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Superwholock: Games of the Moon

Copyright: The creator of this roleplay has attributed some or all of its content to the following sources:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b018ttws http://www.cwtv.com/shows/supernatural http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b006q2x0

Setting

Default Location for Superwholock: Games of the Moon
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London

None

Minimap

London is a part of Superwholock: Games of the Moon.

9 Characters Here

The Doctor [13] Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey
Greg Lestrade [11] "Not my division."
Sam Winchester [8] Yeah, right
Dean Winchester [8] Bitch...
Sherlock Holmes [7] "I’m not a psychopath Anderson, I’m a high-functioning sociopath."
Captain Jack Harkness [7] "I'm Captain Jack Harkness. And you are?"
John Watson [6] "Oh, you've got to be kidding me..."
Amy Pond [3] "I waited twelve years... not five minutes"
The Master [1] "I'm the Master. And these, are my friends."

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Character Portrait: John Watson Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade
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Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade puffed out a sigh from billowed cheeks and leaned back in his office chair. It protested with a small squeak but was silent afterwards. More bodies. No leads. They had a serial killer on their hands. The press was going to be all over him with questions and ideas itching for a story to make him look like an idiot that shouldn't be on the force. The conference was in a few hours and he'd just gotten a call about another body. Almost gleefully he phoned Donovan and told her to cancel the meeting. She sounded almost as relieved as he felt. It wasn't necessarily a good thing, already the stations would know from the cancellation that there was another body, but it meant he could hold off the questions a bit longer.

Already there had been five bodies in two days and thirteen missing persons all centered around the same area. Along the same lines there had been complaints of nothing but off feelings in the area, people acting like they shouldn't, random ordinary people dropping off the grid if they didn't go completely stone cold missing. The bodies had gashes like, for lack of a better term, claws or teeth would have made... That in particular set Greg on edge. He felt a stirring deep in his chest, one he had dealt with for four years. The past two days had been strenuous for him as well... It was too much to be a coincidence, but he wouldn't accept the fact that another of those... those things were here. As for the other occurences he had no idea and no leads on anything period.

One thing was for sure, he needed help on this one. The D.I. scrubbed his haggard face and the silvery stubble on his chin before turning brown eyes to the mobile on his desk. He needed Sherlock, and come around an hour before twilight he needed to be ready for the last night of his condition.

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John sat in 221B Baker Street updating his blog. The hit counter still needed to be fixed, but quite frankly he had no idea how to do that. Maybe Sherlock would know, but it "wouldn't be worth his time." The veteran huffed out a short laugh at his secret thoughts and continued to type up the case they had just wrapped up. Each different twist was fascinating, everything Sherlock could figure out by someone's cologne, the texture of cardboard, a nick on a cuticle. At the same time, however, he was bone dead stupid when it came to people. Not what they did or had or what had happened, but the way they thought, their emotions. In this case alone he had left two young girls in tears without a second thought. That had been interesting to explain to their parents. By himself. After Sherlock left him without warning. Again.

A jolt of noise caught the veteran by surprise and he mistyped a word. With a murmured curse he fixed the error and then looked at the offender: his phone. The ID said Lestrade. Must've been important. The man accepted the call and held the mobile to his ear. "Watson," he greeted professionally.

"John, this is Lestrade, tell Sherlock we've got a case for 'im," came Greg's gruff voice on the other end of the line. He sounded especially upset... maybe even a bit sick. John was a doctor, he was able to tell these things, but he didn't want to assume.

"Alright, where?" replied Watson.

"Corner of Henderson and Fifth, we're sending a cab for you two now."

"Great, I'll make sure he has his pants this time." With a quick goodbye John hung up and stood stiffly, stretching out his back and legs. He had to go fetch his flatmate now and make sure the man was ready. He was sure at the mention of case he would be.

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The distinct vworrrp-vworrrrp noise reverberated down the barren alley way as a sudden, unexpected gust of air swept the stray bits of rubbish scattered about into a mini-whirlwind. Slowly, as if it were being built plane by plane or atom by atom, the source of the noise and disturbance began to materialize. Finally the noise and the wind subsided, leaving the alley now occupied by an odd blue box that most decidedly had not been there before. The small, blue police box stood in the middle of the alley as if it belonged there, seemingly no movement occurring inside.

Without warning the front door of the box popped open and a head emerged. Spiky brown hair flapping in the residual wind from the TARDIS's entrance into this time, the slender man raked his gaze quickly across the empty alley way- not much of a perusal- before exiting the tiny box. Scenting the air, he placed his hands on his hips and let a wide smile claim his face. "Ahhhhh the scent of twenty-first century London! Nothing like it!" His voice reverberated around the empty street from the strength of the exclamation, uncaring of who heard or how loud he spoke.

Grinning broadly, the man wearing red converse, blue suit, and brown trenchcoat shut the door to the TARDIS and turned back to look at the main street to which the alley connected. "Now London," he smirked as he slid his hands into the massive pockets of his brown trench and strode quickly toward the bustling thoroughfare, "tell me... who needs the Doctor?"

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At the same time in another alley in London, a heavy wooden door marked over with layers of graffiti and grime shook from the force of a blow. It seemed the tremors had only just stopped when they started again. This process repeated one more time before a muffled curse sounded from behind the wood frame, followed quickly by the sound of a couple retreated footsteps. Then, without further warning, the handle to the door and a large part of the wood itself burst into pieces and flew into the alley- startling a homeless man who'd been sleeping nearby.

A hand emerged in the space left by the door handle and pried it open in a single swift movement. A tall, well-proportioned man dressed in a stylish grey coat appeared in the open door way as he slid what appeared to be some sort of advanced technology gun into his pocket. The homeless man stared at him as he stepped into the alley to fiddle with something strapped to his wrist. "Darn thing's on the fritz again, " he complained to himself as he pushed a few buttons and turned a few silver knobs.

Sighing heavily the man suddenly noticed that he wasn't alone, and he turned his grey eyes to lock them with the gaze of the gritty man kneeling behind a garbage can. The dirty man couldn't help but find himself blushing a little as the well-dressed individual offered him a gleaming white smile. "H-hello..." he managed to blurt out before the dashing individual was turning down the alley in a swirl of grey greatcoat, muttering to himself, "Now Doctor, where could you possibly be?"

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Character Portrait: Sam Winchester Character Portrait: Dean Winchester
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Dean Winchester

One duffel bag hanging from one limp hand, a map of London clutched tightly in his other, Dean smiled broadly as he glanced around the criss-crossing streets of this new country. The airplane...well, he wasn't about to think about that nightmare, the hours of sudden shakes and jerks leaving him exhausted. But the flight attendant was decent looking, offered drinks, a phone number. Dean hoped they would meet again. Not on a plane. Between sheets, yes, that's what he preferred.

"Pip-pip cherrio," Dean remarked as he nudged his Sasquatch of a brother. "Shall we grab some fish n chips?"

Sam rolled his eyes, smiling. "Please stop with the accent."

"Hey," Dean continued, not stopping the accent. "This is my vacation. I chose the location. I paid for the plane tickets."

