A.N: I'm really happy people are enjoying this! Just a warning, this chapter has a few references to the first two episodes of the new season of Sherlock (nothing major though, and it's a pre-Reichenbach story).
Chapter Two
The Case of the Impossible Impala
John Watson had long been in the habit of idly coming up with catchy names for cases as he assisted Sherlock Holmes in solving them. The more popular his blog became, the more he enjoyed crafting the descriptions of these cases, and sometimes he felt he was rather clever and not a half-bad writer. The doctor knew that alliteration could be taken too far, but he felt "The Case of the Impossible Impala" rolled off the tongue nicely.
Cold wind attempted to dishevel his collar; he pulled his scarf up a little, hunching down slightly. Though he was nowhere near as skilled as his flatmate, John did attempt to take in he entire scene, thinking that this wasn't what he'd expected to be doing when he woke up that morning.
The sun had risen over a familiar scene in 221B Baker Street—Sherlock was pacing around the living room talking to himself. Unfortunately, he'd been doing that all night, as John had been painfully aware. Occasionally the man had exclaimed something that made little sense to his friend, like, "But what about the cappuccino?" or, "The bees! The bees!" He had a case that was one of the most confusing ones to John, and even Sherlock seemed to be drawing to a dead end on it.
Midmorning, Lestrade had called Sherlock, who, of course, had been far too busy looking at some books on the species of bees in Italy to be bothered actually answering his mobile, so he'd shouted at John to get it and put it on speakerphone.
"Sherlock, I've got a case." Lestrade sounded puzzled.
"I'm already on a case!" he'd barked in reply, "Sorry, you'll have to—"
"I really think you'll want to see this one. It's… I can't explain it, really. I promise it won't disappoint."
"Too busy," Sherlock replied again, flipping a page, "but I'll send John over. He can take notes, or—dear God! The bees! It was the bees!" He stood up and sprinted out of the room, hardly stopping to grab his coat and scarf on his way.
So John Watson had asked Lestrade for the address, and an hour later he was standing on the roof of a thirty-story office building, looking at a classic car that was inexplicably parked there.
"American, obviously," John said, walking around the car, trying his best to be Sherlock but knowing he was probably missing everything important. "Great condition, recently washed—whoever owns it took care of it. Except," he peered more closely at the interior, "It also seems pretty lived-in, like whoever owned it drove it places. So not just a show car sitting around in a garage."
"But how did it get here?" Lestrade asked, shaking his head. "I mean, how do you get a car on top of a building? Any why do it in the first place?"
"Practical joke?" John shrugged, "Maybe a fraternity thing. I'd check out any American students at all the nearby universities, focusing on the wealthier ones. Not cheap to have a car brought over, not to mention however much it cost to get it up here. Have you found any identification?"
"None in the glove box, but we're working on the boot." As Lestrade spoke, the locksmith gave a triumphant cry, and with a click it opened. John crowded around the back of the car with everyone else, and when Lestrade opened the false bottom, he was the only one who broke the stunned silence.
"Well. Bit more than a practical joke, then?"
Dean Winchester was slightly worried that when he and Sam turned the corner to the alley where the TARDIS should have been waiting they'd find it gone as well, but it wasn't. As they approached, the door opened, and Crowley stepped out, looking smug as ever.
"Well, boys, I'm off, but do have fun with your little," he turned and waved vaguely at the blue box, "alien time machine, and good luck saving the universes, blah, blah."
Before either of the Winchesters had a chance to reply, the demon was gone. Dean wasn't sad to see him go, either. Wordlessly, the brothers entered the TARDIS.
The Doctor and Cas both seemed to be recovering, and though it might have been a little insensitive of him, Dean's first words to them were, "Some dick stole the Impala, so you gotta take us back in time, Doc, so we can un-steal it."
"Please," Sam amended politely. "If it's not too much trouble."
Dean gave him an exasperated look.
"What?" Sam asked defensively, "We just barely escaped some evil bitch monster and now you're asking him for favors? At least be nice about it."
"I would take you back if I could, but I can't go mucking about in people's personal time-lines, sorry. But," he added quickly, turning with a flourish to type something into the consol, "I can track it down!"
"Sweet, thanks," Sam said, shutting the door behind them. "So, Crowley bailed. No surprises there."
The TARDIS began to move, and Dean didn't even bother commenting on the bad driving this time. He was eager to see his baby again, make sure she was alright. He vowed that if some punk had stripped her down in a chop-shop, he'd bring a world of pain to those responsible.
