Chapter 1

DAY ONE

221B BAKER STREET

"Sherlock." John Watson's voice echoes from the stairwell of 221B. "Sherlock," he calls again.

"I'm in here, John." Sherlock is in the kitchen, where he is examining something under his microscope at the table.

John turns from the staircase and into the kitchen, looking around as if distracted. "So I take it the case is solved?" He stands behind Sherlock's chair, looking over his shoulder at the cluttered mess on the table of notes and other experiments.

"Of course it is, it was quite easy. Hardly worth my time," Sherlock says distractedly.

John smiles and wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck from behind. "Well done, Mr. Holmes," he whispers into Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock stiffens nervously at John's touch, his mind racing at twice its normal speed. "It was—it was nothing. I'm sure Lestrade could have handled it on his own."

"Are you trying to be modest, Sherlock Holmes?" John teases. "Do I make you nervous?" he asks, his voice regaining its normal volume.

John doesn't wait for a reply, which is a relief for Sherlock, because he can't think of one. John kisses the top of Sherlock's mop of brown hair before returning to the living room, where he sits down on the couch, opening a newspaper.

It had taken a long time, but as soon as John had been ready to fess up to his feelings for the consulting detective, Sherlock had long since had feelings for John. Though his pride only allowed to admit it once, Sherlock loved John. And John did make him nervous—nervous that he would mess up. Nervous that he would say something wrong or hurtful to John. Nervous, nervous, nervous.

Sherlock had never doubted himself all his life, but with John… that was a different story. He was constantly stumbling over his words, confused, falling, breaking, turning around to double-check his actions. It was maddening that someone, anyone, could make the statue that is Sherlock Holmes actually feel an emotion, especially one so vulnerable as love.

And yet, Sherlock still loved.

"So, with the case, who was the—" John stops abruptly in the middle of his sentence.

"Who was the what?" Sherlock asks after a moment when John doesn't continue.

"John," Sherlock says after a minute. Still, nothing. "John, what are you—?" Sherlock looks up from the microscope, but he cannot see John.

"John?" he asks, getting up from his chair. But the only thing that marks that John was ever in there is the newspaper, which has fallen to the floor. "John."

There is no reply.

He is… gone. Just gone.

THE T.A.R.D.I.S.

"So where to next, Doctor?" Clara asks, sitting down on the steps in the TARDIS console room.

"I was thinking we could go to the Moons of Caesar—what a place," the Doctor says, walking around the console. "Or we could go to Barcelona—not the city Barcelona, the planet Barcelona. Or do you want to keep it local, say, Mars? Actually let's steer clear of Mars. Nothing good ever comes from Mars, I tell you. Nothing." He pulls levers and pushes buttons seemingly at random, but somehow the TARDIS flies smoothly, without rocking around or bursting into flames (which did happen last week, but that's a story for another time).

Clara stared at the Doctor, amazed that such a man could even exist. This is the kind of man that you read about in fairy tales, the kind of man that couldn't possibly exist solely because he was too good to be true. Clara often asked herself if this was even real, if she was even alive. Because this must be heaven.

The Doctor glanced at Clara, smiling at her. She was wonderful in a different kind of way—brave, but not sickeningly so. Not brave in the way where she felt she had to prove herself every chance she got. She knew when to back off because something was too powerful, and she knew when to run and when to fight. She was very different from the companions he had before. She didn't glorify him like some had before, yet she didn't feel superior to him. She was… new.

"So where will it be Miss Clara Oswald?" the Doctor asks, smiling, his purple coat fluttering behind him. "All of space and time—it's completely your—" the Doctor turns to where Clara was sitting only to find that she is no longer there.

"Clara?" he calls, turning around on the spot, confused. But she's nowhere to be seen. "Clara!"

But she's gone.

LEBANON, KANSAS

Dean and Castiel sat across from each other in the Bunker. It had been months since the trials, months since Sam's disappearance and months since Castiel became human. Life was insanely different, but Dean was learning to cope, slowly.

Castiel helped, too. Though Dean was reluctant to admit it, Castiel was the only reason that Dean hadn't gone insane. Dean didn't know what happened to Sam—all he knows is that he disappeared just before the third trial had ever been completed.

Frankly, life sucked. But that's pretty much how life always was for the Winchesters. Dean was just sorry that Castiel had been pulled into it. As he'd been reminded before, Dean knew that Castiel had rebelled because of him. For him.

"Dean," Cas says. His voice is low, quiet, even though they are the only two in the room; as if he doesn't want to disturb the perfectly deafening silence that has been built around them.

It had been days since they had last spoken—Dean often went days without speaking since Sam's disappearance. Cas hated it, but he didn't want to make Dean angry. So, often, there were days filled with silence even though they sat across from each other at breakfast, or in the library, or when watching something on TV.

But absolute silence was better than crippling alcoholism, which Castiel made Dean promise not to fall into the week after Sam's disappearance. So far, he had kept his promise. But Cas still kept a watchful eye.

But Cas wasn't perfect himself. Dean watched Castiel, too. Realizing that he was powerless had taken quite a toll on Cas, and Dean was afraid that would fall to earthly devils—drugs, alcohol, depression, bad music.

Dean barely heard Cas speak, at first he thought he imagined it. But when he looked up, Cas' level gaze met his own.

"Yes, Cas?" Dean asks wearily.

"Dean," Cas starts, trying to form his sentence together. "You—we can't keep doing this."

"Doing what?" Dean asks with a sigh of annoyance.

"You know what I mean. Not talking to each other for days on end, doing research for no reason at all—we're not going to find Sam, and you know it."

"The hell we won't!" Dean yells, shooting to his feet so fast that his chair falls backwards. His cry echoes through the library, and Cas is barely fazed by it. Even though he's a human now, Cas hasn't lost the stony demeanor that he had when he was an angel.

"Dean," Cas says calmly, "there's no way to find him. Crowley said that he just disappeared before his eyes. It's been months, and we've found nothing."

"I'm not giving up on him, Cas," Dean growls. "He's my brother. I don't care if he's dead, I'm going to find him one way or another."

"I'm just—"

"You wouldn't understand," Dean interrupts.

"I'll understand a hell of a lot more if you wouldn't keep pushing me away!" Cas snaps, standing up. "You don't think I understand? I have brothers and sisters, too, Dean! I had to kill some of them myself. I've committed homicide, against my own family! And if you don't remember, there was a time when I wanted to kill myself! So don't you dare tell me that I don't understand."

Dean stares at Cas, dumbfounded. He hadn't seen Cas get angry in a long time, not since he was an angel. Before Dean realizes what he's doing, he's walking around the table so he can be on the same side as Castiel. He puts his hands on Cas' shoulders, gripping him tightly.

"Cas," he says, for lack of a better thing to say. "Cas, I… I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. Ever since Sam—left, I just haven't been thinking right."

"Dean… Why can't you just see? You're not completely alone. I'm—"

But suddenly, Cas wasn't in front of him.

Gone.