"Which means you have the right to embarass me?" Sam inquired, shoulders turning inward a little as a group of done-up girls passed by, the tallest, because of her heels, giving both men a look of utter shock. As if their being there had to be some sort of prank or joke. Dean grinned and gave her a wave. Sam shook his head. "Look, I wanted to talk to you about..."

"Nope," Dean cut him off right away. He knew what that nerd had up his sleeve. "No work. All play."

With that he started down the street, adjusting his brown leather jacket and squinting down to the map in his hand. They had reservations at a hotel, which he couldn't locate on the map at all. He supposed it was because everything was backwards here. Well, at least the driving was. So, of course, everything must be. North is South. East is West. He wasn't sure how it worked, and wasn't about to care. He just needed a shower, wash off those too-many hours on that flying vehicle, then hit the bars. London Ladies...mmm.

"Dean I'm serious," Sam said, catching up and saying his brother's name with irritating annunciation. Scowling, the shorter brother rounded on him.

"We're not here to work," he said, for what seemed like the hundredth, if not the third, time. "What don't you understand about that?"

"But Dean..."

"How can you be thinking about hunting when...when Yellow Eyes was JUST put in the ground? His corpse is still warm and you're ready to gank another demon's ass?"

Sam grimaced. "He didn't have a corpse..."

"Shut up. You're not hunting, Sam." With that, he snatched Sam's handful of papers away and also grabbed John Winchester's book from inside his jacket.

"Hey!"

"No!" Dean pointed a finger at his nose like he was a misbehaving dog. "Sam, we've been chasing that thing for two years. You're exhausted. You look like a prune."

Sam glanced down himself.

"We're in a new country, with new babes and I'm not letting you waste away on another case."

"Waste away? Dean I just..."

Dean's jaw clenched and he reinforced his pointed finger. "No. Hunting. Repeat after me."

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Dean flicked his nose. "The hell?!"

"Repeat!"

The brothers shared a stare, a long one, during which all Dean could see in his mind's eyes, all he ever seemed to see nowadays, was Sam's cold body...lifeless...bloody and limp...He relived that day over and over, refusing to remember, but somehow unable to forget. How could he? He almost lost the one thing he had left in this world and he wasn't about to let Sam put himself in harm's way when it wasn't needed. The world didn't need them all the time.

Unspoken, both brothers thought the same thing, the deal. Dean's deal with the demon. To save Sam's life.

Sam sighed, nostrils flaring with anger. "Fine..." he huffed, shaking his head.

Dean cleared his throat. "I said...repeat."

A strange noise erupted from Sam's throat, annoyed. "No. Hunting."

"There we go," Dean cheered, giving his brother a half-hug and pasting on a smile. "Wasn't that hard."

He led the way down the streets, semi-navigating according to the map and following his own curiosity. Eventually, Sam took the reigns, and his papers, back. Dean didn't mind. He was sight-seeing, the buildings and their architecture...the babes and their...babe-ness. Grinning like a mad man and nudging his brother to do the same, he forced himself to think positively. How could he not?

He had less than one year to live.

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In his bathroom, which branched off of the back bedroom, Sherlock stood in the shower stall. The frigid water that poured out of the shower head ran down his body in vein-like patterns racing from his hair to his neck and from his neck to his back. Any normal person would have been uncomfortable in such a cold shower. But, then again, Sherlock Holmes wasn't normal. In fact, he preferred a cold shower to a warm one. It kept him alert and ready to work at the moment's notice. Presently, as his ebony locks plastered to his forehead, he thought of the events of the past few days. Five bodies, two days...plus the thirteen missing. He had so many questions, so many things he didn't understand...and that bothered him.

Sherlock was the sort of man who simply had to know what was going on. He simply couldn't have it any other way. Besides, he usually had these things under control. So, for now, it was just a matter of waiting until Lestrade called him in. He turned off the shower with a squeak of the handle and gropped around for a towel, which he ran along his body. Now, without the sound of the water pounding against the shower floor, he could clearly hear Watson in the other room, typing away at his laptop. Occasionally, the veteran paused to collect his thoughts, beginning again after a few heartbeats.

In the middle of drying his hair, Holmes heard John's phone go off. He paused, holding the damp towel against his hair while listening closely.

"Watson," the man greeted in a business-like manner. That surprised him slightly, since John was usually friendly in his greetings. He'd only answer a call like that from...no, it couldn't be. He resumed drying his hair again, but eavesdropped on John's half of the conversation. "Alright, where?" Could Watson be making personal plans? No, probably not. Besides, had he been making plans to go out with someone, his greeting wouldn't have been so professional. Mentally, Holmes crossed out that possiblity. The last line finally confirmed Sherlock's hypothesis. "Great, I'll make sure he has his pants this time."

Fastening the toel around his waist in a sloppy manner, Holmes bolted for the door and entered his bedroom, tripping slightly over an office chair he kept near his desk, which sent him pitching forward. Thankfully, he caught himself and grabbed the towel around his waist tighter to prevent it from falling. He raced into the hallway, leaving wet footprints on the carpet as he entered the sitting room, panting slightly from his sprint.

"I understand I'm needed?" he gasped out, raising an eyebrow while leaning against the wall. His towle felt slightly lax and, quickly, he pulled it tighter around himself, watching Watson with a cocked eyebrow while his figure dripped water on to the floor in a small puddle.

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Character Portrait: John Watson Character Portrait: Sherlock Holmes
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(Ignore words, but the visual is perfect)
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At the sound of a ruckus from Sherlock's room John snapped to attention. "Sherlock?" he ventured, taking a few steps towards the hall. Of course that's when his soaking wet flatmate stumbled in, panting like a dog and dripping all over the freshly cleaned floor. The veteran was silent a moment as a look of total disbelief turned to annoyance. "I just cleaned up!!" exclaimed John, gesturing towards the puddle Sherlock was leaving on the rug. Shiny spots in the hall betrayed wet footprints that had been left when the consulting detective made his mad dash fo--

"I understand I'm needed?" gasped Holmes as he continued to drip moisture onto the carpet and rub his soaked shoulder against the wall. John was at a loss for words, mouth slightly agape for a moment.

It took longer than it should have for the reasoning on how his psychotic flatmate knew hit John. "Have you been listening in on my conversations again?!" Watson realized aloud. "Sherlock, I-- Wh..." The veteran knew better than to take it any further, but damn it was tempting sometimes. The muscles in his jaw rippled as he clenched his teeth and turned back to his laptop, saving his progress and counting to ten mentally. 'One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.' He still required a couple of seconds to regain his full composure. Once finished, the doctor turned to his friend and sighed. "You probably already know from your ever so polite intrusion on my privacy, but Lestrade needs us for a-- well, you for a case. The one you've had your eye on from the sound of it." The man's condition brought a smile to John's face, even if it was small and ridden with stress. "Pants this time. There's a cab on the way." Leaving Sherlock to his own devices (probably not the smartest idea), John went downstairs to fetch a mop for the hall at least. The carpet would have to be dealt with later.