"Well," Lestrade said after a long moment, "Still doesn't rule out your fraternity theory, Dr. Watson. Let's run the serial numbers on these, see if we can track down the source." He carefully picked up a sawed-off shotgun, "These are illegal even in America. Whatever angle whoever did this was working, I'm just not getting it."
"I'm calling Sherlock," John said, pulling out his mobile, "Even he may not be able to make heads or tails of this."
Sherlock arrived about a half-hour later, looking very pleased with himself. "I solved the case, you'll be happy to know," he was almost swaggering as he approached the door to the roof. "The answer was in the bees. I'll tell you about it for your little blog later."
"Sure, fine, but this one," John shook his head. "You won't be bored for a while."
The weather was still cold and miserable, but a few rogue bits of sun were peaking through the clouds as the two friends walked out onto the roof. The car was still there, shining impossibly in the afternoon light. Sherlock frowned at it, then glanced at John.
He frowned at the car some more, striding towards it. Eyes flickering in seemingly every direction at once, Sherlock mumbled, "This is a new one."
"Yeah, it's…" John let out a long sigh. "I don't know what. Bizarre. You should see what they found inside it."
Forensics had already bagged most of the guns and were storing them in evidence boxes, but Lestrade had a small box in his gloved hands, and his expression went from puzzled to shocked when he opened it.
"Fake IDs, looks like," he commented as John and Sherlock stopped beside him. "American, all of them. Same two guys, a dozen names. Least we have some suspects now." He handed the box of IDs over to a forensics guy, then gingerly pulled something else out of the boot—a largish tan piece of cloth—no, a coat, John saw as the Detective Inspector held it up.
Lestrade fished around in the pockets, apparently finding nothing until he searched the inside breast pocket. From that he withdrew yet another fake ID—FBI this time. The picture was different from the others, though. Interesting, though to John that didn't make the situation any clearer. He hoped Sherlock saw something in it all.
The consulting detective was currently buzzing about the car, looking in the interior, inspecting everything. After a few minutes of that, Sherlock suddenly stopped, asking Lestrade if he could speak to the person who found the car.
"Sure," the Detective Inspector answered, "Janitor found it this morning, he should still be working."
The three men turned and began to walk towards the door. As it closed behind him, John Watson thought he heard a strange noise, like a scratchy breathing almost, but he dismissed it as random noise from the city below.
The Doctor peaked cautiously out of the TARDIS, something he almost never did when landing in an unknown location. But since the car had been stolen—and since it'd been stolen in a city more well known for its crime than its soda—he thought perhaps a little prudence, however uncharacteristic for him, would not be remiss. A cold wind rushed into the TARDIS, so abrasive that he closed his eyes against it for a moment; when he opened them, he was surprised to see not a dark building occupied by shady criminals, but what looked like a roof of a building. The TARDIS had landed just behind a corner of a wall, but by leaning out a little he could make out the rest of the area. He sniffed, then closed the door, turning to his companions.
"Ah, this is a bit awkward," he began, "but we seem to have left Atlanta. And probably that universe altogether."
"What?" Dean had been pacing since they'd landed, but now he stopped. "You mean instead of—"
"I'm trying to tell you that your car wasn't stolen," the Doctor cut in, "It just slipped into another universe."
"Oh," Dean's face was impassive for a moment, then it fell. "Oh. What's out there? Is it bad? Is she okay? Oh, God, my car got sucked into a black hole, didn't she?"
"No! No, no," the Doctor's voice failed to be entirely reassuring. "It seems to be in London. On a roof. There may or may not be some policemen around it, and forensics…" He trailed off nervously. Dean seemed to have the same attachment to his car that the Doctor had to his TARDIS; he could imagine how annoying it would be if someone broke into his ship and started taking things and bagging them up.
"Shit," Sam said, "They must've found our weapons. So is this version of Earth pretty similar to ours?"
"From what I saw, yes, though we should of course proceed with caution." Had he really said that? "We'll wait until it's dark and then get your car. I imagine they can't figure out how to get it off the roof, so it should still be here."
"Should? What if they—"
"Shh," the Doctor said, and Dean fell silent, looking a little perplexed. "Everything is going to work out just fine. Now, since we have quite a few hours to kill—"
"But this is a time machine," Sam interrupted, raising his eyebrows.
"Yes, but look at you lot," he gestured to all the humans in the room, "You're all exhausted." Turning to the typewriter with flourish, he began to input specifications for a few new bedrooms, wondering how the Winchesters felt about bunk-beds.
Amy, as if reading his mind, rolled her eyes. "He's probably giving you all one room with bunk-beds. Do they make them three beds high?"
"They make them as many beds high as I want," the Doctor replied, "And bunk-beds are cool."
