Episode Four

An Unexpected Guest

I woke with a start, lying comfortably on my stomach hands wrapped around my pillow. Another dream turned nightmare. I was overjoyed to feel the warmth of the body next to me. My husband, my Damian was safe and sound. Groggy and disoriented, I made my way to the kitchen for some water without looking back. Damian however, was not sleeping so comfortably. With our fluffy orange cat Crookshanks laying curled up on his pillow above his head and the big black beast of a lab Padfoot at his feet, the bed was feeling a bit crowded. He didn't wake however until Crookshanks sat up and started meowing loudly.

"Shut up cat!" he was used to this annoying habit, but it'd been awhile since they had to deal with it. He rolled over, pushing Crookshanks away when (to his surprise) instead of facing me he was eye to eye with a very familiar man.

"Good evening Mr. MacGregor. My name is Sherlock Holmes and it appears I'll be taking your wife's case,"

I don't remember much after walking in on Sherlock and my husband's staring contest, but I do remember waking up again cozy in our bed to the sound of voices from the kitchen. I took a deep breath and pulled a robe over my pajamas.

"I'm telling you Sherlock it's a parallel universe I've been saying it all along!" Damian was making Sherlock Holmes (THE Sherlock Holmes) tea in our kitchen in our little house in Northern California. I knew it wasn't the actor this time, there was no denying it. I follow him on every social networking sight, and let me tell you, he had much more interesting things to do than stopping by my house that night for a laugh. It was really him, you could just… tell. For a moment, none of us knew what to say as I stepped through the archway to the small kitchen. Sherlock sat at my mom's old oak table, eyeing me in deep concentration. Damian started over to me and settled a strong arm around my shoulders, "You gonna be ok Buhbuh?"

"I think I'll survive…" I managed awkwardly.

"Yes! Good. I'd prefer it if you didn't faint again," I sat down at the table across from him, Damian pulling up a chair next to me. I couldn't find my words still; all I could do was stare (uncomfortably for him I'm sure) in amazement. And for a moment even Sherlock Holmes was speechless, he was eyeing me intently.

"Am I… Am I still dreaming? Is there like some kind of way to tell if this is real or not cause I've had just about enough of these nightmares and I just want to wake up.. am I awake?" I did my best to hold back my tears. It was getting to be a little overwhelming, these vivid dreams. After what happened to Ruby, I never wanted Damian in my dreams again. Good or bad the black eyed monster could come at any moment and take him from me, and that I couldn't bear to even think about.

"No Buhbuhs, you're awake trust me," he planted a kiss on my cheek. "See it's all real!"

"Wrong," Sherlock said finally, jumping to his feet excitedly and pacing our kitchen. "This can't be real, since neither of you are real," we stared at him for a moment in confusion then turned to each other and shrugged. "Shut up and leave, both of you, I need to go to my mind palace,"

"Neither of us said anything," I said, waiting excitedly for what I knew he would say next.

"You're thinking it's putting me off now LEAVE," with a satisfied grin Damian took my hand and we walked silently to our bedroom. Immediately as we stepped through the door I collapsed face first onto our big comfy bed. Crookshanks, startled, leaped over me and went sprinting down the hall. Our big lazy dog Padfoot didn't seem to notice, except when he inched closer to give the side of my face a good lick. I rolled to my side wrapped my arms around him, squeezing tight and closing my eyes, hoping when I opened them all of this will have still been a dream. Instead, I opened them to Damian, sitting beside me with one large hand settled on my waist reassuringly.

I sat up to face him. "So if this isn't a dream, how are you so OK with a character from TV being in our kitchen right now? You were chatting him up and making him tea, like an old friend was dropping by! I was just dreaming about him and BAM there he is in our house and you're completely unfazed, how?"

"Well, I have no way to know how he got here or even if I'm going to wake up in an hour, but I'm pretty sure this is real. And I think I have an idea of how," he replied calmly. But he didn't get the chance because suddenly Sherlock appeared in the doorway.

"We need to talk," his demeanor had changed. His face had turned dark, and as he turned and walked back toward the kitchen a big part of me didn't want to follow him. "Not you," he barked, stopping dead in his tracks, looking over his shoulder waiting for Damian to leave. He kissed my cheek, eyes locked with Sherlock's in suspicion. When we got into the kitchen he stood facing me, glaring.

"OK so… You have a theory right? You being here does it have something to do with what happened to Ruby?"

"I have a number of theories but first I need to ask you a few questions," he brightened up instantly, but it wasn't much comforting the way he was eyeing me as he seemed to prance around my kitchen excitedly. He sat back down at the table, glaring at me.

"Questions? Like what? You can tell me my life story just looking at me what could you need to ask me?"

"I can and I already have but I need to be sure. I've been wrong once today and I'm never wrong. I won't let that happen again. Now where did you grow up?" he clasped his hands before his face and watched me expectantly.

"Here in Roseville actually. I've lived in this town since I was a baby," I looked around at the kitchen: the tan walls, the painting with the two koi fish we'd gotten on our six year anniversary (before we were married) hanging above it, and all the other things we'd accumulated that made our little three-bedroom house a home. "I don't see how that has anything to do with this though…"

"That's because you see but you don't observe. If you want my 'theory' answer the questions and don't ask me stupid ones," I shot him a stern look, he rolled his eyes "…please. How long have you and your husband been married?"

