A.N: Wrote this in record time, no idea how, just had inspiration. Thanks, so much, to all my reviewers! Full notes at the end.
Chapter 5
Stadium Love
They were running. Again. Sometimes Dean felt like they never stopped running. This time it was zombies chasing them. He'd had about all he could take of those bastards.
The zombies weren't the usual Croatoan variety he, Sam, and Cas were used to; these were more Night of the Living Dead: slow moving but persistent, and in large packs very effective at eating brains.
Leaves crunched under his boots as he ran, branches from young trees stinging any exposed skin as he raced past. The terrifyingly close moaning of the undead spurred him on—he practically prayed that they wouldn't get surrounded. The TARDIS was just a little further. Just a few hundred more feet through a young forest and they'd be home free.
Dean tripped; it didn't surprise him, he'd seen too many movies for it to be a shock. Of course he tripped. That was how it went. Then he'd be eaten, torn apart—
Almost immediately Sam turned back to help him up, then they were both off again, sprinting full-out. All the older Winchester brother could hear was his heartbeat and his ragged breath and the sound of the zombies.
Closing in.
Oh God, he thought desperately, Is this how it fucking ends? Really? Some B-horror-movie death? I always thought the bacon would get me in the end. And now I'll never get to eat bacon again. Or bacon cheeseburgers. Do we even have anymore bacon on the TARDIS?
A dozen yards in front of him, the Doctor snapped his fingers frantically. The TARDIS opened just quick enough for him to miss slamming into the door as he barreled inside. Amy and Rory followed right after, then Sherlock and John, then Cas, then finally—against all hopes and movie plotlines—the brothers made it. No one got eaten.
Sam closed the door quickly, leaning against it as he tried to catch his breath. "So—guess the uh—the weapon or whatever—probably not here."
"If it were—it'd been eaten already," John joked, equally winded. "Never thought I'd—meet zombies."
"Well," Dean began after a long moment, smiling in spite of their recent brush with un-death, "Who wants lunch?"
Though keeping track of time was difficult when you ran with the Doctor, Dean thought they might have been travelling together for about two weeks now. He'd gotten to know everyone else, some more than others. The Doctor seemed open at first glance, but Dean recognized the reluctance the Time Lord had to tell anyone about his personal life or history. Amy and Rory told him some of their adventures, but before the Ponds met the Doctor, there was a long blank stretch followed by a question mark.
The Ponds themselves were cool people, fun to hang out with, and so obviously in love that it warmed Dean's heart in an annoying chick-flick manner. But their love wasn't sappy or overt or nauseating. It was in the way they looked at each other, the way they knew what the other was thinking, all the little gestures.
Ah, to be young and in love. Dean envied them that, but in a vague, resigned way. His life was what it was, and even if he could go back and change things, he wasn't sure he would—not the larger picture, at least. Details, of course, he'd fix all his stupid mistakes. But trading his life on the road with Sammy for bland domesticity wasn't what he wanted.
Dr. Watson was just as easy to get along with as the Ponds were; he was a pretty regular guy, intelligent but not in an obtrusive way that made Dean feel like the high school drop-out that he was. John told stories about the war, and about the cases he worked with Sherlock.
Sherlock, on the other hand, was an ass most of the time, and the times he wasn't being an ass, he was complaining about being bored. Holmes also had an annoying habit of asking the Winchesters questions that inevitably touched nerves. Their pasts weren't exactly filled with rainbows and buttercups, and most of it Dean didn't like to dwell on. Even answering the usual questions, like how he and Sam met an angel in the first place, dredged up memories that were just beginning to fade to a tolerable level. John easily picked up on the social cues and let the matter of their past drop, but Sherlock kept pressing, then, when it was clear Dean and Sam weren't going to open up and tell him everything, he merely looked at them as if they were Rubik's Cubes he was trying to solve.
They'd settled into something of a routine, visiting a new universe for a few days, exploring, searching, getting into trouble and then back out again. When their supplies ran low, they'd go back to a normal version of Earth and stock up. Then it was back out into the wild blue. They'd visited a half-dozen new worlds, none of them seeming to contain any weapon against the Voidsong, but none of them really boring, either.
The situation in his own world never left Dean's mind for long, but as it was, he knew he couldn't do a damn thing about it. The Doc had a time machine, anyway, so the Leviathan wouldn't be able to go ahead with any world-ending plans without the Winchesters being there to stop them. Or at least try.
Cas's powers still hadn't come back, anyway, so their universe had drifted away from whatever cluster they were currently exploring. For the most part, Dean tried to enjoy the ride and not worry about things he couldn't control. All he could do was wait, helping the Doctor out with his mission in the meantime.
Not a bad life. Everywhere they went, the Doctor found a way to help at least someone out with something. Defeating monsters, saving people—almost his old life. Just a little more sci-fi.
"Lunch sounds marvelous!" the Doctor exclaimed, and everyone else—even Cas—agreed. They hadn't eaten in almost twelve hours, running around as they'd been. "How about a nice, relaxing picnic? I know a great spot in a quaint little galaxy—"
"Are there aliens there?" Amy interrupted.
"Or monsters?"
"Or zombies?"
"Well, not in our universe—"
"But there might be in this one?" She'd crossed her arms, looking more terrifying than Dean would have thought possible.
"Not at all likely. This place isn't so different, Earth just happens to be completely overrun by zombies is all."
Somehow the Doctor managed to convince everyone to go to this planet that he called "Absolutely perfect for picnics. Weather's always temperate and partly cloudy, entire surface made of picnicking spots." The name was unpronounceable, though.
A short TARDIS-ride later, the eight travelers were spreading blankets on the ground and haphazardly bringing food out. There were even bacon cheeseburgers.
Everything was just as perfect as the Doctor'd advertised, and soon even Dean had forgotten to look over his shoulder to watch for the lurching forms of approaching zombies.
A few hours passed pleasantly, then the group began to meander lazily back to the TARDIS. Dean was exhausted now that the adrenaline had faded to distant memory and he wasn't starving any more. Only the Doctor didn't seem similarly tired as they strolled through verdant grass that was somehow perfectly mowed.
Something hit him square in the back—sharp, briefly painful, then immediately numb—and Dean promptly fell over. He was perfectly awake but unable to move. Animal panic began to creep into his consciousness as he watched his brother and his friends fall to similar fates. They'd been shot in the backs with some weird laser-beam-thing, bright blue, almost painful to look at. He couldn't make out the shooters, though, until everyone was down.