Heading off further arguments about the coolness of things that were obviously very cool, he gave them all directions to their rooms (the Ponds' had moved a little and he'd added a swimming pool to it in an attempt to make up for the lack of beach vacation).
The humans wondered off down the hall; he could hear Dean and Sam arguing over who got top bunk.
"Look," said Dean, "I'm oldest, so I get the top bunk. Those are the rules."
"Since when? I should get it."
"You? What if the bed breaks? It'll be like getting squished by a moose. Not happening."
Their voices faded as they rounded a corner. The Doctor let his smile fall now that he was alone, and turned to lean against the TARDIS's consol.
Castiel was standing a few feet away, staring at him. The Doctor jumped, then laughed. "You don't want to see your room? It's got a hammock!"
"I do not require sleep," he said, then resumed standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.
"Oh, well, then, there's lots to do on board the TARDIS! I've got a library, a pool—well, they're in the same room; happened by accident but I quite liked the result, so I kept it—a billiards room, a kitchen, if you're hungry—"
"I also don't eat. If I'm making you uncomfortable, I'll go."
"No!" the Doctor insisted sincerely, "I just thought you might be bored standing around here all day."
"Oh. No, I'm fine. But don't you need to sleep?"
"Not human, don't need to sleep as often as they do." His smile felt thin on his face, but he tried to hold it there. Castiel could clearly keep calm in a bad situation, but the Doctor didn't want the angel knowing just how bad this whole Voidsong thing was.
"You're troubled." Cas sat down on the bench, leaving room for the Doctor to join him. "These Voidsong may seem like an undefeatable enemy, but don't lose faith. We'll prevail."
Sitting next to his new friend, the Doctor sighed. "I've been alive for almost a millennium. After that long, you begin thinking you've seen it all—or at least enough of it to be able to handle anything. But a consciousness in the void? It isn't possible, at least not according to what I've always been told."
"Questioning their existence won't solve the problem," Cas replied quietly. "We have to find a way to stop what they're doing."
"But we don't know what it is, really. We know they're pressing universes together by manipulating the void, but we don't know their motivation."
"We also know they want you dead, which means you're a threat to them, which means we can beat them, given enough time or the right weapon."
"Weapon." The Time Lord sighed, shaking his head. "How do you destroy something that doesn't exist in the same way we exist?"
"I don't know. But it has to be out there somewhere. And we have to stop them. That woman who appeared, she said the Voidsong wanted to destroy everything you protect."
Cas's words sparked connections in the Doctor's mind. Springing up, he exclaimed, "That's it! they're joining the universes together so they can destroy them all at once. But making an infinite number of things touch would take an infinite amount of time to accomplish."
"You're assuming these things follow the same rules that we do. I'm surprised it hasn't already happened."
"There's nothing to say it hasn't. They're just waiting for one universe to end so that all of them will."
"Then in one of those realities, a weapon is waiting for you. After we retrieve the Impala, we should begin searching." The angel's voice was filled with conviction.
"Yes." The Doctor was feeling slightly more hopeful after his talk with Castiel, but he still knew it was a monumental task to undertake. "After this little side-trip, to infinity, and beyond!"
Cas looked very concerned as he said, "Doctor, you can't go beyond infinity, I don't—"
"It's from a children's movie. I—you're not very up on popular culture, are you?"
John Watson finally began to drift into sleep; eventually the sound of Sherlock's pacing had become a sort of white noise and his brain began ignoring it. As the world faded, the doctor's lips curved up in a slight, unconscious smile, and if he'd been awake enough to think it, he would have said to himself, "Ah! At last!"
Three seconds later, Sherlock burst into John's room, not knocking as usual, and certainly not bothering to be quiet. "John! I've thought of something, but I need to be sure. We've got to get back on that roof."
"Mmmf, wha? Sherlock?" He'd missed most of what his mad flatmate had said, so the taller man repeated himself. "Do we have to go back now? In the middle of the night?"
"Yes. I could be wrong, and if I am, I'll need to devote my efforts to other possibilities."
Half an hour later, a very grumpy Dr. Watson and a hyperactive Mr. Holmes were zipping downtown in a cab. On the way, Sherlock went over what he knew again, possibly to bring John up to speed, but more likely just to say it aloud.
"The facts. At seven thirty-five this morning, a janitor went onto the roof to check the exterior of an air-conditioning unit. There are three access points to the roof, all of which are standard-sized doors. On his way to the unit, he saw the car. He called his superiors, who then contacted the police. The last person on the roof before the janitor was a security guard doing a routine check at seven, thirty-five minutes before.
