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I really want to put more Dr. Who in here, but unfortunately I've never watched the show.

Dr. John H. Watson startled from his sleep, jolting straight up.  The curtains were drawn, leaving the room pitch black.  His ears strained for noise; what had Sherlock done now?  Had he blown up the kitchen again; had he shouted obscenities at a corpse in the kitchen; had he shot the wall again; had Mycroft paid a late-night visit and left him to screech on the violin?
But there was no noise.  No plucking or tapping at violin strings.  No feet shuffling about, no doors slamming, no fizzling from chemical reactions.  Outside his windows Baker Street was uncharacteristically still: he could hear no pedestrian chatter and could not hear a single car whizzing by.  Then he remembered.
Sherlock was gone.
And he had taken all of London's sounds with him tonight.  There were no jarring, sudden screeches or bangs or whizzes to lull him to sleep, only his own thoughts.
With a heavy sigh, John rolled back onto his bed and shifted onto his side.  He still listened for any sound, any sign that Sherlock's jump and the past two months had been nothing but a bad dream, but none came.

Until he heard a small snort.

Without thinking, John jolted upright with his pistol - stashed between his mattress and the wall - raised.  Even with his eyes having had time to adjust to the darkness, he could not make out a single thing.  Slowly, he reached over to the lamp on his desk and switched it on.

Nothing seemed out of place.  His pile of clothing by the door was undisturbed: no one had entered through the usual entrance.  The pile of books and debris on the desk by the window was also untouched, leaving John to surmise he had simply imagined the sound.  Until it happened again.
With a soldier's precision he twisted to face the chair in the corner of his room, pistol cocked.

He was not entirely certain what he was expecting to see, but a poorly-dressed young woman asleep on his armchair was definitely not it.  Her head had lolled back and her mouth hung comically open, a trail of drool dripping down her face and onto the book she was apparently trying to read in the pitch-black room.
John coughed a little bit, trying to wake the intruder up politely.  She just snored in response.
"Hello?" he tried again, but apparently too softly.  "Um, hello?  What are you doing in my room?"
Still no response.
Even though her thin clothing - a simple tee-shirt and pair of boxer shorts - would not be able to hide a weapon, John held onto his gun as he got off his bed and crossed his room, although he did tuck it in his pants at the small of his back.  He gripped her knee.
This time he got a response.
She startled awake, eyes shooting open.  They looked at each other for a good moment, an intense blue-colored staring contest, before she cursed.
"This has all been a dream, Dr. Watson," she said in an artificially deep voice, waving her arms in a manner he decided was supposed to be mystical.  Then, without a sound, she vanished.
John blinked a few times before deciding he was going crazy.  After crawling back onto his bed he cast another look at the now-empty armchair forlornly.
Except it wasn't empty.  Her book was still there.
Cautiously, he made his way back towards the chair and picked up the book.

It was entitled "The Return of Sherlock Holmes."

Unsure as to what he was doing, John slowly opened the front cover.  The publication date was 1904.  This was a mystery he was going to solve in the morning.


As it turned out, it was a mystery he was going to solve that night at the pub, with Greg.  He hadn't spoken to the detective-inspector since the incident, as John referred to it in his mind, but figured that since a Lestrade was mentioned in the very first story, Greg might as well be along for the ride.
Except, John couldn't get a word in edgewise.  The detective kept going on about how well he was getting along with Jodi, after having met some man at the bar who had apparently given him some sort of amazing relationship advice.  Truthfully, John hadn't been paying attention.  He had read some of the stories earlier in the day and was shocked to find how similar this Victorian-era Sherlock was to his Sherlock, how they had both fought a Moriarty, and had supposedly fallen to their deaths.  Or well, how one of them had apparently survived, while the other had not.  
And they both had their John H. Watsons.

"Wait, shit, that's him!"
John finally tuned back in to Lestrade's ramble to see him pointing at a man dressed in a dark jumper and slacks, drinking something that looked suspiciously like bourbon or whiskey.  John had always been a beer person; he couldn't tell the difference just from looking.  Especially not half a room away.
At that moment, the mystery advice-giving man turned around and fixed Lestrade with a grin, before turning to stare at John with a bemused smirk.  After a moment or two the man got up and sauntered over to the booth, sliding into the seat next to John.

