and Sam had done this before as they both chose their weapons. They'd caught whiff of what could be a possible vampire hang out – a bar over near the other side of town – and they wanted to make sure they were prepared, just in case.

"I highly doubt that everyone in this bar will be actual vampires, though," Sam said on their way there. The bus they'd taken was inexpensive, and Dean had given in easily to taking the public transport despite threatening to walk all the way there. "I think it's mainly a place for just a few vampires at a time to slip in and hang out without arousing suspicions."

"Well, that's good," Dean said, "But how will we be able to tell who's a vamp and who's not?"

"I might be able to assist."

Dean and Sam both practically jumped out of their skin, spinning in their seats in sync to see Castiel sitting behind them, his blue gaze unwavering. It was odd to see an angel sitting on a bus, Sam thought.

"Cas!" Dean gasped, regaining his composure. "Where have you been? We haven't seen you since we left the states."

"I've been busy." Castiel said, "But that's not important right now. You're searching for a vampire?"

Sam nodded, "Yeah, um, there has been a string of weird murders characteristic to vampire attacks."

"Make that frenzied vampire attacks," Dean added, "I don't know what these things are high on, but I'm staying away from it."

"We got wind of what could be a trail to the murderer," Sam continued, "It leads to this bar just on the other side of the city. We just need a way to identify vampire from human, that's all."

"Can you do that, Cas?" Dean asked.

Castiel glanced at him, seeming a bit miffed, "Of course I can."

The bus let them off about a block from the bar Sam had mentioned, and they walked the rest of the way there, not wanting to draw too much attention to themselves. Though Sam reflected that it was impossible to stay completely under-the-radar, especially with how out-of-place the three of them looked.

They made it into the bar fine, but that didn't stop others from staring at them – rather openly, too. Then again, two rugged-looking brothers and a stoic tax accountant did make for a pretty ragtag group, especially in a bar like this one.

"Well, Cas?" Dean glanced around the place, grimacing at its interior, "You got anything? Cause I kind of want to be out of here as quickly as possible."

"Give me a moment," the angel murmured.

Dean made a face, about to retort, but Castiel held up a hand and cut him off.

"There," Castiel pointed at a door that led to the back of the establishment.

Dean blinked, "That was fast."

"I said I only needed a moment."

Sam rolled his eyes, "Come on, before he gets away!"

Cutting a swath through the crowd, Sam had them to the door quickly, and then they were out on the back streets behind the bar. The walls of the alley were close, and there was some sort of smell in the air that Dean didn't really want to let his thoughts linger on.

"Where is he?" Dean asked in a low whisper.

Castiel pointed again, over to the shadows behind a dumpster, "There."

Dean pulled out his machete, shifting easily into the Hunter as he stalked forward. "Hey, vampy, vampy, vampy," He said, swinging his machete expertly, "We got you some fresh meat here!"

The vampire emerged from behind the dumpster, dripping blood from its mouth and all down its shirt, and snarled menacingly at them. But they weren't afraid. And, as always, Dean barreled into the situation head-on, his ever loyal brother and a renegade angel by his side, fighting with him as if they had been doing this all their lives. And it was over within moments.

Castiel had the vampire pinned to the wall, using some Enochian charm he'd muttered in that deep, gravelly voice of his – a voice that Dean insisted did not kind of sort of almost turn him on – to keep him from escaping. Sam had a vial of dead man's blood for help in case the vamp wasn't feeling chatty, and of course the threat of decapitation hanging over his head was enough to get his mouth moving as well.

But he knew nothing.

Castiel said after a moment that the vamp was telling the truth; he really knew nothing about the murders, or the frenzied vampires who'd committed them. So, thanking the monster sarcastically, Dean loped his head off his shoulders with one fell swoop.

And just like that, it was done.

"Dean!" Castiel said suddenly, a warning note in his voice that made the eldest Winchester brother turn to see the angel staring at the end of the alleyway.

"What is it, Cas?"

Castiel's eyes hardened, "Someone saw."

Both Dean and Sam froze. That was bad, that was really bad. If someone had seen that and was able to ID them, then they were fucked; there was no way they'd be able to explain that sort of thing away, not even with all of Dean's charm and all of Sam's logic-ness.

And, though Dean's thoughts were currently ranging around the level of oh hell no, Sam chose a much less subtle way of describing their current situation.

"Well, this is not good."

"And the award for understatement of the year goes to Sammy Winchester!" Dean exclaimed sarcastically, "Because, Sammy, this is what happens when not good's evil cousin screwed to hell comes to town. This is far beyond the level of not good." He turned to his angel companion, "Did you see who it was, Cas?"

Castiel shook his head, "I will find him, though." He murmured. The faint sound of wings could be heard for just a moment, and then he was gone, leaving Dean and Sam in the alleyway with the body of a vampire between them and the threat of exposure hanging over their heads.

So far, this little side-trip was going to shit.

X X X

Sherlock ran.

He'd never felt more terrified in his entire life, and that was saying something. The consulting detective had seen many gruesome murder scenes before, but never had he actually see the murder take place in front of him. Never had he actually seen someone kill another person so easily in cold blood without even hesitating.

It terrified him.

He rushed home, back to where he knew he'd be safe, and could only pray that the three hadn't seen him. See, he'd been absolutely sure he'd gone unnoticed, but the shorter man in the beige trench coat, the one with the blank face and strange, shining eyes . . . something about him had been a bit weird. And Sherlock couldn't shake the feeling that this – whatever this was – wasn't over.

That thought alone unnerved him even as he entered 221b Baker Street and dashed up the stairs. He was prepared to tell John everything that had happened, wanting to just hear his flat mate's voice because John always calmed him down, always. And right now he really needed something to help him calm down.

He half-staggered half-ran to the open door that led to the kitchen and the living room, his mouth open and the words already on the tip of his tongue, but he froze as he saw someone there, sitting across from John – someone who looked exactly the same as he had twenty-three years ago, right down to the sparkle in his eyes and the red converse.

But, that was impossible.

"Y-you . . ." Sherlock gasped, entirely not prepared for this.

The man he'd remembered as the Doctor stood and smiled at him, "It's good to see you again, Sherlock Holmes."