"So, whoever put the car up there did it in slightly less than thirty-five minutes, and they did it without being caught on any of the cameras. The feed wasn't tampered with, and the cameras cover about ninety-eight percent of the building.
"The only way to get the car onto the roof without a crane would be to disassemble it, transport it through the building to the roof, and reassemble it there."
"Lot of work for a prank," John commented.
"Oh, your prank theory was a nice one until they found the weapons. That brings it to a much higher level. University students punking each other wouldn't leave guns and forged IDs in the trunk. They'd know the car would be found and investigated—why set someone up for criminal charges? No, this was done by someone who wanted to get the owners of the car in trouble."
"Why not just call the police? Leaving an anonymous tip would have been easier."
"That I don't understand. I'm missing something big. Perhaps they didn't want the owners of the car to have a chance to hide the evidence. Or perhaps they just like making a scene."
"Then why are we going back to the roof?"
"I just need to take a look around the entire perimeter. The people who assembled the car left no trace—not a footprint. I must have missed something; no one can be that immaculate."
Sherlock's pale, thin fingers were drumming against his leg. He had the vaguely obsessive look of a junkie about him, but the man also seemed happy, excited.
John felt tired and annoyed, but the impossible Impala had piqued his interest.
The night security let them in easily enough, though Lestrade's police badge probably helped more than Sherlock's internet fame. One lift ride and a flight of stairs later, they were back on the roof. The weather hadn't improved much with the absence of the sun; John thought he was going to freeze to death up here, and he'd dressed in layers.
His friend, of course, barely seemed to notice. They walked swiftly towards the car, which from the doorway was obscured by the housing for an AC unit. As they rounded the unit, both men stopped.
There were six people huddled around the car, five men and one woman, who looked especially miserable in a short skirt and leggings. They seemed an eclectic group, one in a suit and tie, another in a sort of hipster outfit, two who were dressed like lorry drivers. The last man seemed the most typical, not standing out much in his casual clothing.
Sherlock pushed John against the wall, motioning for him to be silent. Rolling his eyes, the doctor wondered if Sherlock ever remembered that he'd had military training and knew better than to stroll up to a group of criminals and ask to be shot.
The people's voices drifted to them, but little of it made sense. What was more enlightening than their babbling about shrink-rays and something called a tardis, was the mix of accents. Three Americans, two Englishmen, one Scottish woman. Interesting.
"Why would they come back here?" John whispered.
Sherlock just shook his head—he had as little idea as his friend.
"Should we call Lestrade?"
"Already sent him a text. Can't risk a call. Did you bring your gun?"
"Yes." He brought it on all the cases now, even the ones that seemed innocent. He'd learned his lesson after the Chihuahua thief fiasco.
"Excellent. Be ready for trouble!" And without further warning, Sherlock stepped out of the shadows and walked casually towards the group. "Hello!" His voice was bright. "Fancy seeing someone else up here this time of night. Come to admire the classic car?"
The group turned simultaneously; it almost looked choreographed it was so smooth. They wore varying expressions of shock, surprise, and in the case of the man with the suit, either a great poker face or bland indifference. Fear was missing from everyone, though, and that made John nervous.
"Good evening!" It was the hipster kid who was talking, "We just heard about it on the news and thought we'd have a look. I mean, how'd someone get a car up here?"
"Really?" Sherlock tilted his head. "That's odd. I remember that the company who owns this building specifically wanted to keep the media out of this."
"Oh, uh, well we heard about it on the internet," said the shorter lorry-driver. "You know. On Reddit."
"Since when do you read Reddit?" the very large American asked, but was ignored.
"Oh?" Sherlock pulled out his phone and began typing on it. "A long way to come to see a car on a roof, all the way from Kansas." He didn't bother looking up, John assumed the man knew that his words would have elicited an expression of surprise and wariness from the Americans. "Hm. That's odd, I'm not seeing any such article on the site. Do you remember the URL by any chance?"
"Yeah, sure," said the other English man, who was dressed comparatively normally. He stepped towards Sherlock; John tensed. "I'll type it in for you."
"Cute," said the consulting detective. "I know you're the owners of this car. What I don't know is why and how it got up here. If you tell me that, I'll convince Detective Inspector Lestrade to go easy on you. He's on his way now."
"Lestrade?" said the hipster, "Nice name for a DI, isn't it? Bet he gets told that a lot though. Does that make you Sherlock Holmes?" By his tone, he was joking, and a few of the others laughed.
"Yes, actually. I see you've read my friend's blog."
