Chapter Text
Chapter Ten, Part One: Sherlock
John has always been an early riser. He's one for routines, unlike Sherlock, who alternates between waking at four A.M to play his damned instrument to sleeping in past noon. John wakes up every day at six-thirty sharp, and today is no different –except, of course, for the part where he wakes up in what looks like his flat, sprawled on the ground next to three others.
Counting heads, John realizes that the Doctor, Castiel, and Sam Winchester are amongst those missing; he knows that Holmes and Watson are in their respective rooms, or at least they were in the evening before, but who knows at this point. Both bedroom doors are still shut, but if Holmes is anything like Sherlock, there are several places he may be at six-thirty that are not his bed.
Speaking of Sherlock, the man is still quite asleep on the rug beside John. One might expect the great Sherlock Holmes to look graceful in sleep, but he drools and looks unappealing and completely human like any other fool. It's very reassuring, John thinks.
He looks around for the missing members of the group and hears voices from down the stairs. John follows the noise after a brief glance back and the still-sleeping forms of Sherlock, Rory, and Amy, and finds Sam, Castiel, and the Doctor in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.
The stove is on and there is flour everywhere.
It takes a moment for John to decipher the scene.
At the counter, Castiel and the Doctor are mixing batter in a large bowl. Well, the Doctor is, anyway, while Castiel frowns at a recipe book. Sam is standing at the stove with a frying pan, looking like the responsible adult as he flips –pancakes. They're making pancakes.
John doesn't even have to ask in an annoyed voice what the hell is going on, because it's pretty obvious, so he just pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers, sighs, and turns around to go back to sleep.
Sherlock is awake when John crawls back onto the rug to try and force at least another hour of sleep.
His eyes narrow and John can feel his scrutiny.
"John," Sherlock says sharply.
"Sherlock," John responds, voice muffled in his pillow.
"You're going back to sleep, John," There's an edge of alarm in Sherlock's voice, as if such a disruption in John's sleeping patterns surely means that something awful has occurred.
"Impeccable observation, Sherlock," John mutters, because he's suddenly very tired and all he wants to do is go back to sleep, "Very astute. Well done."
There's nothing more and John hears Sherlock get to his feet and pick his way around the floor strewn with bodies.
He continues to lie there, bone-tired and he just wants to go back to sleep, but sleep, of course, doesn't come. It's six-forty. He should be up and about.
Someone kicks him gently in the side.
"What in Heaven's name are you feigning sleep for?" says a voice that is much unlike Sherlock's.
John rolls over and frowns up at Holmes.
"You witnessed the making of pancakes downstairs and found it too ridiculous to deal with first thing in the morning," Holmes doesn't make it a question.
"Something like that," John says, sitting up.
Holmes hums and takes out his pipe again, sticking it between his teeth and digging around in his pockets.
"That can kill you, you know. Smoking,"
Holmes snorts, "A great many things can kill me, John," he says. "For example: boxing, drinking, drug use, investigating murder. Yet I do all these things nonetheless."
"Cocaine?" John repeats incredulously.
Holmes makes a noise that sounds indifferent, and he lights his pipe, turning away to kick at the others in a very noncommittal manner. "Wake up," he says, "I've been sent to see you all awake,"
Dean snaps awake before he can get kicked and John suspects that he may have also been awake the whole time. "Don't even think about it, dude," Dean tells Holmes –or rather, his foot. He gets up and looks around, "Is Cas back yet?"
"Castiel is currently assisting in the destruction of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen," Holmes says. He waves his pipe around triumphantly, realizing "I cannot be blamed for this. I will not!"
"Yeah, yeah, follow your dreams," Dean mutters, heading for the doors.
John climbs to his feet, resigning himself to the reality of his inability to sleep in. All around the room, the stragglers of the party are stirring. Amy drags Rory to his feet, still yawning herself, but as the group moves downstairs, the smell of coffee that has joined the pancakes wakes something up inside of them.
The kitchen is still quite a mess as everyone assembles inside of it, and Watson is the last to join the group, sighing exasperatedly as he takes in the scene of destruction.
