Notes: A bit more on that Superwholockian (Supernatural/Doctor Who/ Sherlock) story idea. Pairings: Doctor/Rose, Castiel/Dean, Sherlock/John, hints of Sam/Gabriel.
John entered the small flat he shared with the other two; it was a toss up to whether he'd find a note saying that she'd been working late at Torchwood or find him passed out somewhere, bottles and the stink of booze surrounding him.
It was Dean he found, unconscious and curled up on the battered couch as if he was trying to disappear. Bourbon bottles on the floor and a half empty one still clutched tight in his white-knuckled fist.
The doctor, lowercase, sighed, and made his way to the man to make sure he was still alive and able to continue to be so before heading into the dinky kitchen.
It had been six months, six blurred, grey months since they were stranded in this universe. Four months since that last message on that beach in Norway.
Dean had given up first, sinking into the depression and alcoholism he had always managed to escape before. What could he do? Really, all he was good at was killing, taking care of his brother, and his car. Nothing he could do here. Besides, the only time he could rest peacefully was while passed out drunk, or else he'd wake, screaming, in the night.
Rose was faring little better; she was at least going through the motions of life but everyone knew it was only a matter of time before she'd sink into the same mire if that Dimension Cannon project failed. She gave every waking moment to the project, and a few moments that she should've been resting. Still she, like Dean, had dropped weight and had become pale with dark circles underneath her usually red-rimmed eyes. The only sleep she did get was aided by sedatives, or she'd be plagued by her own nightmares.
And John, John was only functioning because someone had to look after the other two; he had marketable skills and so he had become the breadwinner. He was only managing because he had to keep the other two alive and somewhat healthy. Besides, he had managed fine without Sherlock, so he could do it and. So what if his limp had come back, his shoulder always ached, and he had lost weight and sleep?
The Doctor, Sherlock, and Castiel would find a way to get them home and he had to make sure the other two survived until then.
He heard the door to the flat open and someone step through; Dean mumbled something in his sleep before Rose joined John in the kitchen.
She was carrying the half-empty bourbon bottle that the sleeping Hunter once held; with one long chug, she completely drained it, making a disgusted face as she dropped the bottle into the garbage bin and headed to her own stash of alcohol.
Popping the top off a bottle of sweet, cheap wine, she threw that back as she made her way to a chair.
"Prototype blew up," she gave a mumbled explanation that John didn't need before taking another chug. She only drank like this with setbacks in the project.
"Not eating supper then?" he hummed to himself.
"No, 'm gonna get pissed, go pick a fight with someone, then sleep it all off." Another chug
"Use my punching bag," a new voice slurred as Dean staggered in, "Nobody's in any shape to hunt ya down and drag ya back here."
She gave the American both the two and one fingered salutes, just to make sure he got the point, and went back to drinking.
He ignored her and toddled over to a cupboard and pulled out a cup of instant noodles which he then ate dry.
"Is it only me for supper then?" John sighed.
"We'll get take-out," Dean replied around a mouth full of noodles, still slurring, "There's that Chinese place down the road right?"
"Oh, not that place," Rose moaned, "whatever they used made me sick last time!"
"Agreed," John put in, having nursed her through that bout of food poisoning, "What about that burger joint? You liked them, Dean, didn't you?"
Dean looked down, "Not really in the mood for burgers, guys."
"Pizza then?" Rose offered, understanding what the man couldn't say, "We can get a Meat-lovers and a Hawaiian." She drained the wine bottle and went to grab a few more.
Things in the other universe were going just as fine.
Castiel had literally shut down; he was still in his vessel but he hadn't moved or made a single sound since the day they managed that message. Sam had him stowed somewhere in the TARDIS.
The Doctor was working himself towards early Regeneration, barely eating and only sleeping when he passed out in front of his blackboards full of equations. He didn't talk unless needed.
Sherlock bounced between his usual manic energy, helping the Doctor, and crippling Black Days only now he was liable to erupt in rages during the transitions.
Sam had fallen into the caretaker role, because he was the only one that could; a phone-call to Mycroft had bought them some time in explaining where Doctor Watson had disappeared off to and excused the Detective Duo from their consulting business. It also brought what remained of Torchwood down around their own ears.
The angels were staying off their backs for once and a business deal with Crowley kept the demons in check. Neither side wanted to draw attention from the grieving half-mad Time Lord, the Sociopathic Detective, the renegade Seraph, and the last living Winchester.
And UNIT and the Doctor's many former Companions were handling alien matters.
They were landed on an uninhabited planet, in an uninhabited solar system that day; Sam trooped into his quarters, falling into his bed, without even stopping to take off his shoes, face down into his pillow.
Castiel was still in hibernation, Sherlock was having a Black Day, and the Doctor had lost the battle against sleep.