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Watson's expression was almost too amusing for the consulting detective. In almost a split second, his flatmate's expression went from one of disbelief to that of annoyance as he took in Sherlock's current state; soaking wet and concealed by only a towel.

"I just cleaned up!" cried John, causing Holmes to jump slightly in surprise before stepping on to another section of carpet, as if that would help the situation.

"Oh, come now Watson," he muttered, rolling his eyes subtly with a sigh. "You act as if you've never seen a puddle of water on the floor. Besides, it can't be that hard to clean up water?" It took John a few heartbeats to reply, his mouth still gaping open. Impatiently, Sherlock tapped a foot on the carpet, ultimately helping the carpet suck up the water that puddled on it. "Well, come on."

"Have you been listening in on my conversations again?!" exclaimed Watson, sounding absolutely flabbergasted. "Sherlock, I-- Wh..." Holmes simply shrugged, as if there was nothing wrong with eavesdropping.

"It's not my fault I could hear you from the bathroom," he remarked. "I didn't see why I couldn't listen. Besides, it pertains to me, no?" He frowned slightly and his brow furrowed as John's jaw clenched tightly. He watched the veteran walk back to his laptop, saving his work. After a few seconds lapsed, the doctor opened his mouth again to speak. Though he already was ninety-five per cent sure he knew what the man would say, Holmes still waited with baited breath.

"You probably already know from your ever so polite intrusion on my privacy, but Lestrade needs us for a-- well, you for a case. The one you've had your eye on from the sound of it." Sherlock beamed, his mouth turning upward in a child-like grin as he pumped his fists in the air.

"Yes!" he cried. "Oh, yes! It's about time they call someone who can actually handle things to the scene!" A child on Christmas morning could not have appeared happier than the sociopath did at that moment. Even Watson was smiling ever so slightly. "Pants this time. There's a cab on the way." Holmes turned on his heel and hurried back to his room, sliding slightly on a puddle of water he had left, only to regain his footing by pressing his palms against the walls.

After entering his room and shutting the door behind him, he turned to his dresser and began to pull out clothing for the day which he pulled on to his nearly-dry body. Dressed in a dark blue dress shirt and a pair of black dress pants, Holmes grabbed his iPhone and hurried out into the sitting room, deftly avoiding the puddles of water still on the floor. On his way to the door, he grabbed his overcoat and scarf, quickly pulling both on.

"Are you accompanying me, Watson" he asked his flatmate, who was cleanign up the puddles.

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Character Portrait: John Watson Character Portrait: Sherlock Holmes
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John grinned up at Sherlock quickly at the question. The mop was out of his hands just as quickly as his response.

"Oh, God, yes."

Smiling slightly in anticipation, John leaned the mop against the wall and slipped on a puddle he had yet to clean up. He caught himself on the balustrade with one hand as the other grasped for the floor. He was fine, just a bit frustrated. Hoisting himself to his feet, the veteran ducked around the corner and snagged his black jacket off of the rack, swinging it on smoothly over a simple tan sweater, denim jeans, and well used and cared for work boots. A final check of his pockets reminded him to grab his phone and wallet off of the chaotic desk. The army doctor was down the stairs and out the door with a yelled message to Mrs. Hudson that they'd be out for a few hours.

As if on cue, the cab rolled up to the curb and beeped twice. John walked to the window and confirmed that he and Sherlock were the intended passengers. After that he simply waited for his flatmate.

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Character Portrait: Captain Jack Harkness Character Portrait: Sherlock Holmes Character Portrait: Sam Winchester Character Portrait: The Doctor Character Portrait: Dean Winchester
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Walking down the street, hands in his pockets and a broad smile on his face, the Doctor strolled along not looking for anything in particular. A woman wearing a bright pink, floral dress on the corner of the sidewalk caught his attention as he stopped at the crosswalk. "Oh that is lovely!" the Doctor exclaimed, leaning in to look at the matching pink broad-brimmed hat bedecked in plumes of multi-colored feathers perched upon her head. The lady took a step back from him, giving him a cursory glance and clutching her handbag to her chest. "Oh, hello," he smiled at her until she hurried away the minute the crossing light turned. "Oh- goodbye then!"

A bit later he noticed a cop car- signal lights blazing- rush down the street opposite him. "Ah trouble then! Yes!" The slender man exclaimed- startling a pigeon that had been strutting down the walk into flight- as he took off after the vehicle in a swirl of brown trench coat. The wailing sirens led him to a building already corded off and surrounded by a fleet of police vehicles. With no hesitation the Doctor slid under one of the yellow strands of tape and between a pair of uniformed officers, "Excuse me- yes that's right." The air exuded was so obviously one of belonging that noone thought to question the strange man in a suit and converse until he'd made it all the way up the stairs and into the flat from which officers were issuing.

Once he stepped into the crime scene- sniffing the air and beaming at everyone about- a woman in a suit held a hand up and hurried across to him, "Umm wait- hold it, and who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Who me?" the Doctor responded- looking around himself as if there was someone else she could possibly be talking to. When she continued to stare at him as if the answer was obvious he began to search the inside of his trench coat frantically, "Hold on- one second..." With a loud exclamation he withdrew a plain-looking black, leather bill-fold and flipped it open to reveal a plain piece of paper, "I'm the Doctor."

The woman looked at the paper skeptically, before turning her eyes back to his face, "You're a consulting detective? And here I thought Sherlock Holmes was the only one of those we had to deal with..."

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The bustling streets of London seemed to part before Jack Harkness as he strode purposefully along the street, one hand shoved in the pocket of his great coat as the other held a what looked like a portable radio that clicked at seemingly random intervals. Paying little attention to what was going on around him, the man in the grey greatcoat shook the mechanism furiously before putting it up near his face, "Come on ya damn thing, work!" Unfortunately, Jack was occasionally beset by troubles with machinery- despite the proficiency and understanding he usually displayed when dealing with alien technology- and this seemed to be one of those times.

Stopping at an intersection to fiddle with the transmitter, the handsome man addressed it again, "Come on now! You were working earlier! He's got to be around here somewhere- just locate the alien technology, that's all you have to do!" A heavy sigh escaped him as his shoulders fell and leaned up against the grey-stone wall of the nearest establishment. Suddenly a pair of exceedingly tall strangers right in his line of view caught his attention. Despite the predicament he found himself in, Jack couldn't help but slide his gaze up and down the two attractive men that were obviously tourists. "Oh well, what could a short distraction hurt?" he thought to himself as he stuck the machine into the large pocket of his jacket and headed their direction.

Once he was within a foot of the two leather be-decked boys when he heard them speaking and realized they were American- which caused his smile to broaden. Lucky for him, he sounded American in his own way; flicking his hair out of his eyes he stepped up to them. "Hello boys, need a little help?" Catching the eyes of the pretty, shorter man he offered him his trademark smile and said, "Hello I'm Captain Jack Harkness. And you are?"

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Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: The Doctor
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Once the call had finished Lestrade phoned a cab to take John and Sherlock to the crime scene. Already he had a team getting ready to head out. Donovan was at the head of the pack, as always, to keep civilians out. Anderson would be remaining here so as to keep Sherlock happy. After years of working with the man Greg knew that it was better to have him less annoyed.