At that, everyone but the man in the suit began to laugh in earnest. "Dude," said the shorter American, "Is this guy LARSing or something?"
"It's LARPing."
"Whatever. Where's your funny hat?"
"Deerstalker," commented the hipster.
"Is it Correct Dean Day or something? Look," Dean continued, turning back to Sherlock, "I get why you called the cops. But this is all a mistake."
"That hat wasn't mine," Holmes sighed, "You put on one silly hat once, and that's all you're known for. Now, just tell me how it was done. I can't figure it out, and that's saying quite a lot."
"Why's he still LARPing?"
"LARPing? I'm afraid I don't know what that means. How did you avoid the security cameras?"
"You wouldn't believe us if we told you," said the nondescript Englishman, "If the cops are coming, you won't mind us waiting over there, behind that little building thing?" he gestured to another AC unit. "It's out of the wind."
"No, I think we'll all be staying right here."
Dean stepped over to the hipster, whispering something in his ear. The latter shook his head, frowning as he replied. Then ensued a heated whisper-argument, which the American apparently won. Looking triumphant, Dean suddenly pulled a gun from his belt, leveling it at Sherlock.
Adrenaline rushed through John, bringing with it a strange sense of calm and focus; time slowed, and a singularity of purpose fell over the doctor. His gun was aimed at Dean's heart, cocked, safety off before Sherlock had time to raise his hands into the air.
"Oh, come now," Holmes was saying, "There's no need for that. Besides, if you kill me, I doubt you'll make it far."
"I don't hear police sirens yet."
"Did I not mention? My dear friend Dr. Watson is here as well."
John frowned as everyone began to laugh, even Dean. "Dude, you're taking this role-playing thing to a new level. I mean I have a gun on you and you're still make-believing you're some Victorian super-sleuth? Who's Watson, your boyfriend?"
"Why does everyone always assume that?" John asked petulantly, stepping out of the shadows. "We're flatmates and friends and sort-of co-workers. Why does that have to be sexual?"
"So you really did have a friend. Is that a real gun?" the hipster asked. "Does everyone in this bloody universe have a gun but me? Humans are so violent."
"Er, yeah, it's real," John answered. "So I would advise putting that away, Dean, or whoever you are, before someone gets hurt. That someone will be you, by the way."
"Wow, a LARPer with balls. Alright, how about we all put the guns away and talk this out? We're not criminals."
"Technically, you are for having a firearm." John lowered his gun slowly, matching the pace of the American. "And all those fake IDs had your pictures on them."
"John," said Sherlock, his voice nonchalant on the surface, but the doctor could sense an undercurrent of slight anxiety. "Where's the other American?"
A quick count told Watson that one of the group was missing. Turning his head slightly, he scanned the area. "I don't—" A skillful hand suddenly pulled the gun from his grip, twisting his arm behind him. "Found him, Sherlock!"
Rolling his eyes, Holmes spat sarcastically, "Great work, thank you."
"Oh, yeah, like you've never had anyone sneak up on you."
"If you're referring to the incident with the bacon murderer, he was unusually—"
"Oh come off it, you know he got the drop on you!"
"Please be quiet," said the man who was holding John's arm. His voice was gravelly but gentle. "We're not going to hurt you. We just want the car back, then we'll be gone forever."
"Not before you tell me how you did it," insisted Sherlock.
"You won't believe it," replied the hipster, and everyone else in the group agreed, nodding and adding their own comments.
"Try me." Sherlock's voice was like ice.
"Alright," the hipster shrugged. "I'm the Doctor, by the way, nice to meet you. I'm a time-travelling alien, and that man holding your friend is an angel. We're all from a different universe—two different ones, really—and we came here because that Impala slipped into this universe by accident. Once we retrieve it, we're going to look for a weapon that can kill something that doesn't technically exist but exists anyway, thus saving the multi-verse."
Sherlock was speechless, something that was usually only accomplished by the presence of a naked dominatrix. John himself was finding it hard to think of a retort. This was weirder than the comic book case. Graphic novel case. Whatever.
The normal-looking guy broke the silence. "Pretty good summation of where we are, Doctor."
"Yeah you didn't leave anything out," agreed the woman.
"But it was succinct." The big guy nodded.
"Excellent summary skills." Dean put his gun away. "Let's get the hell outta here. Oh," the man had begun walking away, but he stopped. "Where'd they stash all the guns and stuff from the car?"
"And I should tell you because?"
John frowned. Sherlock would be all bravado—he wasn't the one with his arm twisted painfully behind him. But before John could tell Sherlock to just tell them, the man's phone rang.
"Mind if I get this?" he asked, sounding almost chipper.
