Summary: A day in the life of the Consulting Hunter Lords. /"Doctor, stop bothering Castiel; he is not a meta-plasmic-transformer! Don't you roll your eyes Sherlock Holmes, if I find one more finger in the soup; I'm going to kill you!"/

This is a gift for my two best friends on here, timelucked and aladyofallfandomseve,they're both great people and authors and you should love them like I do.

I LOVE YOU. If you couldn't tell.

/

Sherlock Holmes had a migraine.

Actually, that wasn't fair to say; he didn't have just one migraine—

"Dean, I do not understand; do you wish me to locate Waldo because he is a demon?"

"No, Cas, it's just a game!"

"Ponds, come look; it's a meta-plasmic-transformer! I haven't seen one in about three hundred years!"

"Actually, Doctor, that's just Cas – he's an angel. Y'know, a warrior of god?"

—he had seven. Each with their own list of issues long enough to send most psychologists running – or, at least, it would if they weren't so adverse to letting psychologists near them. Not that a psychologist would want to go near them – one of them was a notorious biter.

"I'm starved." Said biter complained, resting her head on her husband's shoulder blades. Rory turned from his position in front of the cutting board – where several sliced tomatoes lied.

"I'll have some food ready soon; but if you grab the strainer from the cupboard – it'll be done earlier." He told his wife, smiling. The pasta would take another thirty minutes to make (including the sauce) but if he gave Amy something to do then it would hasten the process.

There was a clatter as Amy pulled a cupboard open and the dishes, that Dean was supposed to put away, tumbled out. Luckily, the red-head was saved any injury by her husband's quick reflexes. However, Dean was not as lucky.

"DEAN WINCHESTER," Amy cried, "YOU GET IN HERE AND CLEAN THESE DISHES, RIGHT NOW!"

The hunter had the good grace to look slightly sheepish. "But, Amy, I'm tryin' to explain the delicate nature of human games to our good buddy, Cas."

"I am sure Sam is adequate enough of a teacher to complete your arduous task, Dean." Castiel said. Dean gave his angel a betrayed look. He grumbled underneath his breath about angels not knowing where their loyalties lie as he moved towards the kitchen, ignoring Sam's murmured 'I think you hurt his feelings'.

Rory stepped out of the kitchen, followed by Amy, and turned to Sherlock. "Um, Sherlock – why did you put a head in the refrigerator?"

"I'm testing the coagulation of saliva after death." Sherlock said smoothly, depositing his tea on the table. In the chair adjacent, John scooped up the cup and took his own sip – utterly absorbed in his medical book and, therefore, ignorant of his actions. Sherlock decided not to tell him. It would only make John hysterical about germs (especially after the Holmes Health Debacle last week).

Rory took on a disgusted countenance. "OK, well could you move it to the other refrigerator?"

Sherlock gave a labored sigh, "No, Rory, for the simple reason that removing the head would ruin the experiment in its final – and most crucial – stages."

Amy was not satisfied. "Sherlock, we keep our food in there. I'm sure the Doctor can make something to prevent your head from getting ruined while we move it."

Sherlock was about to launch into a rant about the time it would take for the transfer to be complete, the jostling of the head itself, and the unreliability of the Doctor's less-than-trustworthy items (as shown by Incidents One, Eight, and Three earlier that year); when John's voice came from across the space.

"Just let them move the head, Sherlock. The time it would take to switch the head between the two is negligible to the effect of the outside air. Much less than when Dean left the door to the refrigerator open for several hours."

"I couldn't find the ketchup behind all that crap Sherlock jammed in there." Dean called from the kitchen. His voice turned plaintive. "And how am I supposed to eat a burger without ketchup?"

"The same way you would with it, I imagine." Sherlock snapped from his seat. "But don't worry, Dean, I'm not surprised you couldn't think of that all on your own."

"Gee, Holmes, don't you go getting' all Kelly Kindness on me," Dean said sarcastically, "Really, your ray of sunshine personality is all I need."

"I don't understand that reference. Who is Kelly? Is this another of Dean's promiscuous 'conquests'?" Castiel gave Sam a confused look. Sam held back his laughter and put his hand on one of the angel's shoulders.

"Don't worry about it, Cas. I'll explain it later." He promised. Castiel nodded solemnly and turned back to his hunt for the ever elusive Waldo.

"I'm sure I could build something for your head, Sherlock." The Doctor said, "I'll just need a few things."

"Is this a few things like stuff from the local market, or stuff where we'll have to rush off to space to get it and probably be killed – again – in the process?" Rory asked. The sad thing was that it was a legitimate question.

Castiel spoke again, "One cannot be killed more than once, Rory."

"This coming from the man that has raised people from the dead – including Sherlock," John said.

"They had only been killed once when I raised them. None of them have died a second time." Castiel said. If it was anyone else, his tone would have been described as 'argumentative' – but it was Cas and Cas didn't do arguments.

"Except Dean." Sam chimed in.

In the kitchen, Dean muttered mutinously. "Everyone's a fuckin' critic."

"Technically, I didn't die. I was severely injured." Sherlock said blithely.