Humanoid-shaped creatures moved out from behind trees. They were faceless, genderless, all wearing the same dark uniforms and masks. Dean tried to move, growing desperate, growing angry, but it was useless. He could only watch, wide-eyed, as the people began to gather his friends and take them away.
Because the older Winchester had been lagging behind everyone else, and because he had fallen to his side, he could see through the fingers of his outstretched hand as one of the creeps grabbed Amy, jerking her up by her hair. Dean could see tears spring into the corners of her eyes—couldn't blame her for that. If he'd had control of his facial muscles, he would have winced in sympathy. She was staring at her husband as they began to drag her through the soft grass. The hunter would have sworn he saw Rory's form twitch, though he himself couldn't move no matter how he tried.
It took two people to move Sam, since he was by far the heaviest. Soon someone was walking towards Dean himself. He could still feel pain, apparently, which he learned as the man grabbed him by one arm and began to pull him through the grass with little care.
They took him a few hundred yards through the sparse trees to where some sort of ship waited. It was black and sleek, about the size of a smallish mansion. A large door opened, and Dean was thrown inside. He landed on his back, hardly even feeling the added pain as he struck the metal floor.
By now his wild panic had subsided to a dull resignation to what was happening. He'd been kidnapped before, and freaking out never helped. As best he could, the hunter tried to take in as many details as possible, hoping one would help them escape. Hard to do when he could only see boring bits of ceiling.
The silence of the attack was truly unnerving. The people—or whatever the hell they were—had made no noise when they moved through the grass, and of course none of his friends could scream. Even the ship was silent. A tiny spark of fear ignited in the center of his mind. The lack of sound was terrifying. Only his breathing and heartbeat made him sure he hadn't been rendered deaf by whatever had paralyzed him.
A shadow fell over him, and something pricked his neck. Consciousness slipped from him, then, leaving him with troubled, vivid dreams and the restless sleep that came with being drugged.
John Watson returned to consciousness in an instant; half a second later he jumped up so quickly that he became light-headed. The doctor was in a small cell of some kind. The walls were made of grey metal of the most boring shade imaginable, and the room was featureless save for the cot he'd been lying on and the door across from it.
The phrase "bored to death" suddenly took on new and terrible meanings to Dr. Watson.
Having nothing else to do, John sat down with his elbows resting on his knees, beginning to make plans to escape, stopping once in a while to wonder where Sherlock was, to wonder if he was alright, and if all his other friends were being held nearby.
Across a compound that spanned miles, his seven traveling companions were all doing much the same things. Time passed slowly for them all. Bruises formed where they'd been struck in various places, but still no one came for them. At one point or another, they all tried banging on their cell doors, calling out curses or pleas or just general pleasantries in hopes of coaxing a guard to tell them what was happening.
The silence continued, tightening around them all, driving even the Doctor a little mad after hours had passed. There was some small excitement when the lights dimmed, then went out a few minutes later, but that was just to signal that it was time to sleep. Perhaps it was night on the planet, if they were on a planet at all.
A small hiss brought John back from his futile plan-making, and a faint smell filled the dark cell. He didn't recognize it, but he knew that being gassed with anything usually didn't end well, so he held his breath as long as he could. Futile though it was, all his friends did the same as their own cells filled with the gas, but one by one they succumbed to it, falling into a dark, deep sleep.
A sound that was deafening after so much silence woke Dean. Thousands of people cheering—not what he'd been expecting, but he couldn't find the source of the noise, so he brushed it off, looking around. He was lying in the middle of a room that was filled with weapons. His hand moved towards a shotgun instinctively, but then he paused. Clearly this was some sort of trap. He'd just spent the last several hours locked away, and now suddenly he's given all these tools for escape?
A groan from the other side of a large gun rack drew his attention. The hunter found that his feet were steady, so he walked cautiously over. Sam was sitting up, looking as confused as Dean felt. The older man noticed that the other was pressing the palm of his hand almost desperately.
"The fuck?" his little brother asked. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Some bruises, nothing bad. You?"
Sam glanced away. "Better now that I'm not stuck in a box with only Satan keeping me company."
"I can't help but feel embarrassed." The voice came from the other end of the room, filling Dean with relief. Cas was here, too.
"Why?" Sam asked, standing.
"We were taken so easily. I should have done something to prevent it."
"Nothing any of us could do. Those bitches waited until we were vulnerable." Dean felt a familiar anger flare up inside him as he recalled they way Amy had looked, being dragged away by her hair. Just thinking about it made his scalp ache and his hands curl into fists.
"But why are we here?" Sam picked up what looked suspiciously like a Desert Eagle and deftly pulled the clip out; it was loaded. He slid the clip back into place, double-checked the safety, then stowed the gun in his waistband.
Dean tossed Cas a pump-action 12-guage. The angel caught it, looking around for spare shells and finding a box, which he put in his pocket. He'd become rather adept at fighting like a human in the past few weeks. "Not gonna sit around and wait for some dick in a mask to tell us that."
Grabbing various guns and knives and placing them wherever was convenient on his person, Dean began to wonder again where the sound of a large crowd was coming from. The room had no windows or doors that he could see, though they had to have gotten in somewhere.
"We'll be ready when they come back."
"Shoot first, ask questions later, right?' Dean smiled at his little brother, then at Cas. "Then we'll find everyone else and get the hell outta this place."
He didn't even have time to dwell on how much more confident he sounded than he felt before one of the walls began to open. Beyond it a bright light obscured his vision, but he heard the almost frantic screams and cheers of a crowd.
His eyes adjusted, and then he wished they hadn't. The room opened up to a large stadium floor, metallic and bland as the rest of the place, and above it were probably hundreds of thousands of people. They could have been human, or something like it, but Dean couldn't make them out very well.
Suddenly the weapons he had seemed less awesome and more disturbing. Dean had seen enough movies to know right where this was going.
Beside him, Sam had to shout to be heard over the crowd. "Not good! How the hell're we getting out of this?"
"I got a pretty good idea," Dean answered, pulling back the hammer on his newly acquired Magnum. Cas's knowledge of pop-culture being what it was, Dean knew they'd have to explain the situation to him. "We deal with whatever they send against us, then we go for the guards, or the crowds."
Stepping closer, breaking the bubbles of personal space as he was wont to do, but for once having a legitimate reason for it, Cas asked loudly, "What's happening?"
"You remember ancient Rome, right?" Dean responded, more or less shouting in Cas's ear as necessity dictated. The angel nodded. "We're in the fucking Coliseum, basically. So let's gladiator it up, then break out! We need to find Doc and the TARDIS!"
An expression of calm resolve replaced the confusion on Cas's face. The angel stood up straighter, becoming more like the soldier he was created to be.
