AN /: I keep seeing these crossovers everywhere, and I started getting inspired. It probably won't be over three chapters unless I get carried away, but I really shouldn't get carried away because I still have to work on 'Tremble'.

Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' and all characters within belong to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I'm just taking them for a joyride, I make no profit from this.

O.o.O.o.O

The Angel, The Detective, And The Phone Box

"Explain this case to me again,' John says as he peers out the window of the cab that is winding its way through the London traffic in a direction that will soon be clear of the city,' you keep getting vague every time you mention it."

"Blame Lestrade,' Sherlock replies, his fingers moving swiftly over the keypad of his phone,' he wasn't very clear about the details."

"And yet you're still taking the case?"

"Bored."

John sighs and goes back to staring out the window. All that he has managed to glean from Sherlock is that they are headed to somewhere on the outskirts of London to have a look into a missing persons case that the whole of Scotland Yard seems to be baffled about. Any other details he has yet to discover. He is going to be really annoyed if this turns into one of the longer, 'more than meets the eye' type cases, because he has work tomorrow and will need at least six hours sleep if he doesn't want a repeat of the Blind Banker Incident, and Sarah will only cover for him for so long.

The cab pulls away from the busier streets and takes a turn down into a quiet residential lane, going until the driver pulls up outside an estate that is swarming with forensics and police tape. John pays the driver and then steps out of the cab, the wind buffeting at his face like a small scale cyclone. He follows a few steps behind Sherlock, watching as the consulting detective's long coat begins to fan out majestically around his legs, and walks through large wrought iron gates into a large estate surrounding a run-down old manor house, a relic of times long gone, passing several stone statues and one rather dreary looking bird bath. They meet Sergeant Donovan at the front door, which is splintering underneath the clear varnish and hanging on by one rusting hinge. She nods at John curtly before turning to glare at Sherlock.

"Hello, freak,' she says in her usual disapproving tone, crossing her arms and shifting her body weight to a decidedly defensive position. Sherlock smiles pleasantly back at her before walking past, making no effort to retort as if the act is far, far below him, and sweeps into a large foyer full of policemen and the odd forensic.

"Seen anything suspicious yet?" Lestrade asks Sherlock as he appears at the top of a splintering staircase lining the right wall.

"Not exactly,' Sherlock says, his gaze sweeping the room,' care to enlighten me to the finer details that you failed to point out in your text?"

"Well, there've been a lot of disappearances in the area,' Lestrade says,' but none of them were really looked into much until now. The body of one of the missing persons, Mathew Sheppard, was found by a kid and some of his friends a few days ago who came up here to play hide and seek."

"Can I see the body?" Sherlock asks, but he is heading up the stairs towards Lestrade before anyone can tell him no, taking them three at a time and John is struggling to keep up. At the top of the stairs Sherlock follows Lestrade down a corridor and into a room with peeling white wallpaper that smells of damp. A body lies on the floor in the centre of the room, a bald man whose head is tilted at an unnatural angle.

"Window was open at time of death,' Sherlock begins to mutter under his breath,' current position indicates that he was facing away from the door and that he fell immediately to the floor. One of two possibilities; he knew the murderer or the murderer snuck up on him. Murderer must have been very strong."

From there Sherlock falls to his knees, rifling through pockets as he searches for the little things that anyone else would have missed. John stands back, noting the deep purple and green bruises on the man's neck and head. He shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to another, his shoulder beginning to ache as the cold breeze from the open window opposite gushes into the room. Lestrade is standing next to him, his arms crossed and a small frown on his face, waiting patiently and watching keenly. Outside the door there is a low hum of noise, a constant buzz that refuses to die.

"Victim was an amateur photographer,' Sherlock says suddenly as he rises from the ground,' judging by the small but efficient digital camera in the right trouser pocket. Must have wanted to come in and take a few pictures, but was killed before he could as there are no photos of the house on said camera, although there are a few of the garden statues, which suggests that he spent a fair bit of time in the garden. There aren't any notes on him and he looks fairly dishevelled so it's unlikely that he was meeting anyone here."

