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SoaM - Ch 1 - SuperWhoLock

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Something of a Mystery
Chapter 1: Something of a Problem with Timing
Warning: Very frequent hints at various stages of boy love. Also, warnings for Jack.
Rating: T, to be safe


It was a rainy day.  One of those days where you don't really want to go out, but sometimes you have little choice about it, and you're forced to step outside your home and go to work.  It was one of those days that you spend the whole day feeling like it's morning, or thinking it's dusk.  Those really dark days where the sun doesn't show up at all, not even to peek down on the occupants of the earth.

Yeah.  One of those days.

Of course, the occupants of 221B scarcely noticed, as they were both sleeping in after just finishing a case the night before.  At like five in the morning.  It was currently eight.

Actually, to be slightly more accurate, Sherlock Holmes was sleeping like a newborn baby while John Watson was tossing and turning on his bed, trying to sleep.  And failing.

Finally, with a frustrated groan, he got up and padded down the hall, opening Sherlock's door to check on him.  Then he tiptoed inside and paused over the bed, reaching out to touch him... but he hesitated.

Sherlock's cheek twitched slightly.  "You know, it's hard to sleep while you're standing there.  Either do something or go away," he grumped.

John bit back a smile and sat down on the edge of the bed, watching Sherlock turn over to face him with a sour expression.  "Sorry.  I couldn't sleep."

"Clearly.  Why?" the other male asked, frowning at him.

John sighed and shifted, shaking his head.  "Just thinking about the H.O.U.N.D. incident," he admitted slowly.

"Hou- John, that was two months ago.  Why are you thinking about it now of all times?" he demanded irritably.

John frowned and didn't answer immediately.  Honestly, he kept dreaming about the look on Sherlock's face when he was sitting there by the fire in the Inn.  That look of abject terror, of horrified fury.  John couldn't stop thinking about it.

He had been so damn worried about Sherlock, then, and even though he'd forgiven him for being an ass... it still bothered him.  Not the implication that Sherlock didn't need him.  He knew that wasn't true.  Had known it then.

No, the thing that bothered him was that Sherlock did need him but was convinced that he didn't need anyone.  Not even his best friend.  Even more unsettling was the fact that John wanted Sherlock to need him...

"John?"  Sherlock had sat up and was frowning at him.  "What are you upset about?"

It was like Sherlock had forgotten that night, that terror.  As if it had been ejected from his memory and he couldn't quite understand John's own worry, couldn't remember it to even begin to fathom- but then Sherlock's confusion cleared.  He must have figured it out, in that eerily precognisiant way he had.

"Is this about that stupid fight?" he demanded.  "I told you I was sorry.  You accepted my apology."  He paused, eyes narrowing on John's face.  "Do you need tea?  I think you need tea."  He got up to go make tea (which was always a bad idea, since it came out more inedible than it went in), but John grabbed his wrist before he'd completely risen.  The result was that Sherlock flailed comically for a beat before sprawling out half across John, knocking him off the bed and to the floor.  And of course Sherlock had to slide off said bed himself and land on top of him.

"Oy, that hurt," the detective complained, shifting to rise, only to pause when he realized he was half an inch away from John.  More accurately, their faces were.  And John's was turning red.

They lay that way for a minute before John shifted just slightly.  Now his back was completely pressed to the floor and Sherlock was settled more comfortably atop him.  Slowly, surely, Sherlock lowered his head, eyes meeting John's as if he couldn't help it.  John lifted his head.

It would be at this point that the problem surfaced.  As Murphy's Law states, if anything simply cannot go wrong, it will anyway.  And Ms. Hudson walked in on them.

"Sherlock?  Where are- ...oh."

John watched in dismay as, with a sort of slow-motion unique to such an embarrassing situation, Sherlock's face contorted into a grimace.  "Ms. Hudson," he began, climbing to his feet to frown at her.  "Why are you walking into my room without knocking at eight o' sodding clock in the morning?" he demanded.

She gave them an embarrassed smile while John was righting himself.  "You have a client," she replied.  "Was quite insistent on seeing you.  Wouldn't take no for an answer."

"Who is he?" John asked before Sherlock could snap at her to tell the man to beat it.

"Jack Harkness, Torchwood," an unfamiliar voice replied, and a man leaned around the woman with a tiny grin.  "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"You were," Sherlock retorted.  Then the words caught up with him and he was on his feet and across the room in half a tic.  "Torchwood?  You said Torchwood."

"I did," Jack agreed, eyebrows lifting.  "You're talking about it like you know it."

"I do know it.  Top-secret organization charged with protecting the world - primarily the country - from alien threat," Sherlock rattled off, darting to his closet to get something to wear that wasn't his nighty.