"Let's do this." Dean glanced at his baby brother, hoping in a wordless, half-desperate way that he wasn't about to watch Sammy die. He knew Sam could more than take care of himself, but Dean often had trouble remembering that.
Suddenly the crowd quieted to a low murmur, then an announcer voice that sounded to Dean exactly like the ones on those old arcade fighting games began to speak.
He heard the words in English, which meant the TARDIS was close enough to keep translating for them. Dean was too distracted by that thought to catch the first of what was said, coming in at the end.
"Match 12: Team Freewill—VERSUS—Team 221B!"
The crowd erupted again, but neither the Winchesters nor Cas moved.
"Team 221B—?"
"As in Baker Street?"
Even Cas understood; they'd spent an afternoon summarizing the Conan Doyle books for him. "Does this mean we have to fight Sherlock and John?" The angel's words were unusually tinged with emotion—obviously none of them were keen on murdering friends for the amusement of douche-bag spectators.
"Hell no! It means the five of us are busting out of here together!"
"Good," Cas seemed more confident than Dean felt. "Together we shouldn't have trouble leaving."
As the three of them stepped out of the armory the doors slid closed behind them with an ominous slicing sound that was not entirely lost in the roar of the crowd.
Together Team Freewill—and Dean tried not to wonder how the bastards running this show had gotten that name—had stopped an apocalypse. This couldn't be any more difficult, right?
John woke slowly, taking a moment to remember exactly where he was. Recent events came back all too soon, and he got up quickly, staring around the room he was in. Full of weapons. "The hell is happening?" he muttered aloud.
"Excellent question," Sherlock said, from the floor a few yards over. "Why kidnap us and then leave us in an armory?"
"A trap?" John wanted to pick up a nearby gun, but he refrained.
"Undoubtedly. We didn't come here by mistake. They're playing with us."
"What should we do?"
"Refuse to play." Sherlock sat back down on the floor, leaning against a bare patch of wall. "They want us to arm ourselves. That means they expect us to fight."
"But what if a bunch of those soldiers come back? Do we just sit here and let ourselves be killed?"
"If they wanted us dead, we'd be dead." Sherlock seemed completely confident in his analysis of the situation. John wondered how he could be so calm after what had happened.
From beyond the grey metal walls came the sound of a crowd cheering. Dr. Watson didn't know if it was real, or if he was just misinterpreting what he was hearing, but either way it filled him with dread.
"I'd feel better if I had at least one weapon."
Frowning, Sherlock nodded. "The crowd does make things clearer. The guards might not kill us, but whatever's waiting out there will."
Together they began to look through the racks and racks of weapons for the ones they preferred. John took two 9mm pistols and a larger Desert Eagle. He also got an M-16, though he preferred handguns to automatic rifles. Versatility might count more for accuracy at some point. He also stuffed his pockets with pre-loaded magazines for all the weapons he'd chosen. There was no such thing as too many bullets. His eyes lingered over a grenade belt, but he decided that could end up hurting him or Sherlock, so he left it.
After they'd armed themselves, the two friends waited in silence, listening as the crowd's cheering fell and rose and fell again, only to rise to an almost painful level. John had a feeling that whatever was going on out there had just come to an end. The wall suddenly revealed itself as a door, sliding open.
Beyond it was a stadium. John met Sherlock's eye. They'd been through a lot together; he was confident they'd prevail here. Part of him couldn't imagine Sherlock Holmes losing to anyone.
"Guess we're supposed to—?"
Sherlock nodded. "Let's go."
A loud voice began to announce the next fight. "Match 12: Team Freewill—VERSUS—Team 221B!"
Someone was hitting the side of the Doctor's face. He groaned and opened his eyes. "Amy? Stop it—that hurts!"
"Well you weren't waking up! Rory and I were getting worried!"
"What's happened?" He sat up and took in their surroundings. It didn't make him confident. Weapons everywhere.
"Don't know, we just woke up here a few minutes ago," answered Rory. "Just glad you two are okay." He was holding Amy's hand as if afraid to let go.
"The TARDIS." Standing quickly and searching his pockets, the Doctor happily found his Screwdriver. "We need to find her, then everyone else."
Amy and Rory nodded, making the Doctor smile. He'd said the last sentence in an obscure dialect of Chinchillian. That meant the TARDIS was close enough to keep translating for them.
The Ponds didn't ask him if he was going to arm himself; they already knew the answer. But they also didn't ask his permission when they grabbed an assortment of guns and knives, and in Rory's case, a sword. Humans. They always felt safer with instruments of murder in their possessions. He didn't admonish them. The beings who had taken them weren't amateurs—they'd known exactly when to strike. The Doctor felt guilty for letting it happen, but everyone had been shot at almost the same time. An ambush was hard to get out of.
They were in serious trouble, but they'd make it out. He had his Sonic Screwdriver, and the TARDIS was waiting for him somewhere in this metal building. That was all he needed.
"No doors in this place," Rory was saying as he moved around the room. "Weird. Must be hidden."
The Doctor aimed his Screwdriver around the walls. They were apparently metal with some wiring underneath; he couldn't find a way to open them—deadlocked. Of course. They'd taken his Screwdriver before putting him in the cell, but apparently they considered it a weapon and had given it back.
"Not good, is it?" Amy asked rhetorically. Her face was calm, but her eyes betrayed fear and uncertainty. Rory looked much the same. They were still holding hands.
"We have seen better days," the Doctor rejoined with a smile. "But also worse ones.
"I'm not gonna be a prisoner again, yeah?" Amy declared, holding a gun but doing it awkwardly. The Doctor hoped the safety was on. "Those losers in masks will have to kill me first."
"Nobody's dying," Rory reassured her. "Just gotta find a way out of here."
The unmistakable sound of a crowd prevented further comment. As the noise reached its crescendo, a wall began to open, making the cheering almost too loud to bear.
A voice that seemed human enough announced, "Match 13: Team TARDIS—VERSUS—Team Torchwood!"
The Doctor felt his mouth hang slightly agape. Torchwood? Here? Was there any bloody place in all the multi-verse where he wasn't likely to bump into them?
Bigger things to worry about now, though, especially since it seemed obvious that they were expected to fight Torchwood. The Doctor had a glib tongue and could talk himself out of just about everything, but Torchwood had been created for the specific purpose of opposing the Doctor and other alien life-forms.
They would be forced to at the very least to defend themselves. He had the feeling this fight was for keeps. The weapons in the armory had been made to kill.
"Amy, Rory, stay close." The Doctor walked out onto the stadium floor first, trying to shield both his friends, though it wasn't entirely successful. The crowd went wild again, and the doors behind them closed.
