"The magic of purpose and of love in its purest form; not television love, with its glare and hollow and sequined glint; not sex and allure, all high shoes and high drama, everything both too small and in too much excess, but just love. Love like rain, like the smell of a tangerine, like a surprise found in your pocket."

- 'Honey, Baby, Sweetheart'

Deb Caletti

X X X

John had always known, somewhere deep down, that he was abnormally loyal and affectionate to Sherlock. He'd never really thought much about it, though. It was just something he'd accepted and then shoved into the darkest corner of his mind, for it didn't really need to be thought about.

Sherlock was his best friend, after all.

But when he saw the consulting detective dash up the stairs and into the living room of their flat, eyes wide and hair mussed and something akin to terror in his eyes, a flash of worry and want sizzled through John's veins with a force that nearly jolted him from his chair.

And that's when he knew.

He was prepared to stand up, to embrace Sherlock and ask him what was wrong, and even if the brilliant detective tried to push him away he'd hold on tight, but the Doctor beat him to the punch, getting to his feet and smiling at Sherlock where he still stood in the doorway; panting hard and noticeably disheveled.

"It's good to see you again, Sherlock Holmes." The Doctor said.

Sherlock stared. "How is this possible?" He finally asked after a moment, his light-blue eyes glancing at John, "You . . . you look just the same as you did when we first met."

"You don't, though," The Doctor grinned, "You grew up quite nicely, didn't you? You even got yourself a nice flat. And to be sharing it with someone like Doctor John Watson over here is wonderful!"

John was still trying to process what Sherlock had said, "Wait, how do you mean he looks the same as he did when you first met?"

"Exactly what it sounds like, John," Sherlock snapped, obviously rattled, "Twenty-three years ago the Doctor looked like he does now; same hair, same clothes, same shoes, same everything."

John wasn't sure how to react. "But . . . how?"

"I told you on that day all those years ago," The Doctor said, "Time and Relative Dimension in Space, remember? My impossible blue box . . . ?" He trailed off, glancing at Sherlock expectantly.

John, meanwhile, was bewildered as usual and feeling stupid because of it. He had no idea what they were talking about, and so far they hadn't given him any direct answers. He wondered if perhaps Sherlock's next words would clear things up for him as they normally did, but the two continued to stay silent, and finally John could take it no longer.

"What does that mean?" He asked, "Time and dimension in space, or whatever?"

"Time and Relative Dimension in Space," Sherlock corrected, his eyes narrowing slightly, "It means it's a time machine. He's saying he has a time machine."

The Doctor nodded, "Exactly. As a matter of fact, I only just met you yesterday in my time, and yet it's been twenty-three years for you." He grinned, "Time travel, you know. It's very confusing sometimes."

"You're completely mad." John said after a moment of silence.

"Not the first time I've been told that," the Doctor admitted.

"Do you expect us to just believe you, then? Just like that?" Sherlock asked mutinously, his voice strangely soft. If it had been anyone else, John would've thought subdued. But no, that wasn't how Sherlock worked. He must've just misinterpreted the consulting detective's tone.

"No, of course not," the Doctor smiled, "In fact, I thought I'd just show you."

"Show us?" John echoed.

The Doctor nodded, "I have a time machine, remember? The proof to everything I've said is just down the street – though, if you think about it, I'm proof too. How else would I look exactly as I did the day we first met, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John found that unsettling.

It was cold outside, and dark, and John's coat wasn't nearly warm enough, especially with the wind slicing through him so adamantly. He just wanted to get back home and curl up with a nice hot cup of tea. And yet still he followed, because he realized long ago that where Sherlock went, he went.

The realization he'd had before came back to him just then and he looked down at his feet. He could pinpoint that strange fluttery feeling now, the one he got whenever he was around Sherlock. It was more than loyalty or friendship, it was . . . something else; something he wasn't sure he wanted to admit to just yet.

"There it is!" The Doctor exclaimed suddenly, practically skipping over to the big blue box in the middle of the sidewalk and opening the door as he gestured for them to enter. "Come on!"

"We can't fit in there," John protested, "It's too small."

The Doctor gave him that grin again; mischievous and daunting and inviting all at once. "You'd be surprised."

John glanced at Sherlock, unsure, but the consulting detective didn't hesitate, not even for a moment. He stepped into the TARDIS – the impossible blue box – as easily as if he was entering his own bedroom. And John followed without question.

The Doctor entered behind them, closing the door as he did, and then that was it. No turning back now.

There was a whooshing sound, strange and screeching and yet inviting; as fascinatingly terrifying as the Doctor himself. Then – slowly, as if it was building up momentum – the box began to fade from view, and within moments it was gone, having disappeared into thin air, as the cliché goes.

And all was quiet again along the dark street.

X X X

"Dean."

Dean's gun was out and cocked so fast he hardly registered the motion, it had become so second-nature to him. But all he saw when he turned around was a pair of bottomless blue eyes staring back at him from the other side of the shotgun's barrel.

He sighed heavily, "Cas . . ."