John frowned slightly.  "How do you- no, nevermind, I'm not going to ask," he muttered.

"Wow, you really are as good as your brother says," Harkness said, eying Sherlock.  "I could use your-"

"Go away.  Er, get out, be right out in a minute, alright?  Bloody Americans," Sherlock muttered.

Taking his cue, John got up and pushed both Harkness and Ms. Hudson out of the room, escorting them to the living room to have a seat.  Ms. Hudson went to get them tea.  John and Harkness sat down, and silence fell for a beat.

Then Harkness apparently got bored and started giving John a strange look.  "You guys were kissing, weren't you?"

"Wishful thinking," John retorted, though he didn't clarify as to whose wishful thinking it was.

Harkness grinned.  "Aww, I did interrupt!  Sorry about that.  This is important, otherwise I would've just left you to it."  He paused.  "Say, don't suppose you'd like a, uh, advisory party would you?"

John gave him a scandalized look.  "Are you mad?" he demanded.

Harkness bit back a grin and shrugged, shaking his head side to side.  "A little bit, yeah.  I think it's over exposure to weirdness."

John just frowned at him, even as Sherlock came into the room, dressed in a pair of black slacks and a khaki colored long-sleeve shirt.  He sat down in his seat and gave Harkness an unblinking stare.  "So?  What is it you need?"  His eyes swept over the man briefly.  "Or should I say, who?"

Harkness grinned.  "Actually, we're in a bit of a pickle back at HQ.  We need to find a man called the Doctor..."

Sherlock was eying him again, frowning.  "I see...  And this doctor can help you?  You don't appear to be sick, and since you're coming to me on behalf of Torchwood, I can only assume your need is extraterrestrial in nature.  So what is it?  And how could this doctor of yours help you in any way that I cannot?"  He was irritated with the man's assumption that he would just find the man and be on his way.

Then he frowned.  "Unless this doctor is some sort of 'alien' expert, in which case he would be quite a bit more help to you than I.  But why would you need me to find him?  You have the best resources in the country at your fingertips.  Surely you can find him without my help.  Which would lead me to one of two conclusions.  A, he is not precisely what you're looking for.  Unlikely, as it is clear from the folder you placed on the table that you want me to find the person it entails.  Or B, he is who you're looking for, and it is impossible for you to find him with all of your technology and resources.  And why are you smirking like that?"

Harkness was indeed smirking at Sherlock like the cat that swallowed the canary, eyes dancing with mischievous glee.  "I think you'll do, Mr. Holmes," he said, looking pleased.  "You'll do quite well."

Sherlock blinked.  That was not the reaction he was expecting.  There was something he was missing, something very important.  With an annoyed look on his face, he snatched up the folder from the table and opened it.  He was greeted with a handful of pictures of at least eleven different men, previously known sightings, dates and an impossible time-line graph that skipped back and forth through the years, making absolutely no sense at all.

Sherlock shuffled through the folder, forgetting about the others as he took in this new information.  This doctor, no the Doctor, was impossible.  No, not impossible, just very unlikely, but apparently true nonetheless.  At least according to this.

Time travel, aliens, a guardian, more faces than was possible...

At some point, he'd set down the folder, finished taking in the information and now going through it.  But he still didn't know enough.  His mind raced with all the different variables, the various places the Doctor could be, would be, should be.

Finally, his attention returned to the room only to find that he was alone.  Harkness was gone, John was nowhere in sight.  Hours had passed.  Sherlock was feeling slightly hungry.  "Food," he mumbled.

A head poked into view from the kitchen.  "Oh!  He's back from space," Harkness declared.  "Watson!"

John wandered back in from the hall, even as Jack brought Sherlock an omelet.  "Hope you don't mind.  I was hungry.  Made some for everyone."  He plopped down with his own plate, and quirked a brow at Sherlock.  "So?"

"I'm going to need more information," Sherlock replied bluntly.  "This man is impossible to read, and even more impossible to find.  At least not without more information."

"That's all I'm authorized to give you," Harkness replied bluntly.  "Sorry."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he'd figured as much.  "Then we're going to need to lure him out."  He smiled.  "And I know just who to ask to help me out with it."

xXx

"He did what?" Bobby demanded, eyes narrowing on the male in front of him.

"He denied the transport," Castiel repeated, a faint frown making an appearance.

"Goddammit," the human cursed instantly, then winced.  "Er, pardon."

Castiel blinked.  "I am familiar with your usual brand of eloquence, Bobby Singer.  I have come to expect such outbursts."

Bobby shook his head.  "Right.  Did you try insisting?"

"Yes," Castiel replied.  "He was quite upset that I tried to bring him anyway."