Three seconds later, the bland metal floor began to shift, pieces of it flipping over and moving through the air. This flurry of motion lasted for a few moments, then suddenly so-called Team TARDIS was standing at the edge of a swamp. Even the smell was spot-on, much to the Doctor's chagrin.
"Well," he whispered, "This certainly makes things more interesting for the crowd." They could still hear them, but it was a fainter, more distant noise. The Doctor could also still catch glimpses of them through tall, crooked trees. "Have to admit, this is really, really clever!"
"Doctor, if you say one more nice thing about our kidnappers I'm going to use this on you!" Amy hissed. "So these Torchwood fellows, think we can take them?"
"No one's taking anyone! We need to talk to them, organize an escape plan." The Doctor pointed his Screwdriver in a few random directions. "I'm sure they ended up here just like we did."
"This is Match 13, though," said Rory as the three of them cautiously began to move away from the edge of the stadium floor. "Who knows how many people the Torchwood team's killed by now. They've probably gone native."
"No. They'll want to get back to Earth." The Doctor was sure of this; Torchwood existed to protect humanity.
"You mean the one covered in zombies?" Amy asked, frowning down at her boots, which were quickly becoming soiled beyond repair in the murky, shallow water.
"Who's to say they're from this universe?"
Silence fell after the Doctor's statement. Creatures from all over the universes were being shuffled about—it was a perfect climate for something like this arena battle. Monsters the crowds had never seen before could slaughter each other, and hey, no bother, because they weren't even from this bloody universe!
The Doctor was becoming angry, but now wasn't the time for it. Calming himself with a force of will, he focused on the task at hand—finding the Torchwood people and getting them to stop shooting long enough to talk.
Team Freewill. The name nagged at John, but he couldn't remember where he'd heard it, so he let it go. He and Sherlock had moved out into the stadium, watching in wonder as the metal floor turned into something entirely different, becoming a three-dimensional environment.
They were standing in what appeared to be a run-down city. Vines covered the buildings, grass grew from the cracked pavement and sidewalks. The architecture was unrecognizable, probably belonged to whatever species had taken them. An uncomfortable silence permeated the area, making John more on edge than he already was.
Beside him, Sherlock seemed far more calm, the bastard. He merely took in everything with those sharp, cold eyes of his. "This does make things more interesting. Glad to have you with me, John," he added, voice sincere, "You have more knowledge of military tactics than I have. What do you advise?"
"We should keep close to the outer wall—" Though the middle area of the stadium was completely different, the metal ring around it was unchanged, "—because the other team will likely move into the middle. If we circle 'round, we might be able to sneak up on them. Best keep it to whispers, this place is bloody quiet." Even the sound of the crowd had dimmed to almost nothing, though John could still make them out where they sat, high above the stadium floor.
Walking as quietly as possible, the two friends made their way along the outside of the ring. John had no idea how big the place was—he hadn't been able to make out the other side, though. The stadium was likely several square miles.
Odd, that. With the size and the terrain, two groups could spend days searching for each other with no results. So why would a live crowd want to sit through all that boring middle time? When they'd been in the armory, the crowd had been very actively responding to whatever had been happening, so the people running this horror show must've had a way to keep it interesting.
That thought unnerved him more than the quiet city around them.
About fifteen minutes passed uneventfully. John was just beginning to relax a little. In retrospect, he realized he should have known better.
As he stepped on an innocuous-looking piece of asphalt, John felt his shoe press down further than it should have. An instant later he was throwing his weight back against Sherlock, who'd been following him, hoping that it hadn't been a mine he'd just set off. They both fell to the hard ground.
"John?" Sherlock asked, annoyed, "I presume there's a reason you're lying on top of me—?"
"I stepped on a trigger." Dr. Watson let out a long breath; nothing had happened so far. "Don't know what it did. Sorry." He stood cautiously, then helped Sherlock do the same. The taller man brushed off his long coat imperiously.
"Thank you," he said after a moment, seeming to mean it. Before John could respond, a horrible screeching sound rose from a few dozen yards away. It was the sound of metal against metal.
Though the noise was dimmed, they could hear the crowd's cheering rise in pitch. Not good.
Something that could only be described as a gigantic robot spider clawed its way to the top of the building nearest Team 221B. The thing's body was about thirty feet long, each of its eight legs another fifty. Suddenly the gun in Watson's hand seemed like a toy.
Probably should have taken the grenades, then. Too late for that now.
"Run!" Sherlock shouted, and John didn't need to be told twice. He sprinted after his flatmate, cursing his shorter stride and the heavy weapons he was carrying. Abandoning their plan of sticking to the edge of the stadium, they took off through the maze of buildings. The spider was fast, but it was large, and if they could find a way to lose it amidst the structures and the returning foliage, they might actually live long enough to find Team Freewill.
Sherlock and John didn't need to communicate about the change of plans; they knew each other well enough to guess what the other was thinking, so the doctor followed his friend as he dashed into a building.
John thought the insides might be hollow, the outer buildings just for show, but he was mistaken. They were in the lobby of a ten-story building whose purpose he couldn't guess. The ceiling was two stories high—an uncomfortably large space considering they were fleeing a giant robot—but there were numerous hallways leading off from the main room. Sherlock chose one at random. As they disappeared down it, John could hear the spider breaking through the outter walls of the building. A sound suspiciously like that of a huge robot firing a missile followed soon after.
John pushed Sherlock through the nearest doorway just in time to miss getting hit with the force of the explosion and the debris that came with it. Heat flooded into the room, making John uncomfortable in his jacket. Sherlock was probably about to die in that long coat he always wore.
"We should keep moving," Holmes breathed, keeping quiet because they had no idea what kind of sensors the spider was equipped with.
"Right, yeah." Scanning the room, John saw they were in some sort of office. At the far side of it windows looked out to a partially destroyed street. "This way."
The glass had been shattered long ago; now there were only vines and young trees to hinder their escape. Sherlock lithely jumped out onto the street, waiting impatiently for John to follow.
Can't all be tall, he thought bitterly as he climbed out the window. At least I brought more bullets than he did. Once they were both on the ground again, they resumed sprinting through the alien streets, no real destination in mind, only caring that they got far away from the spider.
A few minutes later, they practically collapsed behind a broken wall. They sat regaining their breath for a moment. When John could finally speak more than one word at a time, he whispered, "I don't think it's following us."
"Still the problem of Team Freewill."
"The sounds will probably draw them in. Maybe the spider will take care of them for us."