The cabbie was given the final address as Greg shoved off of his chair and groaned at a slice of pain down his spine. He only had around an hour left before he had to go to his cellar. Not enough time. Nonetheless he knew he had to go. Sherlock would be there and he wouldn't work without the D.I. present. Greg needed all the information he could possibly get.

A few minutes later the man pulled up in front of the building which held his crime scene. The surrounding street was just so... empty. The whole area was blanketed in a sort of dread that tugged at people, pulled them away, made them afraid of the dark...

Lestrade shook his head and ducked under the tape, suit beginning to feel odd against his skin as his senses began to crispen. The stairs were taken one at a time, very carefully, as his balance began to go a bit off. God, he hated this, the in between stage where his first form readied itself for his... the second form. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead and he knew that he wouldn't be looking very sharp.

Once he reached the top of the stairs, however, he heard Donovan talking to a man inside. He caught a glimpse of wild hair, brown pinstripes, and a lanky sort of stance to accent his height even more. "You're a consulting detective? And here I thought Sherlock Holmes was the only one we had to deal with..."

Lestrade walked a bit faster and moved to the front of the man, standing by Donovan. "Sherlock Holmes 's the only one I brought onto this case, so who the hell're you?" Greg was in no mood for games, not today, he didn't have time for it today. "You're trespassing on the grounds of an investigation, I could have you arrested and I will if you don't leave th--" Without warning, the D.I. cringed and doubled over, quickly regaining his composure to brace himself on the wall. "... if you don't leave the premises."

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A brief smile passed across Holmes's lips at his flatmate's exuberant response. Side-stepping toward the door, he opened it up and held it for John as the veteran rested the mop against the wall. In the excitement, the man slipped in a puddle of water, only to catch himself by slamming a palm against the floor and gripping the balustrade. After grabbing his dark colored coat off of the rack right by the door, which Sherlock still held open politely as if to repay John for having left a trail of water along the hall. They were about to leave when John hurried back for his wallet and phone. Holmes, subconsciously, groaned softly in exasperation.

Once John had exited through the door, Sherlock pushed ahead of him and bolted down the stairs. His hand hovered ever so slightly above the railing while his feet moved quickly in a flurry, sometimes taking two or more steps at a time if he lost his footing. Out on the street, Sherlock came to a halt and looked around slowly, blinking his blue eyes to adjust them to the sudden change of lighting. Watson, in the mean time, had climbed into a cab and was waiting for the consulting detective to join him. With a final glance around, Holmes slid into the cab beside his flatmate and pulled the door shut behind him, laying his hands in his lap.




It came as a great disappointment to the sociopath to not have Lestrade right there, ready to greet him when he entered. Not that he needed the man's attention, he simply enjoyed having the man there to debrief him first. Then again, he knew almost all there was to know about the case, so far. But, it hadn't helped him at all.

Hands buried in his pockets, the man turned his collar upwards and walked toward the yellow tape, which he stepped over quickly, despite the sharp glares of a few of Scotland Yard's men and women.

"Anderson isn't here," he remarked upon entering the building. "That's good- I won't have his stupidity deterring me during this case. H-" Sherlock cut himself off as he heard Donovan's voice upstairs, talking to another person.

"You're a consulting detective? And here I thought Sherlock Holmes was the only one we had to deal with..." she said, seemingly annoyed and greatly disappointed. Holmes's brow furrowed and he hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time until he ended up on the same floor as the others. Without asking for permission, he bombarded into the room where the others were, quickly noticing the strange man.

His appearance was an unruly one, and he looked a bit crazed. Messy, brown hair in a quiff sat perched a top his head. Though the man couldn't have possibly stood much taller than Sherlock himself, his lanky appearance added quite a few inches to his height. As for his outfit, he wore a nice suit...though it seemed slightly dated and a bit eccentric; you hardly found a man wearing a brown pinstripe suit nowadays. To top it off, on his feet he wore a pair of red Converse. His face blank and free of emotion, the consulting detective stepped a bit closer to this strange man, eyeing him closely. If he was a consulting detective, as Donovan had thought, that would mean competition. No, this was his niche...he simply wouldn't have it.

"Hello..." he murmured, still warily gazing at this stranger as if he were some repulsive creature. Without even glancing at Lestrade or Donovan, he asked, "who's this?"

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Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: Sherlock Holmes Character Portrait: The Doctor
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Flipping closed the worn leather wallet and hiding the physic paper once more from view, as he smiled broadly at the suited woman with hair even crazier than his. A consulting detective?he wondered to himself as he eyed the leather, what in the world could that be? Sometimes the paper surprised even him at what it brought out of the minds of those that read it. Anyway, the physic paper had saved him once again, or so he thought until the woman across from him turned her gaze to someone who must have entered behind him. A strained exclamation caught his attention and he whirled around as a silver-haired detective appeared in the entrance way.

The Doctor offered his broad grin to the man and was in the process of opening the leather wallet once more to introduce himself when the other man doubled over in some sort of internal pain. Without warning the Time Lord's face warped and became something completely different; the care-free grin disappeared as if it had never been and in it's place was something stern and almost frightening. From the innerpockets of his jacket, the Doctor withdrew an odd device that he clicked once- causing the end to glow an odd shade.

All of a sudden the sound of footsteps reached him and a pair of shiny black shoes appeared in his vision from where he had crouched next to the silver-haired detective. A crisp voice sounded from the general direction of the shoes, making it obvious to him that the owner was the person who spoke, "Hello...who's this?" The Doctor realized he must have been addressing him, but he ignored the man in favor of waving his mechanism around the general area of the hurt man. "Hmm, interesting, very interesting...," he mumbled to himself as he brought the sonic screwdriver to his face, wipping out a pair of thick frames and setting them on his slender nose to get a better look. "Odd, there seems to be something not quite human about you," he turned his eyes back to the other man, leaning in so close his nose was almost touching the other man's, "Very odd indeed..."

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Character Portrait: Captain Jack Harkness Character Portrait: Sam Winchester Character Portrait: Dean Winchester
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Dean insisted on stopping at a shop before reaching the hotel. For once, it seemed he wanted to be cultured, something that the younger brother of the pair just couldn't ignore. Same watched closely as his brother entered the knick knack place, green eyes filled with a strange excitement. The man behind the counter bristled his gray mustache at the pair, eyebrows pulled together like caterpillars over beetle black eyes. It mattered little though. Sam knew they were American and were acting...American. Especially Dean. He was almost too American.

And what he brought back to the door with him, grin giddy and bright, only emphasized this.

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Postcards."

"Postcards." Dean's toothy grin was nearly infectious, but Sam managed to shake his head amid a small chuckle.

"For our multitude of friends back home," he remarked, noting the stack of at least ten separate rectangles in his brother's hands.

Dean frowned slightly, but shook it off as he lightly punched Sam's arm. "Shut up."