"Going to be five years in a few months," the cold rain was beating down on the window behind our sink; I never thought I'd miss rain before the droughts.

"Interesting…" he studied me intently, "One last thing, I want you to tell me about this dream you had,"

"You mean the one where I met you or last night when Ruby died?" he furrowed his brow.

"Last night's," he didn't question that I had met him in a dream or argue it. He just let me tell the story, about the old house and the black smoke, how she died in my dreams and in real life, how Moriarty had exhibited the same pitch eyes and the same cold laugh.

"OK, there's something else I need to tell you if you're serious about this case. Actually I think it'd be better if I showed you," I went into the living room and grabbed my laptop off of the glass topped coffee table. I set it down on the kitchen table, powering it on and clicking the icon for my Netflix account. He was watching me silently, but I knew better than to think it was ever silent inside that clever mind. I turned on the first episode of Sherlock and faced the screen towards him. He stared in confusion as he watched himself meet John Watson for the first time. He closed my laptop forcefully and pushed it across the table towards me. I didn't know what to make of the expression he showed, running his fingers yet again through his mousy hair.

"What in the hell was that?" he finally said.

"That… is a TV show on BBC," I opened up the computer again and typed "Sherlock Holmes" into the search bar, "You're famous, in books on TV, but you're not real Sherlock. You're a character, created a long time ago by a man named Arthur Conan Doyle. You're one of the most beloved fictional characters ever created," I told him everything I knew about him. I showed him how many different versions there were of him in the media, the actor that shared his face. He was dumbfounded. Two impossible things had happened by the time I looked up at the clock and saw that the time read 5 AM. The real Sherlock Holmes appeared in my house, and he had become completely speechless. "It's hard for me to take in too," I told him, rubbing my itchy, tired eyes. "But you're here now and I don't know how to get you back home. You don't have a flat here, 221B Baker Street is a Sherlock Holmes museum. Even if it was there we're in California I can't afford to get to London. I think the best thing for us to do right now is figure out what we're up against," He thought about what I'd said for a moment.

"You said Ruby and Moriarty's eyes were turned black… What exactly do you mean by black?"

"You know what, I think it's about time I found out for myself," I started typing once again: 'Supernatural The Phantom Traveler black eyes' and I clicked on the first description I could find"Oh of course! Why else would they be called 'Demon Hunters'?! It all makes sense now they must have been possessed!"

"Oh don't be daft if you know my 'story' like you say you'd know that can all be explained, they're not real!"

"Oh and you can explain this? You're not real either bud but you're here. If you can be here then why is it so impossible that this can't be real too?"

"So you think it's a demon huh? Looks like you asked the wrong man for help," Damian came out from our room, he chuckled, but Sherlock looked insulted. "Hey I mean no offense! I'm just saying if she's got a demon haunting her dreams killing people that sounds more like the 'Winchester brothers' department that's all,"

"Babe! You're a genius! If I could bring Sherlock here, why not Sam and Dean?!"

"There's something you need to see," we both stopped and watched as Sherlock pulled a new looking paperback out of his coat pocket and slid it across the table to me.

"But that's…"

"Your hair, your dress and your tattoo?"

"That's me…" I turned the book over and read the back, "That's my story that's exactly what's happening to me,"

"You shouldn't exist to me and I shouldn't exist to you,"

"You didn't think that might be important?"

"Of course I did I'm not an idiot,"

"Well you're not allowed to scoff at my demon theory anymore then! Maybe we're not supposed to be real to each other but we are. That means if you use DEDUCTION that all these other stories have to be real in some way too," but he wasn't listening anymore, he was pacing

"The only question left now is how I got here," Sherlock went deep into thought; we all sat in silence for a moment. "Moriarty—"

"The demon!" I corrected. He sighed irritably.

"The demon—" he rolled his eyes dramatically "-used a gas to put you to sleep, so reason tells us he could have been trying to wake you. But when I went in to pull you out of the gas, we both passed out together!" suddenly Sherlock stopped, "The last thing I remember was grabbing your hand! Oh, it's so simple how did I not see it before?! You pulled me into this reality from your dream! It was the physical touch, and if you intend to bring these 'Winchester brothers' into this reality as well, you'll need to make physical contact as you all lose consciousness together,"

"That was simple?" I said questioningly, "So as long as we're touching and pass out at the same time I should wake up with them here? If only the fan-girls knew!"

"For all we know you could be the only one who can do it," Damian replied. "There's only one way to test it,"

"Hell yeah there is!" it was a good thing I was so tired, because when we all made our way to the bedroom I was practically asleep already. "Ummm are you both just going to stand there and stare at me until I fall asleep?" Damian chuckled and leaned down, kissing me softly on the lips. I held his face in my hands for a moment, feeling his scratchy beard. I ran my fingers through his dark, thick hair. As he turned to leave the room with Sherlock, I told him I loved him. I turned over, mind heaving with demons, dreams and the Winchester brothers, and drifted into sleep.