"Truth would quickly cease to become stranger than fiction, once we got used to it."

- H. L. Mencken

X X X

"Welcome to Bouken!" The Doctor said cheerily, opening the door of the TARDIS and bounding out with a gleeful smile as his feet hit sand and sunk down a few inches.

John followed just behind him, staring around with something that resembled a mixture of terror, awe, and confusion, because they'd just been standing in the middle of London, at night, and now it was mid-day, and they were in what seemed to be a desert.

"How the hell is this possible?" He gasped.

Sherlock came up behind him, his face carefully expressionless, but John knew better. He knew that every move – no matter how small – gave the consulting detective away far more than any gaudy, boisterous action ever could. That's why he watched so closely; he paid attention. And, in the end, it paid off, for he could see the slight change in Sherlock's eyes – the shift from its normal, indifferent grey to a sharp blue color that was worried and tense.

Sherlock glanced up at the sky, then, and his eyes widened, "Well, John . . . I know that my knowledge of the solar system is limited. But isn't there only supposed to be one sun?"

"Pardon?" John followed his gaze, and his eyes widened so at what he saw that he was afraid they'd fall out of his head, for there in the sky, orbiting them as if it was perfectly normal, were three suns.

Three suns.

"Ah, yes." The Doctor said, hands in his coat pockets as he joined them, "Bouken is famous for primarily its deserts, oil, and the three suns it harbors. Not really much to do on this planet, though. I just wanted to give you proof that I was telling the truth and that I wasn't a madman. Well . . . I'm still a madman, but that's irrelevant. I could take you so many more places; so many of which are much more interesting and exciting! And by the way, those are artificial suns; nothing to get truly worked up about."

John stared, "This . . . this is real . . ."

The Doctor nodded, "Believe me now?" He queried with a self-satisfied air about him.

Sherlock was still staring up at the sky. "I'd be a fool not to. While something like this was always an improbable explanation for me, it's definitely not impossible. And you've given me indisputable proof."

"This is bloody fantastic!" John exclaimed, cutting Sherlock off, "I'm standing on a different world, Sherlock! And time machines are real, and aliens too!" He pointed at the Doctor suddenly, "Hang on, are you an alien?"

"Time Lord," the Doctor said. "Specifically, I'm a Time Lord."

"Oh, of course," John said sarcastically, "I should've known. It's so obvious that you're a Time Lord – absolutely sodding obvious."

"Then to answer your question – yes, on Earth I'd be considered an alien." The Doctor grinned, "Want proof? I have two hearts, I don't age, I regenerate, and I live . . . well, I was born on the planet Gallifrey in the constellation of Kasterborous. That's about two-hundred-and-fifty million light years from Earth."

"Two-hundred-and-fifty million light years?" John repeated, "But . . . doesn't that put you outside of the Milky Way galaxy?"

The Doctor smirked, "I did say I was an alien."

"Regenerate?" Sherlock asked suddenly, "What do you mean by regenerate?"

"Ah, yes. It's this . . . this way to 'cheat death' if you will that Time Lords have. Just before we die we change, thus halting death in its tracks. And in return we get a new body, new teeth, new eyes, new hair, new personality – in fact, the only thing that really remains the same are the memories we've gathered over the years."

"That sounds a bit lonely," John murmured.

The Doctor fell silent at this.

"Are there other Time Lords, then?" Sherlock wondered. "Perhaps you could take us to see your planet?"

"No," the Doctor said shortly, "That's not an option." He turned then and walked back toward the TARDIS and Sherlock and John could do naught but follow. The door closed behind them, and the Doctor took off his coat, flinging it to the side as he ran up to the TARDIS's control panel to fiddle with all the strange levers and buttons there.

"It really is amazing, though," John said. "Maybe it's lonely, but you get to see all that amazing stuff, right?"

"I do pick up companions along the way, and I save a few people here and there, too." The Doctor said, "So it's not always lonely."

"And is it worth it?"

The Doctor smiled at that, his eyes twinkling. "Yes," he murmured, "It is most certainly worth it."

X X X

Sam was asleep.

Dean could see him, slightly illuminated in the light from the streetlamp that streamed in through the blinds. His eyes were closed, his hands folded on his chest from where he was lying on his back, and his breathing was deep and even.

Dean envied him.

The eldest Winchester brother couldn't get to sleep. He just kept tossing and turning, hyper-aware of the knife he always kept under his pillow. And, though he tried to ignore it, his thoughts for some reason kept returning to a pair of familiar bright blue eyes no matter what he did to try and distract himself.

Cas . . .

The sudden sound of wings reached his ears, pulling him from his thoughts rather efficiently, and Dean was on his feet in moments, knife in hand. The sound of wings made it obvious that their visitor was an angel, but for all he knew it could be Balthazar or – hell, it could even be Raphael. And he did not need that right now.

But as he turned, weapon at the ready, he saw that it was only Castiel, standing there with his normal apparel and staring at Dean with a look that translated to the angel equivalent of a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, Cas." Dean sighed, "It's just you."