John erupted. "The only reason you didn't die was because Castiel saved you!"

"The reason I didn't die was because I planned my trajectory perfectly." Sherlock's eyes narrowed at John. Part of him recognized that John was irrationally angry, but the larger part of him wished John would move on – he was alive, wasn't he? It was better to have Sherlock nearly die than to put John in unnecessary danger (any danger, his brain supplied unhelpfully).

The room was heavy with tension – the only sound was Dean moving things around in the kitchen as Amy stared at Rory and Rory stared at the Doctor and the Doctor stared at John and John stared at Sherlock who was staring at the wall, resolutely.

Suddenly there was a burst of light and Where's Waldo? burst into flames. Sam yelped, launching himself off of the couch, and towards the door.

His voice was two octaves higher. "Jesus, Cas! You weren't supposed to 'purify' Waldo when you found him!"

Castiel cocked his head to the side. "I do not understand. Then what is the point of this game?"

Sam stared at the angel in undisguised horror. Dean laughed loudly, stepping out of the now-organized kitchen. The elder Hunter clapped a hand on Castiel's shoulder, chuckling, and gathered up the ashes of the book. Castiel watched him intently as Dean got rid of the evidence of Castiel's misunderstanding.

"Maybe we shouldn't buy the angel anymore children's games." Rory suggested slowly. Subtly, he nudged the bin with all the games away from the angel in a trenchcoat. Amy bumped him with her shoulder, smiling up at her husband, but giving him a scolding look.

"I'm sure he's fine with games – we'll just have Dean explain them to him."

"Last time Dean explained something Castiel almost screwed Cluedo up as much as Sherlock." The Doctor inputted, fingering his bow tie.

"The game is wrong!" Sherlock defended.

"You're wrong." The group chorused.

Sherlock's eyes darkened. Yes, he most definitely had a migraine.

/

Dean didn't like these odds. He didn't like them at all. He and Cas were facing down a team of unbeatable enemies. Each armed to the teeth with weapons that he had no hopes of facing, with or without a warehouse of celestial power by his side. The giant demon of the group's grin was absolutely feral. The leader of the team has a calm sort of brevity that sets Dean's hackles on edge. And the smallest of the three is simply distant, eyes far away from the situation at hand.

He would be their undoing.

Dean grinned. In an instant, Dean launched himself forward towards his enemy, arm outstretched, and missed.

Cas was next to him in a second, hauling him up easily. Dean clapped him on the back, thanking him. Around them, the voices echoed – the method of dispersion of the demons impressed Dean (though he'd be loathed to admit it). They separated as a unit, moving fluidly across the clearing.

"I can't believe you missed, Dean!" Sam jeered from the other side of the clearing. "What happened to your 'lightening' reflexes? Did they disperse in the rain?"

Dean scowled at his brother. "Don't you insult me with your geek-speak, Sammy."

From beside him, Cas spoke. "Why are we playing tag?"

"It's called chase, and we need to train you for long-distance running." Sherlock's logical voice came from out of freakin' nowhere. Dean turned to the area where he thought Sherlock was. He growled darkly.

"I'll show you long-distance running." Dean muttered mutinously. Just ask Cas voiced a curious question.

"Why do I have to learn to run? Flight seems the most opportune method of arrival." Castiel said. He moved, stretching his back as if preening his wings.

"Except you tend to crash rather than land," John said, "As I recall, the first time I met you, you broke through the window."

The memory struck John with almost as much surprising force as Cas hit the window – crashing into the flat, right in front of Mrs. Hudson. The image of a man crashing through the lower window, with dark wing-like figures sprawled from him, was sure to induce the catatonic state that John found her in. Sherlock, in all his Sherlockian 'glory' (more like pompousness, in John's opinion), descended quietly; John watched in shock as Sherlock greeted the angel calmly.

Well, greeted the unconscious form of the angel.

(John will later find out how much it should have terrified him to see Castiel's wings. Unless the angel was close to death, the wings ought to be hidden.)

"You know him?" John had asked in shock. Sherlock had merely given him a once-over and a half-smile.

"During my tenure in America, I had the pleasure of meeting the Winchesters," The way he said pleasure, though, made John think it was anything but. "and helping to hunt down a demon."

"A…demon?" John was starting to think he ought to just not ask so many questions. It would certainly make for an easier, less stupid-feeling life.

Sherlock merely ignored John, grabbing the angel roughly and hauling him upstairs. For two weeks they rested Castiel and made sure he didn't try any more of his – eloquently described – "long distance cheating" while he was staying.

Eventually – about a week later – the Winchesters showed up at the door, looking for Cas, and never really left. There were plenty of demons to hunt in London town – most of which were under the control of Moriarty. Though it was never said aloud, they appreciated having somewhere to go back to at the end of the day.

(With home cooked biscuits and lukewarm tea and jokes and laughter; things they never had in abundance in America)

At the moment, however, Dean was not appreciative of the grouping. With Sherlock on the other team, the strategy of the Destiel team (as decreed by team Johnlockam, as revenge) was more Cas saving Dean's ass and Dean diving headfirst into danger.

