Work Text:
In your dream, something is making a whooshing noise. You can't put your finger on it, but you know you've been waiting to hear that noise for a long time. You begin to stir in your sleep, reaching through the void to find it's source—
A hand closes over your mouth, shunting you from sleep into terror. You try to scream, reaching for the salt on your bedside table when someone clicks on a torch, illuminating three faces gathered around your bed. You freeze. You would recognise those faces anywhere.
Dean Winchester—the one with his hand over your mouth—mutters, “quiet.” You nod, and Dean removes his hand with caution. “We need your help. Sam's on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days.”
You bolt into a sitting position. “What happened?” You say, your gaze flickering to the other two men briefly.
Dean shakes his head. “No time to explain. Are you coming or what?”
Before you can answer, Sherlock steps forward, nudging Dean out of the way. “Of course you are,” he says. “You keep a backpack next to your bed with emergency supplies for such cases as this. You've been hoping we'd come for years. You've watched our shows, seen what we do?”
You laugh. “Yes, of course. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much,” you say, thinking of the hours devoted to these characters.
Sherlock tilts his head downward, his impossible eyes meeting yours. “Want to see some more?”
“Oh, God yes,” you breathe.
“Well, that's settled then.” The Doctor—the third face around your bed—snaps his fingers. Wedged into a corner of your room, the door to a large blue box swings open, spilling golden light across your bed. You swing out from beneath the blankets as fast as you can, slinging your “in case of adventure” backpack over your shoulder.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Dean leads the way into the TARDIS, closely followed by Sherlock and the Doctor. You hear him mutter something about the benefits of the Impala, but one glance at the interior of the TARDIS takes your attention completely. Sherlock and the Doctor bicker over the controls as Dean pulls out his cell, presumably dialing Sam. The breath catches in your lungs as you lay eyes on this; the tangible proof of your wildest dreams.
Geronimo.