"Not at all," the man who'd called himself the Doctor answered.
Deftly the consulting detective pulled his phone out of his pocket and said, "This had better be good. Oh, Lestrade. Did you get my text? What do you mean, the car-on-the-roof thing isn't important? Did I mention the culprits are here—what? How many dead? Dear God, that's obscene. Yes, of course we'll come. Text me the address—I said text it!" He hung up after that, and his phone chimed.
A moment later, John realized the man had let him go; he turned around swiftly, but there was no one behind him. Glancing back at the car, he saw the American with the others. All of them were making their way around an AC unit, but the Doctor stopped, looking concerned.
"That call must have been about something serious, for the police to stop worrying about us. What happened?"
"Dozens dead in a restaurant about four blocks over. Lestrade said it looked like wild animals did it, but that's impossible. No one saw anything."
Sherlock's voice had been loud enough for everyone on the roof to hear. The Americans stopped as he spoke, trading meaningful gazes with each other before returning.
"You need our help for this," said the tallest American.
"Oh, I doubt it." Sherlock's retort was fast and tinged with amusement.
"Your little game of pretending to be Sherlock Holmes isn't gonna help you solve these murders," Dean snapped.
"Game? Pretending? I am Sherlock Holmes. Haven't you read the papers? Seen my picture? Do I need to put a hat on to prove it?"
"Props for staying in character, but I've got news—Sherlock Holmes isn't real. He doesn't exist, he's a made-up character. Get a life."
The woman slapped Dean on the arm. "You don't have to be an ass about it. If he wants to pretend to be Sherlock Holmes, he can. Who's he hurting?"
Surreptitiously rubbing his arm, the man hissed, "Geez, sorry. I just think they'll get themselves hurt. Whatever killed those people isn't going to go easy on a couple of role-players."
"We're not role-playing!" Watson shouted. "I am Dr. John Watson, and he is Sherlock Holmes! I don't know what sort of drugs you've all been sharing, but we can't stand here all night and talk. Come on, Sherlock."
With a swirl of his coat, the consulting detective joined his friend in storming towards the door. By his face, Sherlock didn't look confused at all, but he had to be, because John felt like he'd walked into a movie theatre half-way through the film, which was in French without subtitles.
Dean watched the two weirdoes leave, frowning as he did so. "Doc, we gotta go after them. Whatever killed those people seems like our sorta problem."
"Just a moment, I think I've got the shrink-ray working."
"Still can't believe you have that thing," Amy said, shaking her pretty ginger head. "It's a bit sci-fi, even for you."
"Well, sorry for being a bit sci-fi." He pointed an object that looked like a laser gun from a '70's B-movie at the Impala. A greenish beam of light surrounded the car, making both Winchesters flinch. But the car was fine; it merely shrank to the size of a toy. Dean picked it up with loving care.
"It's okay, baby, we'll have you right as rain soon enough." Slipping it into his pocket, he joined the rest of the group as they returned to the TARDIS.
"I can track those two and follow them to the crime scene."
They arrived at the scene before the men from the roof, but the place was crawling with police and forensics. None of them seemed to notice the blue police box in a shadowy corner of the large dining room, but the consensus was that someone might look askance at six strangers wondering around the place, so they decided to just watch what was going on through a crack in the TARDIS's door.
Naturally, everyone wanted to see outside, which ended up in a short but brutally vicious struggle for dominance involving much elbow-throwing and pushing. Eventually Sam remembered that Castiel could choose not to be seen by humans, so it didn't make sense for him to be trying to look out the door when he could walk around and investigate. Then the Doctor decided watching on his monitor would be more comfortable and less life-threatening, and probably he didn't want to keep getting abused by a feisty redhead with shockingly pointy elbows, so he abandoned the fray. That left the Winchesters and the Ponds, who eventually settled on a sort of hierarchy of height.
They couldn't see much from their vantage point, but Cas soon returned with news.
"I believe it was vampires," he said, ignoring the expressions of disbelief from Amy and Rory. "Many of them. They went wild. The mortals here have no idea what they're dealing with."
"Shocking," Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm guessing the vamps came through from our universe, or one like it."
"Are they real vampires?" Rory asked, "Like, Dracula and all that?"
"Sorta. You have to cut off their heads to kill them."
"But they are vampires, not just sexy fish from space?"
"Sexy…fish…from space?" Sam looked beyond perplexed, and Dean imagined he was wearing a similar expression.
"Long story," Amy shrugged. "Just making sure they're real vampires this time!" She shot a look at the Doctor.
"Sounds like one hell of a story. You'll have to tell me sometime."