"Perhaps a different strategy could be employed." Cas suggested after the third rescue.

"You don't have to keep saving me!" Dean snapped, not unkindly. "I'm not some damsel in a poufy dress!"

"You do not wear dresses." Castiel said. Then paused. "Dean?"

"I don't wear dresses, Cas!" Dean cried. Though you do like panties, apparently Dean's mind supplied unhelpfully.

One time! He barked back.

From behind there was a rustle. Dean launched himself away, grabbing Cas as he went. The two went tumbling down the hill at the lip of the clearing. They landed in a graceless heap at the end of the hill, tangled together in a way that made it impossible to see where Dean ended and Castiel began.

"Should I make a Jack and Jill joke or just ask if you two had a nice tumble 'round in the grass?" John chuckled. Beside him, Sherlock smirked. Dean was about to call up and tell them where they could shove their tuffets, when Sam appeared from behind.

With a great laugh, and a giant shove, the detective and doctor went tumbling after.

"Jack and Jill are appropriate, don't cha think?" Sam said, in the midst of gales of laughter.

The four below shared a devilish look – except Cas, he just smirked – before racing back up the hill. From above, Sam squeaked (it was a manly squeak, he would later defend), and raced back to the Impala.

Behind him, a horde of angry monsters raced after.

Luckily, Sam was adept at dealing with monsters.

/

It had been three years of living with Dean and Sam (renovating the flat above to fit the additions – turns out Mrs. Turner had moved to Southern London a month ago before) when the Doctor showed up. He arrived in the middle of the flat – almost on top of Dean's tool kit – and popped his head out.

"Ah! Sherlock, d'you have those notes I left here earlier?" He asked, popping out of the doors, and striding over to the seated detective. John pointed easily to the desk, where a large stack of papers lies in an organized chaos only associated with Sherlock Holmes.

The Doctor grabbed the notes and turned back to the TARDIS – facing a gaping Sam and Dean Winchester. Castiel merely stared – as an angel, overseeing the planet; he had former knowledge of the Doctor. However, there was never a need to confront him. America had its protectors in the form of leather jackets, plaid shirts, and classic cars; Britain had its own, with tweed jackets (or leather or pinstripes or what have you), companions, and an alien spaceship.

"Who the…what the…" Sam didn't seem able to get any words out. But Dean, as was his instinct, grabbed his gun from the table and pointed it straight at the Doctor.

"Who the hell are you?" He demanded.

The Doctor frowned. "Always with the guns!"

With a gun still level at the Doctor's face, Amy and Rory poked their heads out. "Doctor, what's going on?"

"Nothing, Rory, just go back in the TARDIS." The Doctor suggested. Following their own code, the married couple stepped fully out of the TARDIS. Sherlock rose from his seat.

"Dean, do stop being a moron – for the love of God, don't be Anderson about this." He exasperated. Dean lowered the weapon, but didn't put it down completely.

It took three hours and twenty minutes to explain the Doctor to the Winchesters. Mostly because Dean couldn't get his head around the TARDIS or the regeneration; the idea of 'bigger on the inside' and 'born again' just didn't stick.

"All that you've seen, and that gets you?" John asked incredulously.

"Hey," Dean defended, "I was never shoved in a new body or put in a closet that was actually the size of a castle, OK?"

"I'm just amazed at the technology." Sam said adoringly, putting a hand hesitantly on the woodwork of the TARDIS doors.

"It gets old." Rory said from his perch on the couch.

"Yeah," Amy said, "Once you get lost for the third time, it loses its charm."

The Doctor turned a frown in their direction. "I'm doing my best not to be insulted."

"I ended up in the pool!" Amy said.

"So?"

"I was looking for the movie room!"

"Some people watch movies in pools! Right, John?" The Doctor turned for support.

"I've had some bad experiences with pools, so, you're on your own mate." John said – shuddering from the memory of a bomb strapped to his chest.

"Wait, a bomb?" Dean asked curiously. Bombs he knew. He knew weapons and destruction, let the alien stuff be handled by Cas (a type of alien, himself) and Sam; he could handle the rest.

"Another story for another time," Sherlock dismissed, taking a sip of his tea. Quickly, before any more stories could be divulged and any more incredulity could be expressed, the Doctor and his companions made their escape. With a promise of returning, they faded out of existence.

/

They didn't live a normal life. The Doctor popped in when he felt like it – sometimes smiling, sometimes lost. Dean and Sam still went on hunts – disappearing for weeks at a time, but always found their way back. And Sherlock and John still investigated crimes, attracting trouble to their humble home.

But Sam cooked and Dean watched TV and Sherlock read and John blogged and they lived a relatively normal life.

"Dean, where have you put the fingers that were in the cupboard?"

"I tossed them, they had mold on 'em."

"They were supposed to! It was an experiment."

"Sorry, Shirley."

"Don't call me Shirley."

"I'll pick up some new ones at St. Barts."

"It's not the same!"

Not to say they didn't have their own troubles.

"Sherlock Holmes, put that gun away!"

"Run, Dean!"

/

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