With those purchased, satisfying Dean's child-like spasm of curiosity, Sam insisted they go into the hotel and rest a bit before gallivanting off. The only reason Dean finally agreed, eyes busy with soaking in the sights, was because he started yawning like a lazy cat. "Okay, okay," he decided, stuffing the postcards in the interior of his leather jacket. "But then food because..."

"Hello boys, need a little help?"

Both brothers skidded.

Before them, a grinning chap (chap being the first word to pop into Sam's mind) stood with a slightly puffed chest and a confident aura that Sam recognized. He couldn't quite put his finger on it straightaway, not until the man's eyes switched to Dean. "Hello I'm Captain Jack Harkness. And you are?"

Sam stifled a snort, grinning madly. Dean sent him a glance, obviously not catching anything. He offered his hand with a smile. "Dean Winchester," he replied. "And...what are you the Captain of...exactly?"

Sam had wondered the same thing, but didn't ask, far too interested to see how long it would take his slow brother to realize that he was being hit on. "I'm Sam," he introduced, offering his hand as well, grin grateful to this strange man to exact this small revenge on his shorter brother.

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Character Portrait: John Watson Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: Sherlock Holmes Character Portrait: The Doctor
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John was out of the cab just as quickly as Sherlock and took a few quick hopping steps to catch up to him. "Hold on a second," he murmured with an eye kept out for Lestrade. Usually the man was here waiting, but not this time. Odd. Shaking his head quickly Watson walked beside his flatmate as he crossed the tape. He always did this, waltzed right in as if he owned the place, but to be fair, in a way Holmes actually did. When Sherlock was called in it was because he was desperately needed. That left him in charge.

John stifled a chuckle to himself at this revelation under a clearing of his throat and followed Sherlock into the building, holding the door as had been done a bit earlier for him. It was highly uncharacteristic of the detective to do even the slightest thing for anyone other than himself and Watson knew this possibly better than anyone. That gesture earlier had been apology enough for the mess. A voice drifted down the stairs, then, and caught his attention as well as Sherlock's. The man's head swiveled up and a moment later he was dashing up the stairs intent on his new mission. "Oh, Christ, here we go," John murmured.

The veteran was up on the next floor seconds after Sherlock, but the newcomer was completely forgotten under the appearance of the man stumbling to the wall and slumping against it. "Greg," John called, halfway questioning and halfway alarmed. He had a patient. Brushing by Sherlock, obviously caught up in his own measures against the phony, Watson knelt by Greg and placed a hand out in a silent gesture of "let me make sure you're alright."

The oddball "consulting detective" was there by Lestrade's side right after, forcing John to back away. Anger roiled within the doctor. He had no clue who this man was, but he was intruding upon his friend's privacy as if it were his own personal business-after entering a marked crime scene, no less!- thereby pushing a medically trained officer away. To top it all off he started pointing some sort of buzzing pocket torch at the DI.

The words he said next were the final straw.

"Excuse me, but who the bloody hell do you think you are?!" John accused, putting himself between Lestrade and the trespasser.

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Lestrade growled lowly under his breath and hissed in pain as he brushed away John's hand to watch Sherlock. "I'm fine, Jo--" then the new man began his odd diagnosis.

And was correct.

Fear, sheer terror, crossed Lestrade's eyes for only a moment before anyone could see. Covering it quickly with the guilt and anger welling within him, the D.I. decided he'd had enough. This... this person had discovered his darkest secret, knew about Sherlock's job, the crimes being committed, and now he was in Greg's face when he needed his distance and time. There was nothing he could do but get him out of the way. The Yard could deal with the broken protocol later.

In a blur of motion Greg grabbed the man's shoulder and spun him to meet the wall face-first, ergo breaking the intense eye contact shared a moment before. "Put your hands behind your back," he spat. Without giving the "detective" time to follow through he grabbed each wrist and pinned them under one of his hands, holding the other out for cuffs. Donovan supplied them and the D.I. confined the trespasser. "I'm taking him downstairs, Sherlock, scene's yours." Against his will he cringed and stumbled to the wall again. It was time to go. Now. "D-Donovan, you're in charge... I need to call it a night, John, call me when 'e's got somethin'..." With a deep breath the detective began to lead the Doctor for the door and headed for the stairs.

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Amy stepped out of the clean, modern looking building into the busy streets. She had just finished her last modelling shoot in London. She was going home tomorrow looking forward to the quiet village. She was fed up of having to push through people an being stuck in the endless lines of traffic jams. She also missed Rory. He was the only one she thought she could trust and also the doctor but she couldn't trust him all the time. The wind blew her perfect hair out of place. Amy didn't mind her hair wasn't always like this. It took ages to get her hair like this.
She began walking towards the hotel she was staying in. Four star of course. One thing she couldn't stand was old, dirty hotels. She walked past and alleyway. Something caught her eye. Something blue. Something familiar. She walked towards it. The tardis. Why was the doctor in London. He only came for specific reasons. Alien stuff. Supernatural stuff. She hammered the door. She ignored the mild pain on her knuckle.
"Doctor!"she called loudly.
The good thing about London was that no one stopped to stare, no one paid any attention to her.
"Doctor! Open this door right now!" Amy called louder.
She considered the fact that the doctor wasn't in the tardis. She holed in her brown bag for a pen and a bit of paper. She didn't have paper but she had a receipt.
Doctor, where are you, what's going on? Please find me.
She scrawled in messy writing along with her name and hotel room.
She walked out of the alleyway and hoped that the doctor would find. She headed to her hotel room in hope tht the doctor would find her soon.

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Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: Sam Winchester Character Portrait: The Doctor Character Portrait: Dean Winchester
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Several things happened very quickly then, and the Doctor observed silently as another new arrival attempted to slide between him and the non-human-humanoid he'd been assessing before being forced aside by said man. Then without warning his face was slammed against a wall, his spiky hair flattened between his skin and the plaster. "Oh am I being arrested?" he inquired blithely, although the words were muffled by the wall, turning them into a series of barely audible gibberish. "Oh, suppose I am," he affirmed for himself when a pair of silver cuffs seemed to materialize on his wrists, almost causing him to drop the screwdriver he still clutched tightly in his hand.

Before he could say another word he was being hauled unceremoniously by the shorter man across the room and toward the stairs. Without sparing a glance or a word for the gawking room of onlookers, the Doctor called over his shoulder to his arresting officer, "Oh don't be so gruff- it's perfectly normal not to be normal. Take me for instance, I'm not human either and I don't get angry with people for pointing it out," the words he spoke he didn't bother to whisper and chose instead to speak them loud enough to distract the man as he slid the sonic screwdriver up to point at the silver handcuffs until it began to emit a low buzzing noise.

The Doctor continued to speak as he was dragged down the stairs by the detective, "So what are you exactly, eh? A Zygon? No no no, can't be that... Perhaps you're from Klom? Eh, been a while since I met someone from there.... but no, that doesn't seem right either..." The babble spewed forth from his mouth the second a thought came into his mind and didn't seem to have an end, nor did it seem he expected to be listened to. That was until he turned his head, a wide, open-mouth smile on his face, "So, which is it hmm?"