Sam groaned, flipping to his side and curling into a ball as he tried to drift off to sleep.
He had just managed that feat when his well-honed Hunter instincts set off all the alarms possible, and the bed creaked as more weight was added.
He was up on his feet in a second, gun aiming for a headshot.
The very short person sitting on his bed had merrily twinkling eyes and was currently mouthing a sucker.
"Hiya, kiddo!" Gabriel greeted, winking.
Sam dropped the gun, "You're dead."
"I was, I got better; Daddy thought I learnt my lesson."
"You're dead, Gabe, you're dead." Sam really couldn't take this, on top of everything else, this was finally too much.
His knees gave out, sending him to the floor as he repeated himself like a mantra. His mind had finally blue-screened, throwing up an error message as what was left of it was diverted to necessary functions like breathing. Trying to reboot, it could only get as far as 'Gabriel is dead' before crashing again.
The teasing attitude of Gabriel's vanished instantly, replaced by worry. A snap of his fingers and he had the huge human back onto the bed and in comfy pajamas.
He was staring at the ceiling, face blank.
Gabriel sighed, and looked into the man's memories, at a loss for alternatives.
When the clip-show was done, Gabriel was fuming.
"Darling," he said aloud to the TARDIS, "I am going to fix this. You with me or what?"
The TARDIS chimed in agreement.
"Good. I need you to knock all three of them out."
Drunkenly snarling, Dean staggered to the door and opened it, poised unleash every foul word he knew on whoever was stupid enough to interrupt his binge.
"Hey Deano!" the very annoying archangel greeted cheerfully before he was shoved aside by his youngest brother.
Castiel seized Dean and forcibly sobered him, repairing the liver damage, before pulling him into a tight hug.
"Wha—?" Dean blinked, knowledge finally piercing his suddenly clear mind, "Cas? Cas!"
And he embraced his angel just as tightly.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Sherlock snarled, tapping a foot impatiently. "please. Do go on. It's not like there's other people around."
The Doctor seemed to just be vibrating on the spot and Sam was standing back with Gabriel.
The two finally broke apart and Dean chuckled almost hysterically, running a hand through his hair, "Sorry, man, John and Rose are at work. C'mon in, we'll call them. They'll come running."
"Doctor Watson," the receptionist called out, "phone call on line one."
"Thank you, Lily," John reached over to pick up the receiver and pressed it to his ear, greeting, "This is Doctor John Watson, how may I help you?"
"Dinner?" came a completely familiar, almost sensual voice.
"Who is this?" John demanded angrily, "Who are you?"
"The first words I ever said to you," replied the impossible voice, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John nearly dropped the phone, stammering as his heart hammered away, "Sherlock?"
The voice hummed a tune, a tune that John knew intimately as he had heard it at least once a week before Canary Wharf.
It was all the confirmation he needed; choking back a sob of relief, he covered his face with his free hand, "Sherlock, you got through?"
"Obviously." Came the usual reply but there was something under his voice, something new, "One of Castiel's brothers took pity on us."
"Who?" Castiel had said he wasn't powerful enough.
"The Messenger, now do come back to the flat so we can all go home."
John was on his feet in an instant, forgetting his cane and throwing off his lab coat.
"On my way."
"Good."
"Agent Tyler, call on line one."
She paused in her welding, "Tell 'em ta call back later, Jason, bit busy at the moment."
"Says it's urgent," Jason pressed, "Something about a…bad wolf?"
She dropped what she was doing, ignoring the clatter, and raced towards her assistant's office to nearly tackle him for the phone.
"This's Agent Rose Tyler," she spoke into the receiver breathlessly, "I'm here to help."
"Fantastic," came the familiar voice, "Rose Tyler, to the rescue."
"Doctor?" she questioned hopefully.
"Who?" he teased before becoming serious, "We did it, Rose. We're over here and we can all get home."
"How?"
"The Trickster, remember him? Turns out he's Castiel's older brother, Gabriel. He came back, took a look into Sam's mind, and made a door."
She nodded, trembling, "You at the flat? With Dean, I'll get Mickey ta drive me home. Everyone's okay on yer end though right?"
He chuckled, "Yes, we're all okay, just waiting at the flat. John's already on his way; Gabriel wants to check you all over before we leave. Gonna be a couple days though."
She nodded, "Time enough ta get our affairs in order over here then. I'm gonna hang up now. Promise me, Doctor, promise me you'll be there."
"Oh, Rose," his voice caressed her name, "I'm not moving from this flat until I have you back."
"Promise me, Doctor, please!" she begged, even as she sent Jason off to hunt down Mickey and her father.
"Rose Tyler," he spoke seriously, "I promise I will be right here, waiting for you."
She shook, even as she put down the phone and grabbed her things.
