A Study in Crossover
This story was originated from the following prompt:
Take your favorite TV show character of all time and put him or her into a different show that you enjoy. The character should be surprised to be in unfamiliar territory, but should interact with the other characters and, if possible, help them solve a problem. You can make up a scene or insert the character into an already existing scene from that show. Itâs all up to you.
It was another foggy day in London and there was rain. Quite a lot of it. Â
Sherlock was prostrated on the couch, staring at the multiple minimal cracks on the ceiling, wondering when he would have to alert Mrs. Hudson about its imminent crashing down. He came to the conclusion that he had at least 4 weeks, 3 and a half in the worst case scenario. If the upstairs neighbor didnât decide to throw another one of those wine-tasting parties, maybe even 4 weeks and a half. Sherlock zoned out, considering what his life had become in the past days: staring out the window obsessively, scanning the street for possible clients and failing miserably at it. Â
Outside his mind, the room was a mess. Through the entire morning, Sherlock searched his emergency cocaine stashes, revolving the fireplace, under the armchairsâ cushions, inside the old slippers by the window frame, underneath the fridge and even under the loose floorboard where he used to put the violin case. Â
âJohn did find them, after allâ, he thought. Rising up from the couch, Sherlock paced around the room, joining hands behind his back, his mind floating anywhere but his small flat in Baker Street. With the robe fluttering around his ankles, he considered a new search, this time for the handgun stuck inside the bed frame, by the bedroom. Surely, John would have taken away that boredom relief mechanism too, but one last small pursue wouldnât hurt anyone but his own sense of self-government. To think that John and Mrs. Hudson have been conspiring against him on his back, planning malignantly to strip him away from his recreational activities â which John referred to as âsnorting and shootingâ â was outrageous. No clients, no opportunities to exercise his mental prowess, no cocaine and no blowing holes in the walls. Nonsense. Â
John allowed him his nicotine patches, supported by Mrs. Hudson, who was never a fan of the pipe. However, the patches were long gone and leaving the flat to do anything that wasnât nearly as exciting as a case was not on Sherlockâs plans. He walked around as much as he could, but the cold weather outside prevented him of sweating and feeling some of the physical exercise. Being as aggravated as he was, meditation wasnât an option either.
Walking over the armchair close to the main window and jumping its backrest, Sherlock positioned himself once again against the window sill, arms crossed, as if defying the World to bring him something, anything. The game was not afoot, at least for now.
As if deciding to play his game, the World made noises downstairs.Â
Walking across the living room and leaning against the door, Sherlock heard voices, one of them clearly Mrs. Hudsonâs voice. The other one belonged to a man, probably young and absolutely American. Although his voice was clear, he couldnât make out what the stranger was looking for. Mrs. Hudson didnât welcome many guests through the years Sherlock has been her tenant, so this American man wasnât her concern; he was obviously a client. âJust send him up alreadyâ, Sherlock muttered, hands around his ear on the door.
The man kept talking and Mrs. Hudson laughed. Sherlock sighed. Judging by the strangerâs steps climbing up the stairs, he was a lean man using heavy clothes, probably a rain jacket, considering the weather. Sherlock was confused by the lack of damp sounds, as if his overcoat wasnât wet, which could be easily explained by a cab ride. Â Nevermind a cab, he never saw one. Actually, he saw no one at all roaming the street, which was odd, given the fact that there was a man on his doormat right now.
There was a knock.
Sherlock straightened himself, much like a meerkat. Softly walking to the armchair, he rapidly sat down and lifted his legs over the padded footrest. Â âCome in.â
The man that walked in was impossible.
âHello, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.â
Never forgetting to pose, Sherlock placed his hands under his chin, fingers intertwined. âIf you intend to surprise me calling me by my full name, youâve failed. Please, have a seatâ, Sherlock said, nodding towards the chair, in the middle of the room.
âI donât have obscure intentions, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I need your helpâ, the man walked the room, his eyes floating around the place, never focusing on anything particularly, until he sat down. âI am Castiel and Iâm an angel of the Lord.â
The silence became very palpable.
âI see.â, Sherlock finally broke the silent spell.
âYou do?â
âYes. And I am the Queen of England.â
âNo, you are not, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.â His face was as blank as the wall behind him. As a matter of fact, the wall had more personality than him, riddled with bullets as it was. The sprayed smiley face was a nice touch of modern dĂ©cor.
âHow did you get here?â Sherlock put his feet down, placing his elbows on both knees and scrutinizing the stranger. âYou didnât walk. You didnât take a cab. You clearly donât own a car. You keep calling by my full name even though youâve never said yours.â
âI am Castiel. Iâm an angel of the Lord. And I flew, or as humans tend to classify, I teleported.â
âOh yes, surely. Now, if you excuse me, I rather die of boredom than engage in this little theatrical youâre trying to lure me into. Farewell.â Standing up, Sherlock walked to the kitchen, leaving the stranger frowning his strange forehead at his back.
âI donât understand. The Winchesters told me you could help. Why should I leave?â
In the kitchen, the clinking of teacups started and Sherlock had already erased the stranger of his mind as a potential client. The boredom was returning, that hateful immortal enemy.
"Well, first, my time is much more precious than anything else you might want to offer me for it, and second", he said, stirring the tea and watching the vapor rise, "the tea will get cold. Have a nice day, Mr. Castiel, an Angel of the Lord."
Sherlock motioned his head towards the door, as to pointing the stranger his cue to leave.
"No? Fine then, stay. But let us skip this nonsense concerning angels and Lords and whatnots. Please, do get to the matters at hand."
"There are no matters in my hands." Castiel stared at his own hands, mesmerized and confused.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and cleared out his throat.
"What I cleary meant to say was for you to continue, sparing me of your nonsense."
Castiel blinked as if he was thinking deeply about it and spoke.
"God is missing. No one knows where He is and the Winchesters told me of a man that could find anything. Perhaps even God."
Sherlock was unmoved.
"I do understand this is merely a story in a book, but perhaps you could hear the clues and give me the answer as to where God is." Â
"A story in a book?"
"Yes."
"⊠What is?"
"You are."
Sherlock sighed.
"Are you in use of any type of hallucinogenic, Mr. Castiel?"
"I donât understand."
"Because you do sound quite mentally unstable to me."
"You, Sherlock Holmes, are a story inside a book. I came here to ask for your help to find God. That is all. And I am also not using drugs. Will you help me?"
"Surely."
Sherlock placed the teacup at the table in front of him, walking towards the fireplace and taking a fire stoker.Â
Turning around and approaching Castiel, he knocked him in the head. The stranger passed out and fell face first on the floor.
Putting aside de fire stoker, Sherlock took his phone from his robe's pocket and started texting.
"There is a man in the flat who might know more about that book you've found.
Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.
- S "