"Are you hitting on my wife?"
"Er," Dean gave Rory his most apologetic smile. "I may have been. Sorry, but she's so hot, dude. It just slipped out, I'll stop."
Rory gave his wife a look of adoration. "She is hot, isn't she? She's so hot she flirts with herself."
"What?"
"Well, there was this mix-up with the TARDIS and there were two of her at once and—"
"Alright, alright, no need for that. I can't help it if I look good in a skirt, can I?"
"Dean, could we perhaps focus on the issue here?" Cas interrupted, "There are probably a dozen vampires running around this city."
Beside them, the TARDIS's door swung all the way open; the man who called himself Sherlock Holmes was standing just outside, frowning, his friend a few feet behind him.
"How did you get here so quickly?" His voice was calm considering he was looking into a box that was much bigger on the inside. "And what is this room?"
"You noticed the TARDIS?" The Doctor practically bounced over to them.
"Of course I noticed it. A blue police box from the sixties is hardly to be expected in a five-star restaurant." He sounded extremely offended.
"But," the Doctor's eyes flickered around the room. "No one else seems to care. Doesn't that interest you?"
"They're all idiots." He swept past the Time Lord, staring around the interior of the TARDIS. "Odd for this room to be here. Some sort of themed dining?"
"No, this is my space/time ship. Remember how I told you we were from other universes?"
"Yes, it was very cute. Why did you follow me here?" His pale grey eyes flowed from one face to another, and when Dean stared back at them, he felt oddly naked, as if the so-called Sherlock Holmes could see through him.
"Cas, can I talk to you for a second?" he asked in a low voice, steering the angel from the group and down a hallway. Once they were out of sight, he paused. "Can you try to track down where the vamps went?"
"Of course."
"Thanks, man."
Castiel closed his eyes. Nothing happened. A sense of dread slithered through Dean's stomach.
"I'm cut off from heaven." Cas sounded confused. "I was told that I'd be able to utilize some powers during my quest, even if I was exiled. But there's nothing—I'm—I'm like a baby in a trench coat." He looked down at his body, frowning more deeply. "Without even that, now."
"But you weren't cut off, what, two minutes ago? What the hell happened?"
"I don't know." Turning away, the angel seemed almost embarrassed and certainly angry with himself. "I'll do what I can to find them."
Dean almost stopped Cas as he began to walk towards the main room, but the words of assurance died in his throat.
"So, you're saying," John began, eyebrows drawn together, "that vampires are responsible for this bloodbath? Vampires? And you want us to just let you run off through the city hunting them?"
"Uh, yeah, that pretty much sums it up." Sam gave him a pleasant smile; John still wanted to mentally refer to him as the Really Rather Large Fellow, but the hipster kid who called himself a doctor insisted, in the middle of this bizarre conversation, that they all stop and introduce themselves. No one believed he was really Dr. Watson or that Sherlock Holmes was in fact Sherlock Holmes, but they'd refused to give any other names. Why should they?
"And you don't see how we would have a problem with that?" Sherlock sneered, exceptionally pithy because they kept accusing him of something called LARPing. "You're clearly criminals, and possibly involved in this somehow. I should walk right out of this room and tell Lestrade to arrest you."
"This isn't a room, it's my TARDIS," insisted the Doctor with as much exasperation as John'd had when trying to tell them his name. "I can prove it to you. Will you believe then?"
Though a patronizing smiled, Sherlock replied, "Sure, yes, let's just pop back to 1888 and I can clear up that whole Jack-the-Ripper thing that's been bothering everyone for over a century."
"What, seriously?" Sam was laughing. "You think because you've read all the books and seen all the movies that you can be like Sherlock Holmes?"
"What books? What movies? Nothing any of you say makes sense!" Watson was yelling now, but he didn't bother stopping himself. "Why's it so bloody hard to believe we are who we claim to be?"
Everyone's smiles faded. "Well, Sherlock Holmes is a character created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."
"Who? Look, if you've read the blog, you might think I made that stuff up, but I didn't, this is him," John gestured to his irate friend, "Haven't you seen his picture in the papers?"
"We're not from this universe," the Doctor said, his voice gentle, as if he was preparing them for very bad news. "To us—you'd better follow me, and shut the door behind you, there's vampires out there, and not the sexy fish kind."
Though it went against every instinct he had, John was too curious to keep himself from following the strange group towards a hallway. Sherlock fell in step beside him, seeming to be in the same predicament he himself was in—common sense warring against an irresistible desire to know what they were on about.
The man in the suit, who hadn't been around for introductions, stopped his approach when he saw that everyone was heading in the opposite direction.
