Supernatural Imagines

Sam X reader--Sherlock Crossover

Imagine Sherlock showing up at your motel room about a case and not getting along with Sam and Dean.

Warning: Mention of abuse and recurring nightmares

"Y/n! Can you get the door?" Sam shouts from the bathroom of the motel.

You groan, pushing yourself up from the couch and making your way to the door. You swing it open, giving tired eyes to the tall man on the other side. His long face is topped with a mass of curly black hair. He forces a smile that does not reach his blue eyes.

"Agent Hetfield, I heard you have information on the recent murders," he says with a british accent.

"Excuse me, but who are you?"

"I am consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, but from what I gather from the state of your wrinkled clothes and disorganized room, you are not what you say you are."

As if on cue, Sam walks out of the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging from his mouth. "Who is it, Y/n?" He stops short, catching a glimpse of Holmes. "Holy crap. What are you doing here?"

Sam interrogates Holmes as he drags him inside and makes him sit at the table. "Why are you in America?"

"For this case."

"Where's Watson?"

"Baker street. He doesn't enjoy travelling."

You interject with your concerns. "Uh, Sam? Do you know this guy?"

Sam rolls his eyes at the man. "This is Sherlock Holmes."

"We have only crossed paths once before," Sherlock explains.

Sam mumbles, "And here we are again, all too soon."

"So, you're a hunter too?" You say, observing Sherlock in his long, blue trench coat with the collar flipped up in a hunter-like fashion. He could have possibly just come from investigating as an FBI agent.

"Must I tell you again? I am a detective. You americans have such puny brains." He pinches the bridge of his nose melodramatically.

Sherlock shuffles the papers on the desk, keeping an eye on Sam. "A nest of vampires I assume," he says, looking up from the police reports, "I happen to know a little more information on this case than you do. I could be of some assistance." He raises a dark eyebrow at Sam, awaiting a response.

Sam flips out his phone, calling Dean. He takes you by the arm and pulls you into another room where he puts Dean on speakerphone. "Hey, Dean. You'll never guess what the cat dragged in."

"Uh oh. Who is it?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Ugh. That guy again? What does he want?"

"He thinks he knows about the case and wants to help."

"Sam. He can't help."

"I know."

"Wait, why?" You ask, "He seems like he could help us."

Dean sighs. "Not after what happened last time. The dickhead took over the case, thinking he could handle it. Long story, short, we ended up having to save his ass from a werewolf."

"You're kidding! What are we gonna do?"

"Nothing," Dean answers bluntly.

"What?" Sam whines.

"Don't do anything or say anything. I will be there in five minutes to clear this up. Just entertain him for now."

"What? How am I supposed to do that?" Sam says.

"Let him guess everything about you. He likes showing off. But don't get in an argument with him."

Before Sam can complain, Dean hangs up, leaving you in the silent room with the tone of the phone. Sam shoves his phone back into his jeans before shooing you back to the other room.

Sherlock turns around at your entrance, rolling his eyes. "You bicker with your brother like Mrs. Hudson shouts at her broken kettle."

"Keep the insults to yourself, smartass," You say, sneering as you sit across from him.

He looks you up and down in one quick glance, taking in every dust particle on your clothing like an automated machine. "American descent, never left the country. Romantically and socially inept. You spend a large quantity of time on your phone or laptop, possibly to keep from feeling left out of the fun your college friends have without you. Your family is either estranged or dead."

The last sentence, so casually added, takes you off guard. You attempt to stop him, but he talks over you.

"Your clothes are on their second, maybe third, day going unwashed and that flannel is oversized, suggesting that it belongs to Samuel."

You snicker at the mention of Sam's entire name coming from his mouth.

Sam tries to correct him, but Sherlock dismisses this and continues to ramble quickly with a monotone voice. "Assuming he gave you the shirt, you are in a relationship with Samuel."

"You could have just asked me if you wanted to know—"

"Judging by the bags under your eyes and your complexion, you have been travelling with the Winchesters for at least a year, presumably after the death of a loved one."

Your face falls at the mention as flashes of your past haunt you.

"Friend. No, family member. No! Boyfriend. He hit you sometimes, but you were still distraught when he died. You haven't been able to part with the rusted locket around your neck, engraved with your initials and his in a heart. Possibly a gift from him two or three years ago." He pauses only for a short breath before continuing his performance, "Your hair is unkempt and you haven't worn makeup in years. You must stay up at night from nightmares. Your socks by the door are grass stained, suggesting you go out for walks when sleep escapes you."

Sam's eyes widen from behind Sherlock, but words seem stuck in his throat. You sit, frozen to your chair, as you listen to Sherlock spill all your troubles.

"When Sam and Dean rescued you last year from whatever killed your boyfriend, you fell in love with Samuel as a result of the shared traumatic experience. Despite Samuel being your rebound, he is still one of your only boyfriends. Possibly your third. Dean is like a brother to you I assume. Since the nearest library is only a block away and his car was still in the parking lot, he walked there. He'll be walking briskly back here, so he should arrive in less than a minute."

He finally finishes, standing abruptly. "Now if you would excuse me, I must be on my way as I do not want to interact with Dean at this moment." Sherlock sweeps his trenchcoat around, opening the door and stepping out.

The door slams shut, and you gawk at Sam. "What the hell was that?"

"I didn't know you had nightmares..."

You shrug, rubbing the back of your neck. "Not every night. But often enough..." Then your eyes snap open with realization. "Oh my god! He's going to try to handle the case!"

The two of you run out the door and into Dean.

"What? Where is he?"

"He got away," Sam explains, slipping past Dean.

"Ugh. That arrogant brit! When I find him, I'm going to empty a round into his tea-sipping skull!" With that, Dean breaks into a run, catching up to you and Sam in your hot pursuit of the consulting detective from London.

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