"Wouldn't be very sporting of us." Sherlock's bright eyes scanned the area constantly. He rarely looked more alive than when he was trying to think his way out of imminent death.
The quiet of the street was broken by the sound of—well, John could only think of it as skittering. The first skittering was joined by another, then another, then Dr. Watson couldn't distinguish them.
The image of thousands of metal spiders scurrying towards them came into his mind. Carefully, he used the blade of a knife to peak around the corner.
Normally it would have been rather rewarding to learn that his imagination had exactly mirrored reality, but in this situation, he would rather it hadn't. metal spiders roughly the size of terriers were swarming towards them—over buildings and rubble and vegetation without being hindered at all. John couldn't keep from shuddering.
"Okay, new plan," he said, not bothering to keep his voice down because the sound of the spiders was loud enough to drown out shouting. "We need to draw them to a choke point—we cannot let ourselves be surrounded. But we can't be pinned in, either. Ideas?"
"Nothing seems to stop them."
"Solid walls might. We need to find the right kind of structure…" His voice trailed off, eyes moving over the street they were near. Sherlock seemed to understand him.
"I'd wager those are entrances to whatever passes for an Underground here." His long pale hand was pointing to a stairway that led from the street to something lower.
A quick nod was all John needed to communicate before both men were sprinting towards the stairs. John hoped that the next entrance to it was too far away for the spiders to go for, or that they'd be too stupid to try to sneak up behind them.
At the bottom of the steps was indeed a place similar to a subway system, though no trains were on the tracks. A low hum permeated the air; the place had power.
John unstrapped the M-16 and then turned the safety off. He and Sherlock stationed themselves a few dozen yards from the entrance to the tunnel.
"Sherlock—I just want you to know—"
"Spare me the melodrama, John, we're going to survive this."
"I was only going to say that you still owe me five quid for losing that bet about the zombies. I won't forget it, either."
They shared a grin, and then the spiders began skittering down the steps. John opened fire, wincing as the sound of gunshot reverberated off the metal walls. His ears began to ring—he'd almost forgotten how loud battle could be.
Fortunately it only took one or two hits to disable the robots; for a long while they held their ground. John took out the majority of them with short bursts of fire, Sherlock got the few who broke through John's curtain of bullets. Reloading was perilous, but they did it in turns. The only thing keeping them from being overrun already was the piling mounds of machine parts and half-obliterated spiders building up in the entrance to the tunnel.
The spiders kept coming, and slowly they were pushed back. John chanced a brief glance at his friend; Sherlock met his eye, the former casual arrogance leaking from his expression.
This was it. The end. He wasn't going out while he still had bullets in his pockets, though. Hell would freeze first.
"Well," said Dean, "this is great. We had to end up somewhere like this—too fucking sci-fi. Can't be easy, can it?"
The empty stadium floor had suddenly magicked itself into a damned run-down city. That would make finding Sherlock and John way simpler.
Sam seemed more impressed by what had happened than annoyed; for a moment he just stared around, eyebrows rising. "At least the sound of the crowd is almost gone. Let's go."
"Do you think it wise to wonder around aimlessly?" Cas asked. "We need a system so we don't end up going in circles."
"Anyone got some breadcrumbs?" Dean asked, smiling at his brother and then at Cas. Neither seemed particularly amused, though Cas undoubtedly just didn't get the reference. "Nobody? Okay, then." Pulling out a knife, he stepped to a large cluster of vines that was clinging to a building. He cut a crude arrow into them. "Let's just hope David Bowie ain't the one at the end of the Labyrinth."
He led the way; behind him, he heard Castiel murmur to Sam, "I believe even if I live on Earth for another thousand years I wouldn't be able to understand all his references. I am amazed at how much—" he faltered over the words, as if they were a strange language, "—pop culture humans learn without effort."
"Anything to keep from putting our minds to productive uses," Sam answered easily.
"Maybe we should start calling for them?" Dean suggested after a few minutes. "We could miss 'em so easily in this place."
"Uh," Sam said, stopping. "Do you think they'll realize that we're Team Freewill? I mean, has anyone ever told them about—?" Even amongst the three of them, they were all reluctant to spell out where the name had come from. So many painful memories.
"I might'a mentioned it to Doc. Don't you think Sherlock fucking Holmes would be able to, you know, deduce it?"
"Do you even know what deducing is?"
"Yeah," Dean answered, a tad defensive. "If we're shouting their names, they'll know it's us. They know our voices, too."
"Fine," Sam relented.
For the next several minutes, the three of them began calling for Sherlock and John, occasionally alternating to Dr. Watson, which somehow seemed more natural to Dean even though they were all on a first-name basis.
They stopped when they heard something that sounded like metal being torn apart. It came from an area to their left. Wordlessly, they began to sprint in that direction.
"There's no mosquitoes," commented Rory, "That's something, isn't it?"
"Not helping," Amy snapped, cringing as she tried to pull her boot out of the thick, smelly mud. "Doctor, are they going to let us starve to death out here? It's been an hour already and we haven't seen Team Torchwood. What if we just keep missing them?"
"Hard to be quiet in this terrain," he responded, having to raise his voice over the splashing sound that signified the early demise of his favorite pair of boots. "They'll find us eventually."
"What if they just shoot us?" Rory asked, glancing around in a paranoid fashion.
"I'm the Doctor. People don't just shoot me without making a few gloating remarks first."
"So they know who you are?"
"Naturally." The Doctor was hesitant to tell them any further details. He was fairly ambivalent about Torchwood and outright contemptuous of their methods at times, but he had occasionally helped them, and had received help in return.
"D'you think they'll make gloating remarks to us first, as well?" Rory's hand tightened around Amy's, as if doing so would shield her from bullets. They'd scarcely moved more than a few feet away from each other since entering the stadium.
"They'd better." The Doctor continued to scan the area with his Screwdriver, looking for changes in the material. There hadn't been any so far, and he had to stop himself from being vocally impressed with the technology. According to the readings, their surroundings were still metal. But everything looked and felt real. All of it was really rather fantastic.
"What's that over there?" Rory asked, pointing to a spot through the trees. The Doctor moved so he could see it.
There was a light in the distance, yellow when he first caught a glimpse, then it shifted to green, then blue. It was moving, swirling in a beautiful way, as if it were dancing. Gorgeous. He could watch it for an eternity and not regret a moment of it.
The Doctor realized he'd taken two steps towards it, and the Ponds were several yards closer.
"Wait!" He called, forcing his eyes from the light. "Amy—Rory—it could be a trap!" They didn't seem to hear him.