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"Oh, well that's just my rank, but you can call me Jack or anything else you'd like...," the flashing, white smile was back- turned on full force as he met the other man's eyes with his, "It's a pleasure to meet you Dean." Jack's attention was broken when the taller man introduced himself as well. Releasing the hand he had been shaking, he took Sam's in his and offered him the same smile, "And you as well Sam." Although the shorter of the two was more his usual style, Jack had never been known to be picky or to loose an opportunity to flirt with anyone he found attractive on some level.

"So, what are you two boys doing here in London? On vacation? Or a... honeymoon perhaps?" He offered with a bright knowing smile and a little wiggle of his eyebrows. Two handsome men, obviously foreign to London and- judging from the postcards he'd seen- on some sort of vacation could mean many things, but Jack was hoping his instincts- or wishful thinking- was right on target. It had been quiet a while since he'd been with a married couple, much less two handsome men such as these, and he was looking forward to doing it again. Of course, he'd settle for just the shorter one if it turned out the two weren't what he hoped.

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Lestrade paraded the dangerous man (there was nothing else he could be at this point other than insane) towards his vehicle. Of course he decided to whip around in the midst of a group of police when he had exited the building and was nearly across the tape. Greg kept his face a mask, put a shivering hand on the back of the man's head and forced him back around to face front, holding the cuffs a bit higher up for more leverage. "You're obviously not well, but you're safe. I'll take you to the Yard and have our psychiatrist check you out, head trauma and the li--" The D.I. cut off and crumbled to his hands and knees with a sharp cry of pain, unintentionally clutching the cuffs and dragging the man down with him. At the last moment he managed to angle himself so the trespasser would land on him instead of the cement. It hurt like hell, but even if the man was a nutter he didn't deserve to get hurt. Cops watched in alarm and confusion as Greg tried to force his hands to open, to let go of the cuffs or to push himself to his feet. Alarm struck him as he saw how long the shadows on the street were. He had maybe half an hour tops... Oh God...

An idea hit him as he began to lose control of his calm facade. "Y-You asked... You asked wh-what I was-s-s," he struggled softly to the man. "God, it... i-it ma-.... ngh, it makes no s-sense... bh..." he took a deep breath to control his heaving chest. "We-Werewolf..." Desperate eyes turned up to the man lying on him. Greg had no idea why, no idea how, nor how absolutely imbecilic he was to be telling a complete nut this... Above all he had no idea why he asked what he did next.

"Can y... Can you he-help me?"

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Dean Winchester

Catching on wasn't something he did quickly, sometimes not at all, but this "Captain" Jack character flashed a smile, eyebrows wiggling just right and Dean recognized the signs. He did the same thing. To girls.

"Whoa, whoa," he said, backing up a step with hands up. "We're not...I mean...Why does everyone think we're gay?!" he exclaimed to his brother, shoving his arm as if it was his fault. It probably was. With that long hair and stupid puppy dog expression, he could swing for either team it seemed. Dean's eyes closed with frustration before facing Jack again. "Look...Thanks for the uh..." he wasn't sure what to say "...interest? But..."

That's when he noticed the cop cars over Jack's broad shoulder.

"Is he okay?" he questioned, pointing. An officer with some lanky, crazy haired culprit had been taking out his handcuffs, when he suddenly collapsed. Dean's previous discomfort with Jack vanished as he stuffed the postcards in his jacket. Something wasn't right. Perhaps it was only a heart attack that caused the mess, but Dean needed a reason to step away from the "Captain" as soon as possible.

"'Cuse us," he said with false politeness and dragged Sam into the street.

"What'd you see?" his taller brother asked, already in gear as well. He glanced over, seeing Sam graze his thumb over the handle of his dagger beneath his jacket.

"Cop collapsed," Dean explained.

"So?" Sam stopped in step when they reached the opposite sidewalk. "Not exactly our deal..."

"Could be," Dean simply replied, sending a look back over to Jack. A wary look.

Sam laughed. "Nervous butterflies?"

"Shut it."

With that, they started over to the police cars, watching as different officers started heading in to help their collapsed comrade. The man who was about to be cuffed, lay on top of him as the officer mumbled something that Dean couldn't hear or read on his trembling lips.

"What do you think?" Dean asked.

Sam was still grinning, hands going to his pockets, fully relaxed. "I think Captain Jack likes you."

"Would you stop it?"

The taller brother could only laugh.

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Holmes's brow furrowed ever so slightly, though it hardly seemed like he was concerned for Lestrade's welfare. Instead, he seemed more concerned about the strange man. But, then again, it was surprising to see the D.I. in such a state. Frowning subtly, he pushed these thoughts out of his mind, since they would not be of use in the crime scene. He took a few heartbeats to situate himself before the door and then opened it slowly, peering around the flat slowly as he attempted to adjust his eyes to the dim lighting.

Just inside of the apartment, it seemed relatively normal. There was a matching couch and chair set up near a simple television. Between them sat an oblong coffee table. Upon it sat some tea, which he briskly walked over to observe. Slipping his gloves on, Sherlock crouched down and sniffed an already poured cup of tea. Since it smelled normal, he dunked an index finger in quickly, withdrawing it and holding the damp finger before his eyes. Sniffing again, he pressed the finger against his tongue and made a face that seemed to convey disappointment.

"No..." he murmured softly, hardly paying attention to Watson as he hurried toward the kitchen, which also looked about normal. "It's as if the sitting room wasn't tampered with..." He passed by an open door and suddenly stopped, his bluish-green irises widening while his pupil dilated from the sudden exposure to more light. "Oh my." Backtracking, he turned to face the cocked-open door and slowly pushed it open further. Holmes stood there, his mouth slightly agape, simply taking in the scene. The corpse was extremely bloody, which said a lot, coming from a "consulting detective". The throat was torn out by, what would appear to be, fangs. Certainly, if something with fangs had been the cause of the murder, that would explain the paw prints Sherlock then noticed on the floor, made with some of the victim's own blood. One arm hung at an awkward angle and the other was wrapped around the knees, pulling them close to the chest. All four appendages were torn at and shredded as if the murdered had had a run in with a meat grinder. Blood spattered the walls, obviously having come from the torn throat when the artery spurted blood out. Glass shards lay along the ground, as if the murderer had entered from the window. That wasn't impossible, he knew...but if it had been a dog or other creature that caused the murder, how did they get in? Dogs couldn't scale a building, that was simply logic, of course.

Sherlock stepped toward the body, carefully trying to avoid the puddle of blood as best as possible. Disregarding the torn throat, he fastened a hand under the jaw of the victim and pulled it open. Poisoning was obviously...not very likely, but he'd feel as if he could rule out at least something if he tested. The breath of the victim smelt only of the typical rust-and-salt smell blood usually held. Holmes took the splayed limb in his hands, examining it slowly. The limb had come just about dislocated, judging by it's angle, and had done so by force...as if shaken around. The shocking similarities between a dog attack and this murder case were chilling. Sherlock quickly stood up and, with some blood on his front, walked out into the sitting room and looked around for a sign of disturbance. Nothing. He looked back into the bedroom. Everything. The two rooms were so different...one showing a chaotic, bloody crime scene...and the other looking as if it had just come out of Good Housekeeping.