"Anything else?" Lestrade prompts, looking a bit desperate.

"Nothing yet,' Sherlock says distractedly as he turns,' what do you think of the body, John?"

"Well, the bruises would suggest strangulation at first,' John says, racking his brain for his medical knowledge,' but..."

"But?"

"But the neck was on an angle, which would suggest that it must have been snapped at some point."

"Bit difficult to achieve, that." Lestrade says, looking at the body, and probably thinking the same thing as John. The man is stocky and looks as if he would have put up a good fight. However, there are no signs of a struggle, so the killer would have had to have been very quick and very strong. It was not really a comforting thought that they were looking for a killer with super human strength and speed.

Sherlock is sweeping through the door now, examining the room from the outside. His fingers are all over the doorframe, picking at the splintering wood and rubbing at the mould. John and Lestrade follow after him, watching as he stops to sniff at the banister at the top of the staircase and peers up at the ceiling. He actually looks, in a bemused kind of way, as if the house is hiding a secret and will not let it go until Sherlock insults it enough to get it angry and cause it to slip up. It is only when Sherlock reaches the front door that he straightens up and looks back to Lestrade, a curious glint in his eye that John rarely ever sees except when something has well and truly confused him.

"I need to look around the gardens, something's missing." Sherlock says, and he is striding out the front door before Lestrade has time to answer. John and Sherlock walk down the gravel driveway and over to the gate, where Sherlock bends over and starts to examine the ground. He's muttering to himself about footprints now, bent over double and looking at the grass.

"Found anything yet?" John ventures, looking over Sherlock's shoulder, which is something which he doesn't usually have the opportunity to do given that Sherlock is so tall. He rather enjoys it.

"Something very strange is going on here,' Sherlock replies, his voice muffled,' there are signs of other people all over the place, footprints, fingerprints, sweet wrappers that have been tossed aside, but there's something that just doesn't add up."

"Any idea what that is?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

John sighs and starts to jog as Sherlock straightens up and strides across the grass, making a beeline for the other side of the house. As they walk John starts to notice more statues, some broken and crumbling and others in what looks to be perfect condition. The creepiest by far are the ones of little children, all smiling happily but all with blank stone eyes. John has never really been bothered by garden statues before, but he shivers nonetheless. There are still police officers hanging around but there are significantly less at the back of the house. In fact, the only people around the back of the house don't even look as if they are police. There are three of them and they aren't wearing any uniforms. They seem quite agitated, glancing around nervously and sticking close to each other. When one of them, a girl with long orange hair and a miniskirt that is far too short to be appropriate for the current weather, notices him staring and gives a friendly wave. He waves back and watches as her eyes inevitably clamp onto Sherlock, and he struggles not to sigh.

Sherlock has stopped again, standing at the feet of a human sized statue.

"There are footsteps here,' Sherlock says suddenly, and John starts,' there are footsteps right here, difficult to find because the grass has almost grown over them, but they're here. They lead right up to the statue, then turn around. But they don't move from there. Somebody has walked up to this statue, turned around, and then vanished."

"That's impossible." John says, because it is. He has a feeling that Sherlock thinks otherwise, however.

"I haven't overlooked anything. They were here, then they were not." Sherlock straightens and begins to peer closely at the statue. John gazes at it and shivers, feeling the cold tear down his spine. This statue isn't as creepy as the small children from the front of the house, but its wings are tucked behind its back and its face is cupped in its hands. A weeping angel. Fitting, considering how dreary the estate looks, overgrown with untamed weeds and vines.

After a few moments Sherlock tires of looking at it and walks away, beckoning for John to join him. They walk back to the front of the house, and before they go John takes one last look at the non-police officers, and notices that one of them is staring intently at the statue, and the other two are watching him leave.

End Chapter One