"Scrap the project," she nearly screamed at her team as she ran out the door and began jumping down stairs.
Luckily, Mickey was already waiting in the garage with the car running.
She leapt in, sliding across the bonnet and using the mirror to twist around and land through the passenger window and into the seat.
"Gun it!"
"Rose—"
"Now, Agent Smith!"
They tore off, breaking most traffic laws; thankfully, the streets were pretty clear as it was the middle of a weekday.
The car protested such treatment but they kept at their already set pace, if only because she wouldn't let them slow to a sane speed.
They arrived at the flat, with Rose bursting from the car before it had even fully slowed down and leaving her things behind. She was mounting the stairs and Mickey was parking, and had ripped open the door before he had even unbelted.
Immediately, she was grabbed up into a hug which she returned in equal desperation.
"Doctor," she murmured into his neck, "Oh, thank…You're really here."
He didn't say anything, but she could actually hear his double hearts pounding.
Then he pulled back, leant close to her ear and said, "Rose Tyler, I love you."
Without warning, she kissed him, pulling herself up by his lapels and wrapping her legs around his waist to make up the height difference. Luckily, he didn't disagree with this; instead, he wrapped his arms around her to better support her.
Sherlock Holmes was not by nature a patient man and that flaw was coming to the fore that day.
Six months, without John Watson by his side. Four months since last contact at all.
And here he was, in a flat that smelt of misery and alcohol, still waiting while everyone else was reunited.
"Give 'im some time, Sherlock," Dean spoke up from where Castiel was feeding him homemade pie, "works farther out than Rose."
"His limp came back too," Rose put in, still in the Doctor's arms.
Sherlock's nostrils flared, eyes narrowing. He closed his eyes, hoping to keep from lashing out once again.
John was coming home, John was going to arrive soon enough; he could wait a few more minutes. He turned away from his colleagues, trying to focus on himself and keep his fraying temper.
He had never been so…rash, even before John. High as a kite or enraged by incompetent idiots, his fury had always been cold, calculating. Since he lost John, however, he had become hotheaded, little better than Anderson or Donovan!
A small hand settled on his arm and he turned to see Rose looking up at him. Her other hand was taken by the Doctor.
"You know," she said quietly, "If it weren't fer John, me an' Dean would've gone down before ya guys got us back. We were pretty useless, see; I got us a small allowance from my parents, enough fer the deposit and first month, an' then went nuts workin' fer Torchwood, paid well, but I was a mess even if I was bringin' in money. Couldn't be bothered to keep house; Dean did a bit of that, but John picked up the slack. Really. Cooked, cleaned, shopped, made sure we were surviving as well as we could, an' got a job at a clinic." She gave a sad smile, "Hurting just as much as any of us but he kept it together so we could fall apart."
"Made sure we didn't choke on puke," Dean added.
If he was going to say anything else he could not because at that moment the door banged open and there stood John, panting as if he had run the entire way home. Perhaps he had.
"Sherlock!" he blurted, as if surprised the man was in fact there.
"John," Sherlock bowed his head slightly.
What happened next was not something that would normally happen; John rushed Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the slender man (The Doctor had pulled Rose out of the way). Sherlock stiffened at first before managing to free his arms and returning the hug.
Sherlock quickly became aware that John was patting his back; he chuckled, "I can assure you, Doctor Watson, I am real."
The general joyous atmosphere was interrupted when Rose's mobile phone went off. Immediately she paled, John and Dean gathered around her anxiously, as she checked who was calling.
"It's my Mum," she whispered in what seemed like horror.
She turned away, plugged her free ear, and answered, "Morning Mum."
Everyone could hear the caller shrieking as Rose valiantly fought to get a word in edgewise, "Ye-No-Mu-List-I-I know but I—"
Dean stole the phone, put it to his ear, and broke in, "Listen lady, we are leaving, Rose is going. Now, either shut up and wish her luck or leave her alone." He hung up and tossed the phone away.
"Rose?" the Doctor questioned.
"Mum's happy, with Pete an' Tony," she explained tiredly, "an' she's gettin' mad that I'm not happy here. She's pissed that I've been looking fer a way back an' now she's pissed that I'll be leavin' an' not coming back." She caught the Doctor looking at her, "Don't try it, Doctor. 'm going back with ya. Even if ya don't want me, I can find work with someone over there 'm sure."
"You're always welcome in the Bunker," Dean rumbled.
"And Missus Hudson would love to put you up until you get back onto your feet," John added.
With a little, almost possessive growl, the Doctor pulled her to him, holding her tight; "Dean, Sam, if I ever try to get rid of Rose and I'm not possessed or being replaced, shoot me." The Doctor commanded, "Keep shooting me until I come either come to my senses or run out of lives."
"Will do," Dean lazily saluted as Sam nodded.