"Well, hello, Lestrade," he drawled, offering his free hand.  His other clung onto what was decidedly his scotch.  Lestrade grinned broadly and took the offered hand, shaking it heartily.
"Good to see you again, mate," the detective gushed.
"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"  the unnamed man responded, pointing at John.
"Erm, well... John, this is, eh..."  Greg's grin faded.
"Oh, you were fairly sloshed.  It's nice to meet you, John, I'm--"

"Crowley."  The word came out as a growl from the young woman standing at the edge of the table.  Her face was scrunched into a snarl and her nails dug viciously into the wood.  "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Oh, bloody hell," Crowley murmured, voice sing-song.
"Are you really trying to make a deal with him?" she said, her American accent overwhelming
"Well, I wasn't going for trying, I was going for succeeding."
The woman lowered her voice and leaned into Crowley.  "You know why I can't let you do that."
And that was when John placed her.  The voice, the hat with the lambada, the tired blue eyes - she was the girl in his chair last night.
"Excuse me, but what were you doing in my room last night?"
The bickering stopped as all turned to stare first at John, then at the now nervously-chuckling girl.
"Uh, heh, I may have... uh, I don't have a good answer for this..."  She stopped, then sniffed.  A shocked expression took over her face.  She sniffed feverishly, like a hound on a scent trail.  Her eyes narrowed and focused entirely on Crowley.

"Did you seriously make a deal with Lestrade?" she purred, a sickly-sweet smile melting her face.
Lestrade spat out his drink.
"I do believe that's none of your business," retorted Crowley.  John was beginning to like him.
"Oh you know full well it is."  Her voice had returned to a growl.  "Now cancel the deal."
"Sorry, I can't," chimed Crowley.  "Only Lestrade can, and I believe he's too happy with his loving wife to turn it back."
She honestly looks worried, John thought.  Why, he had no idea.
Lestrade pointedly looked away.
"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, do you want me to die?"
All three men looked at her, agape.  Lestrade slowly shook his head side to side.
"Good.  Am I right in assuming that you don't want to die a horribly painful and embarrassing death ten years from now?"
A little more hesitant, Lestrade again shook his head.
"Then cancel the deal."
John, Crowley and the intruder looked pointedly at Lestrade, who downed the rest of his mug before replying.
"If I keep the deal, why will you and I die?"
"Firstly," she responded instantaneously, "I've been, er, hired to keep you two safe at the pain of my life.  Secondly, anyone who makes a deal with this bastard" - she pointed at Crowley, who looked surprised - "gets the dogs sent after them.  I've seen it before, it isn't a pleasant way to go."
"You keep getting out of it," Crowley mumbled.  John's eyes grew wide as he stared at the young woman, who sipped on her orange juice.
"That's because I'm not your average person, dear," she cheerily replied.
"The dogs sent after them?" Lestrade finally answered.
"Yep, quite a nasty way to die."
Crowley grinned and looked away, as if he was fantasizing having her torn to shreds by dogs.
"And you say this'll happen if he doesn't undo the deal?" John asked when Lestrade visibly blanched.
"And why will you die?"
"Like I said, I've been threatened to keep you guys safe."
"By who?"  Lestrade finally responded.
"Not allowed to say," she sighed.
"Mycroft, isn't it," John muttered.
The American rolled her eyes in response.  "No.  Now, Gregory, are you going to undo your contract with him or not?"
"How did you even know I made a bloody deal with him?" Lestrade retorted.  He was beginning to look miffed.
"Not important.  Now, are you going to cancel it?"
"I don't believe I am," he responded.  John nearly choked on the dregs of his beer.
"And why not?"  she questioned, as a wide grin took over Crowley's face.
"I don't bloody believe you.  If he was setting hounds on people all over London, we'd know about it!  I'm the bloody police!"
At that, the young woman slammed her head into the table several times, groaning.
"Good lord, I hate you ignorant people," she finally sighed.  "Why do I bother."

"Crowley, why have you called me here?"
A new American stood by the woman's side, clad in a suit, trench coat, and backwards tie.  The first American's eyes grew wide, and John saw her mouth an unmistakable, "Oh shit."

"Castiel, my good man," Crowley greeted, "I believe you have been looking for thi-- OI, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"

The young woman was halfway out the door.  The three men - Crowley, John, and Lestrade - all stood up to chase her, until they saw her backing up, back into the pub, arms in front of her.
"It was a misunderstanding, I swear," she said, trembling, backing away from Castiel.  How he had gotten there, John had no idea.
"I swear to God I thought he was attacking someone."
"Do not dare use His name in front of me, monster," the man said.  "He has long forsaken us."
"Okay okay please please just let me out of here I was just watching as Sherlock told me to-"
"Wait, I'm sorry, what?" John said, causing Castiel to pause with his arm outstretched in front of the girl's forehead.  "Sherlock told you to watch me?"

"Heh."  She looked sheepish.  "I wasn't supposed to let you know that."