Title: pure death

Warnings: violence, angst, silliness, alternate universe, crossover, supernatural, hints of m/m (Sherlock/John unrequited)

Summary: John Watson is dead. Mycroft and Sherlock soon learn to never take that for granted when dealing with the supernatural.

Part 1: when you start the war...

Pain flowed through him, the sharpened teeth sinking into his neck as he attempted to speak, the fire and smoke around him making it hard to breath, the shots that hit him only adding to the pain as they were shifted. He saw Sherlock surface, his voice not working as he attempted to call out to him when there was a rending sound. He found himself being pulled away as the ceiling came down on him, his voice caught and his determination to get to his friend growing, enough that he started to fight back—

When he woke, he was weak, and tied down, the woman who had grabbed him hovering over with a cruel smile.

“I’ve finally found you, my childe, my savior…” her teeth went into his neck again, and this time he managed to scream—

---

Sherlock lay curled on the couch, having not moved except when needing water or to do his business for a day. Mrs. Hudson seemed worried but had left him alone because she was also slightly depressed, and the last time anyone had really talked to him, he’d shouted and nearly hit them.

Sherlock’s mind went through the timeline in his mind. A few months ago, he’d met John Watson and learned someone thought his ‘tricks’ were amazing. That alone had sadly enamored him to John, and the next few cases only added to that.

Two weeks ago, Moriarty appeared before them, and Sherlock wanted to find the man who went to ground, to find him and rip his heart out after taking out most of his other organs. There had to be a way to test how long someone could live while being experimented on. If anything, there were all those warning labels to test for the housecleaning products, and at least one he’d seen on that show called “Mythbusters” that John, for some reason, had introduced him to so they could move away from ‘crap telly’, and those two had sound methods. He’d have to use them and some others with Moriarty standing in for that crash test dummy.

Moriarty had appeared, and for a week, Lestrade and Mycroft had searched for John while Sherlock was told to recuperate from his wounds. His chest still burned slightly from the force of the explosion. Two days ago, Mycroft had said he’d found nothing. Yesterday, Lestrade had come over and asked Sherlock to help him with identifying bodies. One, in slightly sounder condition then the others but looking like a victim of the cannibalistic madmen who had attacked London, Rio and some unnamed island in the Atlantic some ten years ago, had a scar similar to John’s, had a build that a few walk-ins while John was in the shower or doing his morning toilet had allowed Sherlock to memorize him, said it was John. Fingerprints said it was John. Dental, had the head still been attached, would’ve said it was John too.

Donovan was understanding, and had not spoken, instead offering just tea and a trip home in silence. Lestrade had said he had to call John’s sister, and that she might come for John’s things. Sherlock had said she couldn’t have them, and Lestrade had not told him that such things were illegal, because he apparently now knew that, if Sherlock wanted John’s things, it was either leave them there or have him steal them later.

Sherlock had come home and had gone through a rather long list of things he felt he had to do before he’d curled up on the couch, exhausted, and found he had no reason to get back up again.

---

Mycroft was close to orchestrating a terrorist attack if it meant that Sherlock got out of the state he was in. It had been pure luck and Lestrade’s continued move to help him that kept his brother from cocaine again, and he was extremely grateful for that. He’d done what he could to try and help Sherlock before, which had only added to the current distance between the two, and for now was working on finding Moriarty, as well as finding the holes that were in the reports from where John’s body had been found. Some of it screamed of the old Round Table Order, which had suffered a heavy blow after that attack ten years ago, and was one of the reasons why Mycroft had gotten the power he had now.

One man who was amazing with figures, who could think ahead, and who was as well-connected as he was now, even with the Americas as they were after that attack ten years ago, was enough for the Queen and the rest of the government. A group of men and women who gain their power the old-fashioned way was going out, and especially ones that lost an aircraft carrier and allowed hostile forces to attack London.

Anthea appeared, texting for a moment before saying, “It does appear to have been an attack by the Round Table forces. They’ve gone from licking their wounds to instead joining together and fighting the Good Fight. A vampire was killed, but they have no official reports on the attack or actual body count, instead leaving that to the police once the vampire was neutralized.”

“So a classic one for them to deal with, at least,” he muttered, looking at the latest report about his brother. Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan had been nice enough to give him reports, this one stating he’d solved a few unsolved cases and was now working on a currently odd one. Sherlock working, when for three days he’d barely moved, was a good sign.

---

It had been luck that Sherlock hadn’t been fast enough to hit Anderson. While the two had never gotten along, the news of John Watson’s death had left many people realizing that walking around Sherlock on eggshells and not mentioning the Doctor was a good idea: Sherlock had, in the few months that he’d been with John, gotten some more people-skills and allowed his flatmate to question others, as well as smooth things over. John was, then, a good thing for Sherlock. No John, especially having died after nearly two weeks of searching, was a bad thing, and making a remark about it was low.

Lestrade had not heard what comment had gotten Anderson to state, “Just don’t get us killed either” before he’d rushed up, seeing Donovan between the two and ordering Anderson out, the man looking angry and hurt that he was being called out but everyone else’s looks stating he’d crossed a line he shouldn’t have. Sherlock was away from where Donovan had held him and pacing the room, a theft that left no traces, while Lestrade went over to him.

Sherlock solved the whole thing in three minutes, with enough evidence to convict the landlady. Lestrade walked him back down when his phone rang, and he’d reached in, pulling it out and answering without looking at the number. “What?”

Lestrade had taken two steps before he saw that Sherlock was frozen in place, his eyes wide, his face paler then it should be and making him look like a ghost, as he finally managed out, “John?”

---

After what happened with Moriarty, Mycroft had rather quietly bugged both of the phones he knew Sherlock still had. So it was five minutes after that phone call, rather slow but he was as surprised as everyone else, that he had a car going to pick up Sherlock, Anthea there to explain things, while he pulled out his might and placed a phone call.

“Mycroft,” the female voice over the phone said, her tone neutral with a touch of acid.

“Integra,” he answered in the same tone, “we really must talk about your lack of trust in me on some things, and while we’re at it, you’ll tell me what you’ve done to John Watson.”