SuperWhoLock

Chapter Two - Sherlock

John Watson sat straight up in the middle of the night, hearing a couple loud, frustrated notes being played on a violin.

He sighed and laid his head back down on his pillow. Sherlock had been like this for a rather long time, almost an exact month.

Instead of working his cases, he had become obsessed with history. It was insane but John couldn't deny it either. The same man had been appearing throughout history. Always the same, young man in a blue or brown suit. He'd even been in some famous books or poems.

He was called 'The Doctor'.

Sherlock had become obsessed with this strange doctor and was convinced that he was still alive nowadays, no matter how many times John or anyone else told him he was wrong.

John groggily walked out of his bedroom and came into the kitchen. It was 2am. He dragged his feet into the parlor and noticed Sherlock holding his violin and staring at his laptop in frustration.

John yawned. "Damn it, Sherlock, just give it up and get some sleep okay?"

"I don't sleep, John! It slows me down!" Sherlock said, extremely irritated. He kept typing away on the laptop. "I'm so close." He kept murmuring.

John rolled his eyes and went back to into his bedroom.

***

The light of dawn crept into the flat. Sherlock looked up from his research. He hadn't slept for a long time. But that was no matter, it didn't affect him.

Sherlock got up from his studies of the mysterious doctor who appeared through history to look for his nicotine patches. John had hidden them as usual. Though Sherlock could usually find them.

After a couple of slow-moving minutes, Sherlock gave up and went to the window and began to play a soft tune on his violin.

He had to solve this mystery. The Doctor was still alive, Sherlock knew it. If only he could find him, discover who he truly was.

A few hours later, Sherlock's flatmate, John Watson awoke and sat down in his armchair with a cup of coffee and the paper.

"Sherlock, look at this." John pointed to a murder article on the front page.

Sherlock glanced at it. "Boring."

John looked very confused and continued reading until the familiar bing sound from John's mobile went off. John picked it up and looked at Sherlock after reading his text. "Sherlock, have you been ignoring Lestrade's text messages?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He sat in his own armchair, both arms on the armrests, fingers arched in the way that implied he was thinking.

John rolled his eyes. He knew Sherlock could hear him.

"There's been several disappearances over the last 2 weeks, Sherlock." John sighed. "Greg's been bugging you for 2 bloody weeks about, what looks to be a very interesting case, and you ignored him?" John was astounded.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. "Of course." He said to himself, snatching up John's phone and typing a message to Lestrade.

Be there soon. -SH

Sherlock quickly snatched up his coat and scarf and headed down the stairs. "Come along, Watson!" He called, already hopping out the door. Leaving a completely shocked John upstairs.

***

They soon arrived at the scene of the latest disappearance, a storefront with a dark alleyway near it. This time there was a witness and a sinister note left from the kidnapper.

Sherlock flipped up his coat collar as he approached Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, John trailing behind him, having a chat with Sally Donovan.

"Damn you, Sherlock! I've been calling and messaging you for ages!" Lestrade said, not too angry but cross enough with the trench-coated detective.

"I had other things to do." Sherlock replied in a deep, monotone voice. He had no time for small talk, these disappearances obviously had something to do with one of the Doctor's enemies. It was clear as day.

Sherlock briskly walked past Lestrade, who was saying something about how he came by to visit him but Sherlock had gone into his mind palace.

"Where is the witness, Gavin?" Sherlock asked. Lestrade sighed. "She's over there," -he pointed to a brunette teenage girl sitting on the curb- "Be gentle with her, Sherlock. Her dad just disappeared and she won't say a lot that makes much sense."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat down next to the girl. He sighed. "What did you see?" Sherlock gritted his teeth, trying to be 'gentle'.

John joined Sherlock, sitting on the other side of the girl.

"My dad and I were walking home, taking a shortcut through the alleyway." She whispered, it was almost too hard to decipher what she was saying. "Then they came out of nowhere."

"Who came out of nowhere?" John asked the girl.

"No who, what came out of nowhere." She spoke louder this time. "Stone statues, they moved when you turned away or even blinked." She looked at her feet. "They touched my dad, sending him God-knows-where and now look where I am!" The girl broke down into sobs, hugging her knees tightly into her chest.

John looked at her sympathetically, placing a hand on her shoulder. "It'll be alright. Hey, what's your name?"

But Sherlock didn't stay to hear the rest of the conversation. He headed down the alleyway, which was roped off with yellow police tape. No one was down in the shadowy alley, giving it quite an erie atmosphere.

About halfway down, on the left wall, was a message. Which looked like it was written in blood.

Heaven's gates will open when the Doctor heals the angels. It read. Sherlock had absolutely no clue what it meant, but he knew that they were definitely referring to the Doctor he had been searching for.

Sherlock began to head back, see if John had gotten anything else from the girl, when he heard a noise. Like feet walking towards him.

He turned and looked around, the only thing he saw was a stone angel statue. Sitting near a dumpster, hidden by shadows.

It's hands covered its eyes, like it was weeping. A weeping angel. Sherlock walked a bit closer. Something wasn't right with the statue.

All Sherlock did was blink, and before he knew it, his surroundings had changed completely.

He was in a victorian London street. People in top hats and hoop skirts busied themselves rushing about the cobblestone streets. Horses pulling carriages and no cars whatsoever filled the road.

Sherlock suddenly felt even more out of place than he did in his own time. Is that what had happened? He had been displaced in time? But how was that possible?

Sherlock stood on the pavement for several solid minutes and then noticed something that seemed familiar to his own time. A man in jeans, t-shirt and a beat-up brown leather jacket was trying to conspicuously walk down the sidewalk, trying to fit in.

Sherlock stopped him. "Your jacket. Old, broken-in, you wear it a lot. Perhaps it has sentimental value." Sherlock pulled the collar back a bit. "Initials are engraved here, though they look old. Older than you can be. J.W. Hm, perhaps it your father's coat."

The man whom Sherlock had stopped gaped at him. "Obviously, I am highly intelligent and am worth having around. Now, I'm looking for a man called the Doctor."

The man closed his mouth and held out his hand. "Dean Winchester, and I'm looking for the Doctor too. I'm sure he can get us out of 1887."