"Oh, John, Sherlock—" the Doctor at least was calling them their names, "—this is Castiel, an angel of God."
"Er," John said, but Castiel merely nodded to him, then whispered something to the Doctor, something upsetting by the so-called alien's expression. Cas didn't follow the group as they moved on; instead he merely stood in the hall, watching them with a strangely sad expression.
The shorter lorry-driver-looking fellow, Dean, joined them on their way to what turned out to be a library—the largest he'd ever been in, and definitely the strangest.
The room was several stories high, packed with shelves, but everything had a sort of disheveled look to it. Inexplicably, just past the section marked "Fiction-ish," there was a sprawling swimming pool. A tropical-themed bar waited nearby, and a few chairs and beach-balls were resting near the water's edge. The whole thing simultaneously looked very inviting and completely mad.
Apparently the room made sense to the Doctor, because he marched right up to a shelf and took a book down, then handed it to Sherlock.
"A Study in Scarlet, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle," he read. "Funny, but you got the color wrong." Sherlock accepted another volume. "The Hound of the Baskervilles?"
The name sent a chill through Dr. Watson. "I haven't posted that one yet," he whispered, voice uneven. "How did you know about what happened at Baskerville?"
"Because by some extraordinary chance, we've come to a universe where a storybook character is a reality. With an infinite number of universes, anything is possible. All possible stories have happened somewhere."
"So, wait," Dean interrupted, "Like, Harry Potter is real?"
"Somewhere."
"What about The Hobbit?" Amy asked, but any answer was cut off by her husband.
"I think you're all missing the point," Rory insisted, "I mean, this is Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. The Sherlock Holmes! Right here!" A wide smile bloomed on his face. "Oh my God, you guys, you're awesome! I can't believe I'm talking to Sherlock Holmes!"
What ensued was the strangest bout of fan-boying and fan-girling that John had ever witnessed—even weirder than the comic book guys. Suddenly everyone was shaking his hand and asking for autographs and telling him how brilliant he was and how they loved reading about the cases. Even the Doctor, who apparently called the shots despite his youth, joined in whole-heartedly.
Sherlock looked beyond uncomfortable with it all, and eventually shouted for everyone to stop trying to put a deerstalker on him, which apparently the Doctor had on hand.
"I demand to see proof that you people are time-travelers from another universe! Take me to Jack the Ripper, or I'll have you all arrested!"
"Sherlock Holmes is threatening to have us arrested!" Amy exclaimed. She seemed happy rather than worried. "Are you going to deduce what we've been doing?"
John thought his flatmate would refuse, but he wasn't really surprised when the taller man began to speak rapidly.
"Fine, shall I start with the American brothers? Alright," he whirled on them without waiting for a reply. "You're from Kansas, but you travel a lot and haven't been back there for some time. You live in cheap motels and sometimes your car, the black '67 Impala, and you get by using less than legal means, probably stealing identities or taking advantage of drunk idiots in bars. You're both expert marksmen and skilled fighters, and you've a habit of impersonating government officials in your country, probably because you hunt monsters, or at least think you do."
"Sam." The sudden shift in focus startled John, and the man Sherlock was staring at seemed nervous, shocked even. "You're hallucinating and seeing things that aren't here, either because you're going through withdrawals or because of sever psychological trauma. Either way, you should be seeking help rather than following this man around and pretending to hunt vampires."
Dean looked like he was going to punch Sherlock in the face—something John had sympathy for but would try to prevent on principle—but Sam stopped him with an outstretched arm. "How did you know that?" he asked hoarsely.
Rolling his eyes, the consulting detective sighed. "Everyone always wants to ruin the magic. Your forehead is sweaty but the temperature in this room is perfectly cool. Your eyes keep following things that aren't here, that we can't see, and sometimes they dart around. You drift away from conversations, and you keep pressing the palm of your left hand, where there's an old cut that's almost healed. Given the fact that you also believe yourself to be some sort of monster-slayer, psychological damage is likely. John here can recommend you a good psychiatrist; he's seen enough of them himself."
"I don't remember Sherlock Holmes being such an ass," Rory stage-whispered to his wife.
"Actually, if you look past the Victorian gentlemanliness, he really was a jerk," the Doctor commented. "A genius, but a jerk. Well, come on everyone!" He suddenly sprang towards the door. "Don't want to miss this!"
"Where are we going?" Amy asked as they all caught up with him.
"To 1888, of course! Sherlock Holmes has a crime to solve!"
The Doctor and His Companions Will Return In
Jack the Ripper is Actually a Stand-Up Guy