"So that's why he destroyed my bathroom?" Bobby moaned, rubbing his temple.  "That stupid- why do I even bother?  Why?  Honestly.  He's so stubborn!  I don't know why I deal with-"

The door opened, admitting Dean, who paused and blinked at them, mouth full of hamburger.  "Did I mish shomshin?" he asked.

"Just trying to figure out how to deal with that damn child upstairs," Bobby muttered.

Dean made a face.  "Is he still bitching?  It was just a little gash!  Jeez."

"And it wasn't even on purpose," Bobby said woefully.

There was a crash above them, and a loud thunk.  Bobby winced.  "He finally managed to upend the couch.  I suppose I should go make sure he hasn't screwed anything up.  Don't want him escaping."

"True enough," Dean muttered, watching his companion leave.  Cas vanished to make sure their captive didn't hurt the man, which was pretty unlikely.

There was a knock on the door, followed by an unnecessarily loud crash upstairs and Bobby yelling about broken furniture.  Dean sighed and went to the door, pulling it open.  "What?" he demanded, then blinked.  "Jack?"

"Wow, it's a small world after all!" Captain Jack Harkness said, grinning.  "How are you doing Dean?"

"Eh, the usual.  What are you doing here?" he asked, frowning.

"Actually, my friend here, Sherlock Holmes, meet Dean Winchester.  He's here to see Mr. Bobby Singer.  Apparently they're old friends."

Jack walked in, and Dean stepped out of his path with a shrug.  "He's upstairs-" Crash, thud, "-Dealing with... stuff."

Sherlock's eyes had widened and lifted to stare at the ceiling.  Jack just kept talking like this was old hat to him.  "Really?  That's kinda loud, though.  He need any help?"

"No, Cas has got it," Dean said, plopping down on the couch.

Jack's eyes lit up.  "Cas?!  He's here?  Oh, that's great!  I sure missed that sexy beast."

"No," Dean snapped very firmly.  "Just no.  He's off-limits!"

"Aww, damn, you got to him first?  Oh well, I'm up for a threesome anytime you want," Jack teased.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the blatant sexual flirtation.  Just how close were these two?  He took a moment to eye this new man as he chatted with Jack while they waited.  Sock feet, and his shoes were by the door, meaning he either lived here or had some measure of respect for Singer.

Faded blue jeans, casual; they were old and much used.  Pull on shirt, and a black leather jacket sitting on the couch by his hip.  A bulge in the waistband of his jeans on the right; a knife.  Probably had one other on him somewhere.  Short hair, military style, but grown out somewhat.  Odd worn pendant around his neck, with a new cord.  Unflinching gaze; locked on Jack right now.  Flickers about the room every few minutes; aware of his surroundings to an extreme, almost to the point of paranoia.

Carefully controlled movements; hiding something, from Sherlock.  Tiny twitches at any sound around him; doesn't appear to notice this.  Slightly tanner than average skin; he must be out in the sun near constantly.  A discoloration on the back of his hand, his fingers, his wrist, a few up his arms; scar tissue.  Multiple past injuries, and that was just what Sherlock could see.

Sherlock looked up at the man in the exact instant that he realized he was being studied.  Green eyes narrowed.  "Yo," he said.  "Need something?"

"Curious, actually," Sherlock replied, glancing toward the man's boots and then taking in the state of his jacket.  "What exactly is it that you hunt?"

The man's eyes widened, jaw going slack.  Then he looked at Jack accusingly.  "You!  Stop telling people random shit about me!"

Jack held up his hands in surrender.  "I didn't tell him a thing about you," he replied.  "He's just that good."

"Bullshit," the hunter snapped.  "You mean to tell me that this guy either researched me before even knowing he'd meet me here, or figured that out with a glance?"

"The latter, actually," Sherlock replied smugly, ignoring more screaming from upstairs.  "Your clothing is casual, relaxed, but chosen in such a way that you know it won't slow you down no matter your surroundings.  Meant for quick action as well as fluid reaction.  It's old, but clean.  Taken care of, likely because you're frequently away from home and somehow unable to buy more.  You are always on the road, looking for more 'things' to hunt, evidenced by your suntan.  You are attacked often, according to the numerous scars on your arms, and probably all over your body.  You carry at least two knives, in case you are suddenly caught in a situation that renders you incapable of going for a weapon elsewhere.

"And thus my hypothesis is that you are a hunter of something that is not an animal, and most likely not human.  So what exactly is it that you hunt?"

Dean looked at Jack, who grinned.  "He remind you of anyone?  At least the 'talking ninety miles a minute' thing."

Jack giggled.  "Yup."

Sherlock blinked.  That was twice in a row.  "What?"

Dean shook his head and grinned.  "Alright, I'm sold."

"Sold to whom?  And why would you sell yourself, Dean?" a man demanded, suddenly standing off to Sherlock's left.