"Watson..." he called in an uncharacteristically shaky tone. "Come look at this corpse. I want a doctor's opinion." For once, the consulting detective was doubting his ability. And that shook him greatly, for if he couldn't solve this, who would?

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Character Portrait: John Watson Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: Sherlock Holmes Character Portrait: The Doctor
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John watched with concern as Lestrade roughly apprehended the trespasser and marched him down the stairs, out of the building, and out of sight. Something was off about the stranger, but something was also off around Lestrade. With a start he realized that Sherlock had already gone into the flat and Donovan had followed Greg outside to leave "the freak" alone. Upon entering he found his flatmate licking a gloved finger and murmuring frustratedly to himself. "Sherlock," the doctor ventured, "I don't thing we should leave Greg to himself, he's not well and I couldn't diagnose what was bothering him, could be pretty serious if he was reacting so violently..." The detective continued about without a word and ducked into another room, obviously ignoring him. "Are you even listening to me?" No response. Clenching his fists a few times to relieve some of his rising frustration, John tried to make a couple deductions of his own. He remembered from the Chinese smuggling case that certain factors could be used to determine a person's dominant hand. He wasn't sure if it would help and was certain Sherlock would have already filed it away, but he needed to practice anyway. The mug's handle was facing the right, coffee table was further to the right, so logically the victim was right handed.

That was when the detective stepped out of the bedroom with blood on his knee and shirtfront, old blood which had begun to dry, so not his. He was such a careful man, so there had to have been a lot of it if he couldn't avoid getting some on himself. Sherlock's face was pale... that wasn't good. Taking a few tentative steps towards his friend, John reached out a cautious hand. "Are you al-"

"Watson..." Oh, God, his voice was so shaky, already the doctor knew that whatever was in there was not going to be good. "Come look at this corpse. I want a doctor's opinion."

Definitely not good.

John stared and tried to think of something to say for a moment before swallowing and nodding curtly, hands by his side and shoulders squared. His footsteps were suddenly startlingly loud as he walked to the door and nudged it open with an elbow. The first thing he saw was blood. The next was glass. Then the pawprints, and finally...

"Oh, Christ..."

The body was among the most mutilated he had seen in his life. He'd seen the most grotesque deaths imaginable on the front, but this was in a home. From the outside appearance no one would have suspected the horror and gruesome spectacle present in this tiny room. Sherlock's uneasiness was easily explained now, but he was rather used to bodies, wasn't he? Watson clenched his fists a few more times and knelt by the body as close as he could without getting himself bloody before realizing that it was going to happen anyway. One knee in the red and brown puddle, he put his face as close as possible to the dead man's. No scent other than blood and decay. The attack had been made with something long and sharp, huge diameter, nothing he was familiar with. And it had been brutal. His right hand (dominant) had nearly been torn off and his entire arm was nearly gone. He had... the poor sod, tried to defend himself by curling up, but it hadn't deterred his attacker. He would have bled out quickly, but in extreme agony. It was almost as if it were an animal attack, but what animal could get in through a second story window, be this large, ferocious, unable to be stopped or redirected, much less escaped? Not to mention clever and stealthy enough to sneak up and leave the other room untouched.

Another deep breath as he stood from the sticky floor and looked back to the door. "No alcohol, so whoever it was got him fast. They'd be strong and bloody agile to get through that window with no leverage and to inflict this damage. Looks like a multi-pronged weapon, large sharp points and two different types, one seems to be a clamp and the other like ah, a rake or something..." He glanced back at the body sadly. "Once his throat was gone it was quick... but all the other injuries are pre-mortem... He was played with... What the hell did he get himself into?" And, on the same note, what the hell did they get themselves into?

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Sherlock cursed mentally under his breath as he asked Watson to check out the crime scene with a shaky voice. He hated feeling so weak and helpless all of a sudden; it was just one case, wasn't it? And he'd seen greater, more complex cases before, hadn't he? The consulting detective bowed his head slightly and side-stepped to let Watson by. As soon as he was in, Holmes walked toward the coffee table, deciding to leave John to his own devices.

The detective glanced down at the coffee table and gave a light sigh, whilst he buried his hands in his coat pockets. Blood, glass, torn throat, paw prints...it all looked like a dog attack. But, how was a dog supposed to enter a flat? It wouldn't be able to walk in, nor would it even be allowed into the lobby. On that same note, how did it manage to carefully walk in between each and every piece of furniture without knocking things over...and yet, still tear apart the innocent man in a bloody manner? Besides, the abnormally large paw prints had come from the window and then left through the window. How was a dog supposed to scale a wall anyhow? It made absolutely no sense; none of this dead. There was a corpse in the bedroom and it looked like it had been mauled by a beast-like dog. There were so many questions racing through his mind and he was trying, in vain, to answer them all. He should be able to answer them all- he was Sherlock Holmes, for the love of God! So deep was he lost in his self-scolding and deep thinking that he hardly realized John was speaking.

"No alcohol, so whoever it was got him fast. They'd be strong and bloody agile to get through that window with no leverage and to inflict this damage. Looks like a multi-pronged weapon, large sharp points and two different types, one seems to be a clamp and the other like ah, a rake or something..." He glanced back at the body sadly as Sherlock looked up and turned his upper body so he was facing the doctor. "Once his throat was gone it was quick... but all the other injuries are pre-mortem... He was played with... What the hell did he get himself into?"[/b] And, on the same note, what the hell did they get themselves into? Holmes sighed gently and then clenched his jaw tightly, hands still in his pockets and he wandered slowly back toward the bedroom.

"You're simply confirming my suspicions..." he muttered, leaning against the door frame as he stared at the corpse. "It appears as if the victim was attacked by a hound of some sort...but, how? How the bloody hell did a dog get up here? I didn't see any foot prints, so it wasn't brought up by a person...nor did I notice any sign at all of a dog's owner, just though extremely large prints...even wolves don't have paws that large and we don't have wolves here in London..." He said the last part with a strong conviction, clenching his fists afterwards...but, could he really be sure about this?

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"Down we go!" he called as the trembling man dragged him down so that he landed on-top of him, not a comfortable position to be sure. By this time he'd luckily been able to free himself with use of the sonic screwdriver from one side of the handcuffs, leaving his hands free to soften the blow a bit as he dropped to the ground. However-unluckily- the other man was still gripping tightly to the cuff fastened to his left wrist, meaning that he could only maneuver himself so he was lying to where he could his captor's sweat-encrusted face a little better rather than sit up.

"We-Werewolf..." the panted word made the Doctor's eyebrows shoot up and a smile spread quickly across his thin face. "Oh my, it's been quiet a while since I dealt with anything Lupine in origin! Couldn't be a real werewolf could you, eh?" As he chattered away, the Doctor shifted his screwdriver so that it was in front of his face and that his free hand could manipulate it a little. A few moments later he pointed it directly into the face of the man he was lying upon as he continued, "There was that one time in Scotland, but eh- turned out to just be lycan-esque, not a real werewolf unfortunately... and that other time awhile back with the woman who seemed to be a werewolf, but alas she wasn't exactly human to begin with..." Finally the tiny machine seemed to have rendered its final diagnosis and he yanked it up quickly so he could look at it.