"There's no time. Wake your brother," Castiel said shortly, "And grab what you need. He's back."

"Who's back?"

"Sherlock – the one who saw what we did and who could undo everything we've been working for. He's returned. I don't know how or why or what's going on, but he's back and we need to intercept him before he gets away again."

Dean nodded and he rushed over to shake his brother awake. "Sammy – Sammy, wake up."

Sam was awake within moments. Used to being woken up in the middle of the night, he merely rolled out of bed and went for his bag of weapons nearby without asking question, grabbing what he needed and glancing at Castiel.

"Cas found that Sherlock dude," Dean clarified.

"And I will take you both to where he is," the angel said. "We don't have time to waste."

"Wait," Dean said, "Wait, what are we planning on doing to this guy? I mean, we can't just kill him. It's not his fault that he saw what he saw, and we have no justified reason to kill him since he's definitely not a monster or a demon."

"I know," Castiel murmured, "I never planned to harm him. I simply wanted to frighten him into secrecy – or, threaten, as you would say."

Dean frowned, "I don't like this."

"Neither do I," Castiel agreed as he put his hands on their shoulders. Dean caught a glimpse – just a glimpse – of what seemed to be two large, white wings, and then they were standing in the middle of a darkened London street, their breaths morphing into clouds of mist in the chill night air. The building in front of them read '221b' on a small plaque on the door, but, as far as Dean could tell, it was empty.

"Where is he, then, this Sherlock guy?"

"Just down the street – hurry!" Castiel urged.

The Winchester brothers followed him, running down the next few blocks before turning a corner and nearly running into a group of people who were standing there. It took a second for Dean to notice, but it was three men, all of various size and strength, and they were standing in front of a large blue thing that look almost like one of those old phone boxes – except it was blue instead of red.

But Dean didn't really care about the box just then.

"That's him!" Castiel said, pointing at the tall, lanky one with the dark hair and the long wool coat. And, without even an ounce of hesitation, Dean grabbed the man now identified in his mind as Sherlock and pinned him against the wall with a knife to his neck.

"Sherlock!" The shortest of the three exclaimed, stepping forward. But Castiel intercepted him easily and put two fingers to his forehead, knocking him out-cold with his weird angel mojo. And the third man, who looked sort of out-of-place, now had his hands up and was staring at Sam warily, obviously unhappy that the younger Winchester brother had him at gunpoint.

"Now, now," the man said, "Is this really necessary?"

Castiel stared at him levelly, his blue eyes hard and unblinking. It was a look Dean knew well, and one that he knew shook him to the core when he was on the receiving end. It seemed to have a different effect on the third man, though. Instead of shrinking away from Castiel like people normally did when he stared at them like that, the man seemed to want to advance – to get closer so he could inspect the angel better.

"Fascinating," the man breathed, his eyes sparkling with wonder, "Absolutely fascinating. What are you?"

"That's none of your concern." Castiel replied shortly. "We came only for Sherlock."

Sherlock, who'd been staring at the man Castiel had knocked out, glanced back up sharply at the mention of his name; his eyes a sharp blue color much like Castiel's, the only difference being that Sherlock's were lighter in hue.

"What do you want with me?" Sherlock gasped.

"You saw us," Dean growled, "You saw us kill that vamp, didn't you?" He dug the knife into Sherlock's neck a bit further, "Didn't you?"

X X X

Fear.

It bubbled up inside of Sherlock, throwing the consulting detective's emotions askew. John was on the ground – dead or unconscious, he wasn't sure – and the Doctor was being held at gunpoint, and Sherlock himself . . . well, he had a knife at his neck for reasons unknown. But, as the man pinning him to the wall began to speak, the situation became very clear.

And now he recognized the shorter man in the trench coat.

"You!" He gasped, "You were the ones in that alley – the ones who . . ." A vivid memory of the man they decapitated swam up from the surface. With all the excitement about the Doctor returning, Sherlock had practically forgotten what happened in the alley just hours before. He remembered now, of course, but he'd never expected the three culprits to find him like this – and never so soon.

"Whatever you think we did, you're mistaken." The man holding him pinned to the wall said suddenly, his voice low, "We're not murderers. We didn't kill an innocent man."

"Oh?" Sherlock glanced at John again, "What about him?"

"Have no fear, he is not dead," the man in the trench coat said, "I merely rendered him unconscious."

Well, that certainly made Sherlock feel a bit better. However, there was still an issue at hand. "What do you mean you didn't kill an innocent man? Then who was that man in the alley?"

"He was not innocent." The tallest of the three said, "He wasn't even human."

The Doctor's eyes widened a bit at this, "What was he, then?"

The tallest one frowned, "Dean?"

"I'll tell them, Sammy." The one holding Sherlock down – Dean, was it? – said, "That 'man' we killed . . . well, he was a vampire."

Sherlock stared at him. And suddenly, everything made sense.