The detective jumped, eyes wide.  "How..."

Jack's face lit up like Christmas had come earlier.  "Caaass!  You're looking as gorgeous as ever," he said, sidling closer than necessary to the man.

Cas blinked at him, brow furrowed.  "Jack Harkness.  I am... surprised to see you."

"Captain," Jack corrected mildly.  "Where's Bobby Singer?  My friend here has business with him."  He nodded to Sherlock.

The detective stared at Cas, who turned to stare back, head tilting slightly.  Neither said anything for a moment, then Sherlock frowned.  He couldn't read the man.  At all.  It was like he wasn't even human...  "Are you an alien?"

Dean choked on his sandwich, and Jack stepped over to roughly pat his back in assistance.  Cas blinked, looking confused.  "No, I am an angel of the lord," he replied.

"Ah," Sherlock said, not sure what else to say.  "Does that work for you?"

Cas tilted his head.  "Yes."

"Good."  They both fell silent, the detective feeling a little awkward and Cas just plain confused.

Luckily, that's when Bobby returned from upstairs, looking a little worse for wear and just a mite more irritable than usual.  "That stupid idjit!  I swear, the next time you bring your garbage here, Dean, deal with it yourself!" he railed at the man on the couch.

"I love you too, Bobby," Dean replied, shaking his head.  He jerked a thumb at Jack, shifting out of the Captain's reach, and then nodded toward Sherlock.  "You've got company."

Bobby glanced toward Jack, frowned and looked at Sherlock.  "Oh!  Mr. Holmes.  You're earlier than I expected," he said.  "Well, c'mon then.  Want a beer?"  He walked over toward the doors that separated this room from his 'office'.

"No thank you," Sherlock replied, following him.  He paused, looking back.  "You coming, 'Captain'?"

Jack waved dismissively and grinned.  "Naah, you can fill me in later.  If I do, Dean'll sneak out before I get back out."

Sherlock shrugged and left with Bobby, the door closing behind them.  Cas tilted his head, watching Jack sit beside Dean.  "How long ago?" the Captain asked, suddenly sober.

Dean gave him a startled look.  "I...  How'd you know?" he asked, frowning.

Jack gave him a look.  "No one's mentioned him.  Nobody's even tried to bring him up.  You're all avoiding the topic, like it's a taboo.  Even Cas is pretending he never existed."  His gaze darted to the angel's face, but Cas looked away in shame.  "What happened?"

Dean looked down, frowning and avoiding Jack's gaze.  "It was... Lucifer.  We opened the gate again, and Sam told him yes.  There was a fight between Michael and Lucifer, and Sam gained control long enough to grab Michael and jump into the gate.  It sealed behind them.  They're gone."

Jack closed his eyes, leaning back against the cushions.  "I'm sorry."

Dean nodded, looking down at his hands.  "I tried... for a while... to find a way to fix it.  Try to find a way... to get him home," he murmured, voice cracking oddly.  But Jack kept his eyes closed, and if Dean's eyes watered, no one would notice.  "I even tried to find the Doctor, at one point, thinking that maybe he'd know something... but he was nowhere.  I couldn't find any sort of spell, or power that could go down there and..."  His voice dried up, and he dashed away the single tear.  It was stupid for him to be crying this long after.

Silence fell, and Jack shifted from the couch to kneel in front of Dean, peering up into his eyes.  He didn't mention the moisture.  He placed his hands over Dean's, smiling slightly.  "I'm sorry," he repeated softly.  "I can't promise anything, but... we're looking for the Doctor now.  That's why I have Sherlock.  He's brilliant.  If anyone can find the Doctor, or bring the Doctor to us, it's him.  And maybe the Doctor will know something, right?  But... Dean, you have to realize that it's just as likely that the Doctor won't.  He's pretty amazing, but not even he is all-knowing."

Dean nodded, hope flaring dimly to life in his chest.  He didn't even shove Jack away.  "But, it's possible, right?"

Jack grinned.  "It's possible, yeah."

The office door opened, and Sherlock paused on the threshold.  "I won't ask," he said abruptly, and walked toward the door.

Dean gaped and shoved Jack away quickly.  "It's not what it looks like!" he yelped, causing a laugh to escape the Captain.  "Oh, you!  Get out!"

Jack grinned.  "See you around!"  He waved and followed the detective out the door.  Upstairs, Dean's pet dog broke something again.
There you go, chapter 1.  Hope it’s good.  It’s a little haphazard.  But oh well.

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Characters and Supernatural, Doctor Who, Torchwood and Sherlock do not belong to me, but to their Moffat, Kripke and all associated thus. I am responsible for creating this alternate universe, and the story line only. Please do not take and use or post elsewhere without my permission.
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THE FEELS ARE HURTING ME