Dashing after his friends, the Doctor continued to call their names, but they didn't respond. They only kept walking slowly but resolutely towards the light, ignoring the rising levels of water. When he finally caught up to them, they were in knee-deep.
"Amy, you'll ruin your skirt! Come on, Rory, snap out of it!" He grabbed them both by the arm, but they pulled against him. His boots began to slip through the mud as they resisted being held still.
Maybe they needed to be shocked out of it? "Rory! Remember that time I kissed Amy? And then I was in the cake instead of that underdressed woman?"
Rory paused for a moment. Aha! thought the Doctor, Just have to make them angry. An emotional response must counteract whatever force is drawing them to the light. "Amy! Remember when the Silence took your child from you? When they held you captive? Remember how you felt. Both of you!"
They stopped struggling against him, and Amy turned her head, then started. "Doctor? What's—why are we in this deep? Weren't we just by those trees?"
Rory came back to Earth, so to speak, a moment after his wife. "Felt like I was dreaming." He looked at the Time Lord. "Why'm I mad at you?"
"Probably nothing," the Doctor responded happily. "Come on, back this way, don't turn around." He ushered them back to where the water levels were safer, hoping they didn't encounter more lights.
On the bright side, they didn't, but on a less positive note, they did encounter what appeared to be a gigantic alligator-like creature. It had a few extra legs and seemed to be able to breathe fire, but the rest of it was more or less alligator in nature.
It crawled up out of a pool of water as Team TARDIS walked past, and they'd been running away from it ever since. The terrain was terrible for sprinting, but at least the trees kept the monster from being able to chase them at a full run.
"You know—" he said as they leapt over thick roots and splashed through murky puddles, "—that alligator really is—"
"Doctor!" Amy interrupted, "If you say it's magnificent—I'll shoot you myself!" She brandished her gun, and the Doctor ducked a little, afraid she might fire accidentally. "It's trying to eat us!"
"Well there's not much else here to eat! Can't blame him!"
Behind them, the alligator roared, and the Doctor could feel heat from its fire-breathing at his back.
"Doctor!"
The voice was familiar, so familiar he hardly noticed that it hadn't come from someone who was already running beside him. The shouting originated from high in one of the trees.
"Jack?" the Doctor stopped running, Amy and Rory following suit.
"Hurry—up here!"
None of them waited around wondering if they should do as told. The alligator was crashing through the swamp, drawing nearer at an alarming speed. Up into the tree they went, and a few seconds later the creature rushed past them, apparently not noticing where they'd gone.
"They're stupid, thankfully," Jack was saying, "They assume what they're chasing will just keep running in a straight line."
No one responded to that. For a full minute there was silence, the Doctor trying to think of something appropriate to say, or how to go about making introductions. It had been a long time since they'd seen each other; the Doctor had forgotten just how alarming the man's immortality was, an affront to his Time Lord sensibilities.
"Er," he finally began, "Amy, Rory, this is—"
"Captain Jack Harkness," he finished, smiling flirtatiously at both Ponds. "An absolute pleasure. Been traveling with the Doctor long?"
Amy giggled, shaking the hand Jack offered. "A while, yeah, we're old pros by now."
Rory was similarly affected, and he didn't even seem jealous, just flattered. "So you know the Doctor?"
"We go way back. First time meeting him in this regeneration, though." Every work Jack spoke sounded like an invitation back to his hotel room. Not much had changed about the man, which was reassuring.
"How'd you know it was him?" Rory asked.
"Who else would wear a bow-tie? When I heard them announce Team TARDIS, I nearly fainted. I'm so glad to see you." He became serious, his flirty façade cracking.
"How long have they had you?" the Doctor asked quietly. A million questions circled through his mind, but he held them back.
"Hard to tell. Few months, maybe. Rules are a team isn't disqualified until all its members are dead. So, here I am."
"I'm so sorry, Jack." Pulling his old friend into a hug, he continued in a whisper, "We're leaving this stadium. Bringing me here will be their last mistake."
"We need to leave," Sherlock barked, deftly reloading his gun. "I have a plan."
"Well don't wait on my blessing." John's shoulder was beginning to ache from the continual impact of the assault rifle on it. He was also running low on ammo; soon he'd be down to just the handguns.
Without further discussion, Sherlock began to back towards the edge of the platform, stopping just before the drop-off to the tracks. John followed next to him, matching their paces. "Get ready to run."
Sherlock turned sharply and jumped, hardly taking time to regain his footing before sprinting down the tunnel. John was at his heels. The taller man moved to the center of the tracks, running between the electrified rails. Watson tried not to think of what would happen to them if they tripped.
He didn't chance looking back, but he heard the sound of pursuit, followed by a few loud cracks that likely signified a spider had touched two rails at once. So that was Sherlock's plan. Effective, apparently, because the sound of dying robots faded into the distance, and soon John couldn't hear any skittering sounds that weren't faint echoes.
By the time they reached the next platform, only the sound of their ragged breathing and slowing footfalls kept them company.
"Thank God—they were stupid enough—to fall for that," John commented as they trudged up the steps to the street.
Sherlock stopped abruptly. "Do you hear that?"
Listening for a moment, John caught it—people were calling their names. He recognized them, suddenly. "Team Freewill!" he exclaimed, rolling his eyes in anger at himself. "Of course."
His flatmate was giving him an odd look, so he explained, "I heard Dean use the name once, talking to Sam. I didn't bother asking what it meant, seemed like an inside joke, and you know how evasive they are about personal questions."
The shouting was coming closer. "We should stop them from being so loud." Sherlock's advice was sensible; no telling what else was waiting for them out here.
When they finally came within sight of the Winchesters and Cas, the relief was obvious on their faces.
"God, Sherlock, John, you alright? We heard explosions—"
"And was that a giant metal spider?"
Sherlock waved away the brothers' inquiries. "We're fine, just a spot of trouble," he said in a low voice. "We should keep quiet. It's not just us in here."
"It'd be boring otherwise," John muttered bitterly. "We need to find the Doctor."
"Yeah, figured that would be the plan," Sam said in a low voice. "But how? The walls are sheer, and even if we did get to the top, what're the chances we'd be able to get into the audience, much less to wherever they're holding the others?"
"Any plan we devise will be instantly discovered," Cas added, in that oddly level voice of his, "Considering the technological advancement of the people who abducted us, it's safe to assume we're being filmed and recorded for the pleasure of the crowds."
"So, they now know we won't slaughter each other for their amusement," John said bitterly. "But I don't think the match is over until one of our teams is defeated."
"Which means the level will have to kill us." Dean sighed. "Just like a fucking video game. Great."