"It was them," Holmes assures him, pointing his finger at the guilty parties.
There aren't enough chairs or even room at the kitchen table to house the eleven of them, so most of them stand around and trade off plates and mugs.
John notices that, in the corner where he is situated, Sherlock has grown increasingly agitated. It doesn't surprise him, therefore, when he bursts out after the first round of pancakes, "Will we be addressing what Castiel has discovered or not?"
The Doctor and Castiel exchange a significant look.
"Yeah," Dean says around a mouthful of pancake, "Did you find anything?"
"We have a name," Castiel affirms.
"Don't leave us hanging!" Rory says, though Amy is curiously quiet.
"The demon that possessed the grocer was heard muttering the name 'Moriarty'," Castiel says, "I am unfamiliar with any significant demons or other beings with this name, but"
"-He's a criminal." Holmes says sharply.
"The Napoleon of crime," Watson says grimly.
The name is, of course, equally familiar with John and Sherlock, who meets John's startled gaze with a grave look of his own.
"You have a Jim, too?" John asks. Great. As if the universe needed two Jim Moriartys.
"We had a Moriarty," Holmes says.
"Where is he?"
"At the bottom of Reichenbach falls, unless he's been fished out," Watson says, looking at Holmes with an odd expression in his eyes. "He's been dead for at least a year now. Holmes has been working to bring down his criminal network. I thought you took care of that?"
"I thought so, too," Holmes says, "Certainly, they haven't been strong enough to retaliate against us, or we would have heard from them before now."
"Well, there was…" Watson trails off.
"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock finishes. "Jim's right-hand man,"
"So this Moran bloke," Rory ventures, "Is he the demon?"
"He's dead," John said, "And certainly human whilst alive,"
"It's possible," Castiel disagrees, "Many demons are merely the Hell-rotten souls of past humans. It is possible he was… given a deal to get off the rack early. Depending on what his sins were. Or, he's just gone through the process. A year's time on Earth is over a century in Hell."
"The rack?" Rory echoes, paling at Castiel's descriptions.
"Hell's torture chamber," Sam supplies, when Dean and Castiel are silent. "It's not a nice place, and most people spend years there."
The Doctor, hitherto silent as he slowly chews on the last of his pancakes, suddenly turns to Castiel and says, "You said Heaven is less active in this reality. If that's so, why are there still demons?"
"He's the same as us," Amy blurts out, "He fell through the time-space gap."
"The what?" Dean says.
Everyone turns to her, and John notices distinct lack of surprise in Castiel and the Doctor's features, though the Doctor is frowning at Amy, as if her knowledge of this 'gap' is unexpected, but not something he didn't already know.
"A time and space gap," Holmes murmurs thoughtfully.
"Of course," Sherlock mutters.
John feels his eyes roll back almost on instinct and when he looks over, Watson is sighing also. He catches John's eye afterward and his moustache seems to twitch with amusement. Holmes, is the general exasperated agreement.
Chapter Ten, Part Two: Doctor& Crew
Rory has given up on trying to really understand this talk of demons and time-space holes, and he lets the others argue over this new Moran character, choosing instead to wander out of the kitchen and take a look outside.
Sherlock and Holmes' game of intellectual one-upmanship regarding the theoretical existence of wormholes had begun to make his head spin anyway.
Standing on the front steps of 221B, Rory looks up and down Baker Street, noting the passerbys strolling by with leisure under the city's perpetually gray skies. The air is a mix of smells –burning coal, some baker from down the street –the hint of something sour. There's something paradoxically tranquil about the hustle and bustle of London of the past, and Rory leans against the doorway, content to watch it all.
He doesn't notice, therefore, when a dark cloud of smoke floats over him, blocking out what little sun light there is. An odd, sulfurous scent overwhelms Rory when he next breathes in, but by the time he looks around, alarmed, it's too late and the black cloud is upon him, surrounding his head in a cold haze of darkness.
Rory squeezes his eyes shut—
And Sebastian Moran opens them.