"Oh huh, what's this? No-no-no-no-no... Yessss.... A real, really, real case of werewolf-ism! Brilliant!!!" Whirling back to the man underneath him he grinned broadly, but let it slowly fade as he realized what that meant, "Unfortunately... I have no knowledge of how to help you..." Slowly he placed the hand still wielding the screwdriver on the police officer's shoulder, his face deadly serious, "But I will think of something."


____________________________________________________________


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"We're not...I mean...Why does everyone think we're gay?!" The pretty one exclaimed to the tall one, seemingly very angry at the implication. Despite the quick rebuttal and denial, Jack wasn't dissuaded; he'd met many supposedly "straight" men before that were willing to give themselves to him with only a little bit of cajoling- and besides, he quite enjoyed the chase on occasion. It was especially gratifying when he managed to convert two at a time, which may be the case if he tried this time. However, before he could pursue the cause any further the two were excusing themselves and hurrying toward something on the other side of the street behind him.

Jack pivoted on his heel slowly- the dark grey greatcoat he wore swirling in a circle behind him- to turn and watch the other men leave. Suddenly what they had been watching caught his eye, and as he leaned around their receding backs he caught sight of a familiar coat lying atop a person on the ground. "Couldn't be..." he mumbled to himself- brow furrowing. Then the person in the coat sat up and he caught sight of floppy hair and an unmistakable, glowing screwdriver. "DOCTOR!!!" He shouted with a smile and raced across the street- veering around the two men from earlier as he slid under the police tape.

Heedless of the situation he hurried over to his friend and the man he was lying atop, "Oh Doctor, I had not idea you were like that... and in the street of all places!"

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Amy
The road was closed of. Some sort of crime scene obviously. This was the road Amy had walked down to get to her hotel yesterday but today of course it had to be filled with detectives, police, etc.
"Ugh, why today," Amy said not trying to hide disappointment and annoyance in her voice.
Why today of all days. Her last modelling shoot. She had no idea how to get to her hotel another way. This was why she liked her little village more. It was easy to find her way around. Here in this city she had no idea how to find her way around.
She kept thinking about the doctor. Why was he here? Where was he? She needed to find him soon.
She turned and decided it was best to retrace her steps. Handn't she passed a map yesterday. Had she? Not wanting to admit the fact that she was lost.
"Doctor!" she heard someone shout. She whirled suddenly. It mustn't be him she thought looking for him. It could just be a person calling for a normal doctor. But if it was a crime scene wouldn't the person be dead. It must be him. But she couldn't see him. Maybe she could look around. She walked over to the yellow strip that had 'police line do not cross' printed all over it. Aaasdddccpojh

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John huffed out a very unamused breath and shook his head. "No, Sherlock, we are not doing any of that 'hound' business again, alright?" That had been an absolute nightmare back at Baskerville and he wasn't too keen on redoing any of it. Sherlock's irritation was even similar to that night at the inn. God, he was livid. Was he doubting himself again? John stood awkwardly in the middle of the trashed bedroom with blood on his trousers and the side of his cheek, unsure of what to do. "Look," he finally managed, "whatever you decide to do I'll be right behind you, yeah? You don't have to take this case, they can't make you, but if you want to I won't disappear..." With a sigh the doctor walked back out into the main room. "Maybe a wolf escaped from the zoo or something?"

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The sweat on Greg's forehead began to bead and run as the pain down his spine multiplied. The device in his face would've been batted away if the D.I. were able to control himself. The light, the sound, they hurt his eyes and ears as he became more sensitive. Tense and in agony, he did his best not to make a scene. Granted, the trespasser was doing that well enough on his own. Then another man came cracking jokes and smiling. He didn't have time for this. Giving the cuffs in his hand a short, weak jerk he turned desperate eyes to the odd man lying to his side. "I-I have a cella... a cellar... off of Hack-Hackney-y... Got to get there..." The shadows lengthened even more, increasing the D.I.'s anxiety and fear. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he hurt anyone, wouldn't ever live down leaving bodies like the one in the flat behind him.

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Sam Winchester

Captain Jack seemed into everybody. Suddenly the jokes were less joke-y and Sam stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, focusing on the scene at hand and not on the too comfortable Captain.

The tall, lanky man with the flipped up hair and glowing stick thing seemed quite troubled by something, though who he had fallen on, was more panicked, edgy, sweating and muttering. Leaning to his brother, Sam whispered, "Our thing?"

Dean shrugged one shoulder, hand going to his hair. His green eyes kept darting to Jack. "Who knows? Probably not."

That's when the redhead showed up.

Both boys fell silent as she passed by them, ducking under the yellow tape and not paying them any attention at all. Sam was used to that routine, but watched her nonetheless, wondering where she had come from so suddenly. Dean was grinning. Very incognito.

"You're not," Sam said simply.

"I am," Dean corrected and started forward to her. Rolling his eyes, Sam followed, hands still stuffed in his pockets as the night air started settling over the street. The sun would be gone soon, faded behind the tall buildings. He wanted to get to the hotel and rest a bit now, not chase after redheaded pretty girls.

She was pretty though.

Coming closer to the scene, nodding to Jack as he did so, Sam's always attentive ears caught the whiff of the "our thing" he had mentioned before. His back tensed and he listened carefully.

"I-I have a cella... a cellar... off of Hack-Hackney-y... Got to get there..."

The man who spoke seemed delusional, ears darting around fearfully. Swallowing hard, Sam had a bad feeling about this. A bad, bad feeling, and over the past year, he had learned to trust these feelings. Having demon blood in his system could be useful at times, a "baddie" detector if you will. Sam nudged his brother and was surprised to see he had heard the same, the pursuit of the redhead far from his mind.

Dean, ever the direct, started forward and stood beside the tall man in the brown suit, giving him a raised eyebrow of course, before addressing the other. "What's this about a cellar?"

Sam glanced around before approaching also, wondering why no one was kicking these random four people that just decided to crowd around an obvious officer. He didn't try to question it before he needed to. He was more curious about the man's answer.

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Character Portrait: Captain Jack Harkness Character Portrait: Sam Winchester Character Portrait: The Doctor Character Portrait: Dean Winchester Character Portrait: Amy Pond
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#, as written by Iezobel
She scanned the crowed of people for the doctor. Was he even here? A woman approached her.
"Who are you, what are you doing here?" The woman asked.
Amy didn't bother to answer her question instead she asked another."Have any weird people came through here?"
" yes, but why should I tell you?" The woman asked.
Damn this woman was stubborn. "I'm the strange man's... Assistant" she had hesitated before saying assistant. That was probably the best thing to say.
After the woman had pointed out where the man was she strolled towards that area.
As she got there there was no sign of the doctor. Just strange men. Maybe one of them knew him. The doctor did get around a lot.
She walked over. "Hello" she said casually,"do any of you know a weird man called the doctor."
She didn't bother being polite she would have liked to find the doctor as soon as possible."