The words had hardly left his mouth when a whirring noise drew their attention. All around them small, spherical metal objects were rising into the air. For one peaceful moment John thought they might be harmless, but then part of the metal shells opened to reveal various weapons—guns, knives, small missiles, that sort of thing.
"Shit," Dean said, raising his shotgun. That was all the time anyone had to say anything before the five of them were sprinting in different directions. Simultaneously the drones began to open fire or started whirring after people.
The sound of gunfire swallowed all other noise, and John was running, hoping that everyone was going to make it to safety—wherever that was. Splitting up was the best tactic, he thought, because a group of people was easier to hit than a lone one, but he didn't like doing it, abandoning everyone to fend for themselves.
He emptied his M-16 and destroyed two drones doing it, but there were still dozens more. Dropping the useless weapon, he pulled out a handgun and began shooting. Not as effective, but still something. From where he stood, partially behind a wall, he couldn't make out any of his friends.
John didn't want to end up playing field medic again. Sherlock, don't get yourself killed, he thought desperately as he shot down another drone. You still owe me five quid.
Dean could just see Sam from where he crouched below what had probably been a concrete wall. His brother wasn't hurt. Good.
Glancing in the other direction as he reloaded, Dean noticed Cas hiding behind the same wall only a few yards down. The angel aimed and fired, taking down a drone, but then, as Dean watched, Cas jerked back as if he'd been struck with something. Dread filled the hunter—no, no, no, not again, what're you a bullet magnet now?—but then the angel turned to meet his eye.
Cas was almost-smiling; he looked peaceful, refreshed, somehow. Then he disappeared.
An explosion drew Dean's attention, and his grin turned to an expression of awe as he watched the angel flit from drone to drone, dispatching them easily. In less than a minute, there were none left in the air.
With a gentle flutter of feathers, Cas was standing beside Dean. "We're leaving."
Before he could ask where they were going, exactly, or how they were going to find the Doctor and the TARDIS, the five of them were standing in a spacious, lavishly decorated room. Seats were arranged in rows, about ten total, and all of them were occupied by people who looked like perfectly human douche-bags.
Glancing around, he noticed with pleasure that he wasn't the only one currently aiming a gun at them. Apparently it was hostage-taking time.
"Who's running this?" John demanded.
There was a scramble for people to answer, but Dr. Watson cut them off, then singled out one man who looked marginally less idiotic than the rest of them. "Answer!"
"I—I don't know who exactly, but it's run by Google—everyone knows that!"
"Google?" Sam sounded like he'd just been told Santa wasn't real for the first time. Utterly betrayed.
"Different universe," Sherlock murmured, "Apparently far into the future."
"Where would the main control room for this place be?" John snapped.
"H-how would we know!" shouted the woman sitting at the end of the row, "We're just here to watch!"
"Wait here," Cas said quietly, the disappeared. The people in the VIP room (and that's the only thing it couldn't been, judging by their expensive clothing and the décor) didn't seem surprised. Just afraid of the men with guns.
Dean turned and saw chaos projected on a huge screen that floated above the stadium. Must've been a shock to see all five fighters disappear. Hopefully the guards would still be chasing their tails by the time the eight travelers were safe in the TARDIS and on their way.
The Doctor and his friends had just deemed it safe to climb down from the tree when the sound of soft wings interrupted them, and suddenly Castiel was sitting in front of him, their noses an inch apart. His appearance nearly knocked Rory off the branch, but Amy steadied him in time.
"Cas!" The Doctor hugged him, ecstatic because of all that the angel's arrival meant. His connection to heaven was back, meaning their universe was accessible to them again. Not to mention having a powerful being around really helped him along with his escape plan. "Is everyone else alright?"
"You got some interesting friends," Jack began, and the angel turned towards him. "Hi, Captain Jack Harkness—"
"Now's not the time for flirting!" the Doctor interrupted, "Hit on everyone later, we need to leave before the guards stop us. Cas?"
The Doctor blinked, and the five of them were out of the stadium and in a pleasant room. The Winchesters, Sherlock, and John were waiting for them.
"Doc—wait, who the hell is that?" Dean asked in his usual oh-so-polite manner.
"Long story," he replied dismissively. "The TARDIS is here. But before we leave, I've got an errand to run."
"An errand?" Sam glanced away from the terrified people who still sat in their seats, his guard dropping. Probably was no need to be wary; they seemed completely cowed by the group of heavily armed escapees.
"They're probably holding more people in the cells. I'm letting them go."
"We are," Amy corrected.
"Yeah, wasn't that the rule—stick together, no wondering off?" John pulled the clip out of his gun and counted the bullets, nodding to himself and sliding it back into place.
"Jeez, Doc, you collecting strays now?" Jack was looking at everyone, by some miracle not taking the time to attempt to pick any of them up.
"Long story, tell you later. Well, come on then!" With an apologetic smile to the spectators, he dashed out into the hallway, his friends right behind him.
They ran through wide hallways marked with large, friendly signs. Apparently the authorities were keeping people in their seats to avoid confusion because they met no civilians along the way, only guards. And those Castiel was kind enough to put to sleep before any of his trigger-happy companions could kill them out of hand.
The signs directed the Doctor higher and higher, up staircases and winding ramps, until the décor became less friendly and more utilitarian. Bursting through a door labeled "Employees Only," they finally found someone who could give them information.
The man was immediately compliant, stammering that the locks on the cell doors could be operated from any terminal, such as the one he was manning. Of course, he could open them all, no need for those guns, they were all civilized people here.
Flashing lights filled the room, and the Doctor smiled, watching the camera feed as hundreds of doors opened. Various sentient beings began to move out into the hallways, obviously confused but willing to roll with it.
"What do we do with 'em now?" Dean asked. A valid question.
"Where are the ships?" the Time Lord asked the unfortunate Google employee.
"Er, three floors up form the cells."
"Cas, if you'd be kind enough to make sure no guards stop them—?"
The angel seemed to understand. "I'll be back momentarily." He was as good as his word, returning thirty seconds later. "They shouldn't meet resistance."
"Now," said the Doctor, feeling the anger he'd held down returning full force, and letting it this time. "We need to go have a word with the person in charge."
Dean had never seen the Doctor like this—normally he was a cheerful guy, a bit spastic and goofy, but compassionate beyond all usual human bounds. He saw beauty and wonder in the smallest things, even in normal people—even in creatures Dean himself would label monsters and be done with. Sometimes it was easy to forget that the Doctor wasn't human, but other times it was impossible.
Like now. He'd become angry, but not in a childish, petulant way. He was like a vengeful god set on destroying a system that hurt countless sentient beings. Watching the storm behind his eyes was frightening.