"My apologies," Castiel said, realizing he'd done something wrong.

"It's fine," Dean waved it off.

Castiel looked awkward a moment longer before he composed himself, "He's gone, Dean."

Dean blinked, "What? Who's gone?"

"The man, the one who saw us – well, you, specifically – kill that monster in the alleyway earlier."

"Okay . . ." Dean's eyebrows furrowed, nearly meeting together in the middle of his forehead, "Wait, what do you mean he's gone? Can't you use your angel mojo to find him?"

"That's what I'm trying to explain. He was there, Dean. I know because I tracked him down the streets. I felt the presence of his soul around me, and then it was just gone – disappeared as if he never existed."

"How is that possible?"

Castiel shook his head, "I do not know. But I will find out."

Dean sighed, suddenly feeling very worried about the whole situation. Something about it just wasn't right, and he'd learned from experience to trust his instincts. All the same, it could wait. He needed information right now, before Castiel decided to flutter off again. "Well, did you at least get a name, Cas? I mean, I could have Sammy do a bit of research and learn more about whoever this guy is, and maybe that'd help speed things along a bit."

"Good idea," the angel agreed, "I only got a first name, though – Sherlock."

"Weird name," Dean frowned, "It sounds familiar."

"You find out who he is, and I'll find out where he is." Castiel said.

Dean smirked at him, "Fair enough."

They both paused for a sudden moment then, staring at each other strangely. It was as if they'd quite suddenly been caught in a time warp or something – both unable to move. Their eyes stayed locked together, blue on green, and Dean couldn't look away, for the moment had jumped up on them, grasping tightly and not letting go, and Dean just sort of stood there; frozen in place and extremely confused. Castiel's eyes seemed to just suck him in with their color. They were so eternally blue, like an endless waterfall. Loud and dangerous, refreshing and calm, patient and compliant . . .

Dean suddenly thought it strange how well a waterfall actually described Castiel.

"Dean," Castiel said suddenly, and just like that the moment shattered.

Released from the pull of the angel's gaze, Dean turned around, giving Castiel only his back.

"Dean . . ." Castiel said again.

"You should go find that Sherlock guy," Dean said, "I'll put Sam to work."

He could imagine Castiel's reaction as clearly as if he was looking right at the angel; shoulders slumping, eyes slipping down to stare at the floor, head bowing. He'd maybe stand there a moment longer, feeling awkward and unsure, but then he'd go, too confused to respond and too uncertain to ask Dean what had happened.

Right on cue, Dean heard the sound of wings, and when he turned around Castiel was gone.

Dean knew him too well if he'd been able to predict that turn of events so accurately. But, despite the angel's terrifying power, in reality he was just as awkwardly human as the rest of them; something that Dean found endearing (thought he'd never admit it out loud,) and also something he could use as leverage.

It was a simple thing indeed to ignore the ache in his chest. He was used to it.

But it was far too quiet on the bus ride back to the hotel he and Sam were holed up in, and all Dean could think about the entire time were these blue, blue eyes. Eyes so blue they swallowed you up like the ocean, pulling you deeper and deeper until you no longer had the strength or the want to pull away.

He shook himself from these thoughts, though, for he had work to do. The bus dropped him off at the hotel, and he quickly grabbed his things and left, wanting to be away from that stifling wistful feeling he kept getting.

"Sammy?" He called as he entered the hotel room.

Sam looked up from his computer, "Hey, Dean." The younger Winchester sighed, "There's been another murder."

Dean's eyes widened, "Already?"

"Yeah – they can identify the body quicker this time also, because her face was mostly undamaged." He turned the monitor to face Dean, and he couldn't help the horror that showed on his face.

"That's . . . that's just a little girl," Dean breathed. "What is she, twelve?"

"Eleven," Sam corrected. "And I doubt this vamp will stop there; next thing you know we'll have dead infants on our conscience."

Dean glared at him, "Don't joke about that, Sam."

"I wasn't," Sam said seriously.

They both stayed silent a bit longer, unsure about what to say next, when Dean suddenly remembered what Castiel had told him and about how he'd promised to have Sam do some research on the 'Sherlock' guy . . . whoever he was.

However, when he told Sam this, his younger brother gave him the bitchiest bitchface he'd ever seen.

"Do you never listen to me?" Sam sighed, exasperated, "I told you about him earlier today! This very same day! I told you about Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, and how you should watch out for him. How could you not remember that?"

Dean stared, "What, you think it's the same guy?"

"I think the name 'Sherlock' is uncommon enough for us to be sure enough."

"What do you think, then?"

Sam paused for a moment, just a moment, but Dean clearly interpreted the hesitation for what it was - uncertainty. And he knew that, above all people, after all they'd been through together, Sam was strong; much stronger than before. So what was it that had him looking so spooked?

"Sammy?" Dean finally chanced after a few more moments of silence.

"I don't like this, Dean." Sam said finally, "Something here is wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"Honestly, I don't really know just yet," Sam admitted, turning to glance out the window, "But I have a strange feeling we're going to find out soon."