They moved through the stadium more slowly now because there were far more guards to take care of, and Cas couldn't handle them all. Using nonlethal force, naturally, though Dean found it difficult. Any one of these people could have been the one who'd shot him, or who'd dragged Amy off by her hair.
Dean wasn't about to get on the Doc's bad side, though. Not now, not when he was already dancing on the edge of something terrible and dark.
The CEO of Google had special seats at the top of the stadium where he could see all four matches at once. Dean had been surprised to learn that the Doctor, Amy, and Rory had been fighting to survive at the same time the others had been, but apparently running one show at a time just didn't bring in enough money.
No one had properly explained the arrival of the new guy, who must've been taking notes on fashion from the Doctor, because he was wearing suspenders. Who did that these days? Aliens. Go figure.
The guy turned out to be useful, though, so Dean wasn't complaining. Apparently bullets couldn't kill him, as they'd discovered when they'd rounded a corner without really looking first and had been met with a dozen armed men. The new guy had jumped in front of everyone, taking a chest full of rounds. Dean was sure he was a goner until he'd gasped awake and stood back up. Freaky, but fortunate.
Something to worry about later, though. Right now they were currently attempting to storm into the CEO's private room. Dean aimed for the guards' hands, shooting the weapons out of them, then the travelers moved in and knocked them unconscious.
"The door is locked," Cas began, "should I—?"
"No, I've got it." The Doctor pulled out his Sonic Screwdriver and soon the doors were opening. Jack and Cas wisely stood at the head of the group.
Turns out there was no need for caution. Only one man was in the room, huddled in the far corner, hands raised. "I'll give you whatever you want!" he announced pathetically. Scanning the rest of the room, Dean was relieved to see the TARDIS waiting patiently by the far wall, on display as if it were a trinket or statue. Jack-ass probably had no idea what he'd gotten his hands on.
"I've already gotten what I want," the Doctor said, turning his back on the man, then pausing. "One question, though. How did you come up with the team names?"
"M-memory analyzing technology. We found a phrase that meant the most to you."
"And you have no idea who I am?"
"Sh-should I?"
The Doctor's smile was humorless. "I'm the Doctor. Never forget that. I can forgive you for torturing and killing people for profit, but I can't say the same for those I let out of the cells. Some might have just left, but others… Well, we'd better be off. Don't want to get caught in any cross-fire." He snapped his fingers and the TARDIS opened.
The CEO gaped as the nine of them disappeared inside.
No one spoke for a long moment. Dean himself just sat down by the Impala, leaning against it, weathering the tilting and jarring of the TARDIS's flight. "Worried I'd never see you again, baby," he murmured. "Good to be home." The words fell from his lips unexpectedly, but he didn't take them back. This was home, for the time being. He had his brother, he had Cas, and he had his car. Pretty much all there was left in the whole wide multi-verse.
Shortly after they landed, a conversation floated towards him, and Dean began to pay attention.
"I wish I could bring them back, Jack. I'm so sorry."
"I would've lost them eventually. My team members don't usually live to draw pensions." The new guy was talking to the Doctor; Dean listened more closely, curious. "But seeing them go one by one because I couldn't—couldn't stop it. You were too nice back there, should'a blown the whole place up."
"Too many innocents would have died."
"Innocent?" Jack's voice grew heated, "They paid money to watch my friends be slaughtered!"
The Doctor was shaking his head sorrowfully. "Humans never change. I won't apologize for doing what I did." Silence moved between them, and Dean thought they were done conversing until the Time Lord continued. "It is good to see you, Jack. Abomination and all. I'll get you home as soon as you'd like."
"Home, yeah." Jack exhaled heavily. "Where I'll have to hire a new team and—Well, you know. Try to get over the last one."
"You always did get so close to people."
"Learned that from you." There was a smile in the man's voice. "What's the point otherwise? I have to make them all mean something. I have to remember them all."
Sam began to put the weapons they'd gotten into the trunk of the Impala. Dean reluctantly stood to help him—otherwise, he'd put it all in the wrong place and mess up the system.
"Never going on a picnic again," Dean huffed, and his brother began to laugh. He joined him, feeling the tension that had been with him the last several hours drain away. They were safe now—from that particular adventure, at least.
"So this guy," Sam tilted his head slightly in the direction of Jack, "Wonder what his deal is?"
"Let's go find out, Velma."
Sherlock and John noticed what the Winchesters were up to and moved closer, as did Cas. Even Amy and Rory seemed to be watching.
"So you and Doc know each other?" Dean tired to sound less like a busybody and more like a curious passerby.
"Sure do. Captain Jack Harkness, pleasure to meet you. Any friend of the Doctor's is a friend of mine."
Dean found himself grinning like an idiot as he shook Jack's hand, feeling suddenly special, as if he were the only one in the room, and—oh God, I've turned into a teenage girl how in the hell—is this guy flirting with me? Dean stopped his train of thought, coughing awkwardly and avoiding his brother's eye.
"I'm Dean Winchester, this is my brother Sam, and that's Cas."
"The angel, yeah," Jack turned to him wearing a dazzling smile. "So did it hurt when you fell from heaven?"
"I don't understand. I have not fallen from heaven, I am still in possession of my Grace, otherwise I would not have been able to—"
"It was a pick-up line," Dean interrupted, rubbing his eyes.
"Jack," the Doctor said, warning in his voice. "Stop it."
"Sherlock Holmes, I hope you haven't heard of me," Sherlock said stiffly.
"John Watson. Thanks for your help."
"I have heard of you." Jack's expression was bordering on fan-boying. "Doctor, are these guys the real deal?"
"Certainly are. It's a big multi-verse out there. Speaking of which, we need to get back to it!" The Doctor glanced at Jack, grinning, and the new guy returned his expression.
"I guess I can go on one or two more adventures with the Doctor," he said, voice light but clearly covering up a mountain of pain. "Earth will be there when I get back."
Without waiting for further confirmation, the Doctor sprang to the controls, sending the TARDIS to another unexplored universe. Dean braced himself against the railing, unable to be completely unhappy about the bumpy ride. He now associated it with discovering some new and wonderful place, and holding onto the rails for dear life brought a smile to his face, on that didn't feel forced or out of place.
The Doctor and His Companions Will Return In
Exterminators
A.N: Inspiration for this chapter was drawn mainly from a d20 system a friend of mine wrote; has lots of similarities with Battle Royal, the Hunger Games, etc., but I tried to do things a bit differently.
Going to keep writing mini-chapters, so keep a look out for those! Until next time, lovelies.