spacebabie: River Tam and James Norrington...used when I write crossovers. (Default)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or their universes. Supernatural and all characters belong to Eric Kripke, Warner Bros and the CW. Sherlock belongs to Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Notes: Character and dialogue driven. Except for the first chapter each one would be in the perspective of one character as they deal with the situation. There will be some action and mostly gen.

Setting: takes place not long after the seventh episode of the eight season of Supernatural and not long after Hounds of Baskerville of Sherlock

The Case of Identity Switch

Chapter 1

London 1:43 Am

It did not take long to track down the suspect or rather the criminal. True in the eyes of Lestrade and the others she was still just a suspect but Sherlock knew she was the murderer and she had killed three people so far. There were the possibility of other bodies that have yet to be found, and if they were found he would be informed either by Lestrade or Molly, depending on who would come across them first.

“You are positive it was the housewife?” John asked after they had entered the seemingly abandoned Critchlowe house, a building few dare step inside because of the idiotic superstition that it was haunted.

“I am not positive,” Sherlock said as he glanced around the entrance. It would seem to be abandoned to those who were not as intelligent as him but he could see it had been recently occupied. There was a shift in the direction of carpet fiber in the corner of the rug, a small one left by the heel of a shoe. The woman had made sure not to leave foot prints in the dust but there were a few miniscule bare spots left either by raindrops that fell from her since it was raining an half hour before.

“You are not?” John asked as he raised his eyebrows. “Then why-“

“I am accurate,” Sherlock interrupted him. “I am always correct after all. She has committed the acts of murder and she is here.”

“Such gruesome ways to die,” John said as he shuddered.

“Yes and quite a fascinating case this has been, almost sad to see it come to an end.”

The first case had looked like a suicide. The victim had plunged her hand into the garbage disposal while it was still on. Her husband insisted on Sherlock’s help and he had found an interesting and unusual bit of evidence under the sink. It was a cloth bag that contained the bones of a raven and some of the victim’s hair. It was known as a hex bag. Sherlock had come across a few before, both were used to protect the victims or rather the victims believed they would protect them. They failed.

The second victim was found pinned to the wall in his home by several knives. Lestrade had said it looked like a circus act that had gone wrong. There was another hex bag found in the umbrella stand.

The third victim was found in his own home as well. The portly man was in his bath, boiled alive and once again there was a hex bag, this time found inside the hollow shower rod.

The three victims had one thing in common. They knew Catherine Ridgewood, a middle aged housewife who made homemade jam and sold it through her website. Her husband was a high level manager in a paper company and they had two children and a dog. They had appeared to be a normal happy family except Catherine was a murderer and deluded into believing she was an actual witch.

The first victim was unhappy with her own husband and tried to seduce Mr. Ridgewood and failed. The second was the professor to the Ridgewood’s eight year old son who had been singingly the boy out for knowing the answers and blurting them out when the professor refused. The third had been ordering and canceling cases of jam, four times in a row.

“Why would she be here?” John asked as they searched the house.

“A seemingly abandoned house would serve as a fitting place for her to practice her craft,” Sherlock answered. “Or practice as she believes. I am one hundred percent certain she comes here for her so called ceremonies before she goes out and kills the victims herself.”

“If she thinks she is an actual witch then why does she need to actually go out and do the killing?” John asked. The light of his torch landed on a dusty framed photograph.

“She believes she is a witch, just not a competent one,” Sherlock answered and paused when his torch found something on doorframe to one of the rooms. “She is a bit frustrated that her magic is not working and has to perform the actual labor.”

“Or has someone else murder for her,” John suggested.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said under breath. That was the part of the case that annoyed him and frustrated him. There was no sign, no form of any evidence that proved that Catherine had committed the deed herself. Not even he could find any clue, no lost fake gems from her barrettes, no way of proving that the knives were wielded by a person of her height. There was nothing.

“She’ll tell us when we have caught her.”

“That is a possibility.”

“It’s almost over then?”

“Almost.” He shone his torch on the frame and found a faded copper streak

“You sound disappointed,” John said. “Are upset that you can’t solve this case on your own or that it is going to end soon?”

“Both actually,” Sherlock answered and turned to face him. “She is in here.”

“Are you certain?” John asked and shook his head. “Of course you are.”

“This is nail polish that has been rubbed against the frame,” Sherlock said as he pointed at the streak. “Caused by grabbing at the frame in such an abrupt manner that can only be by someone trying to open the door in a hurried manner. This bit of polish has also only been here for a few minutes.”

“We should call Lestrade.”

“You call Lestrade,” Sherlock said as he turned the knob. He was careful to not make any sound and slowly push the door open, first with a small nudge from his hand and then with his foot from an angle while motioning John to stand away from the door. “Do not enter.”

“I sent him a text,” John whispered.

Sherlock held up a finger. He knew Catherine was hiding somewhere in the room. He would have to be careful when he investigated. After a few seconds of waiting he shone his torch onto the ground. Just as he thought there were show prints in the dust of the wood.

As soon as he entered he heard John take a step behind him. He knew John would follow. He did not turn around when he held up his hand to motion that his friend stay back.

“But, Sherlock,” John whispered in protest. "I'm not about to let you go all halfcocked into there, not alone."

"Yes you are." He gave John a look that told him to back off. “Wait a few minutes and then follow,” Sherlock whispered back. He kept his focus on the tracks that were leading him to the hiding spot of the murderer.

The tracks had led him to a closed door; most likely a closet and Catherine had managed to move a small table so that it would be in front of the door. It was quite a skilled task since there was not too much of an angle, though by the type of wood used for the table it did not seem to way much, though the pewter goblet in the center might have made it difficult. The goblet might have intrigued others but it was not essential to the case and he viewed it as another dull and useless detail.

Sherlock aimed his gun at the door and would have commanded her to step out if the goblet did not catch his eye. The jewel in center was be glowing a soft blue color. The entire gem was coated in the illumination and Sherlock’s eyes were glued to it as if he were hypnotized. Blue turned to red within seconds and a crimson flare filled his vision.

He felt himself flying backwards and felt like he was being ripped out of the room, out of the house at speed that defied physics before everything turned black.


Hopkinsville, Kentucky 7:45 pm

“Freaking witches man,” Dean Winchester grumbled as he and Sam stood in front of what looked like an altar. It was made of dark wood and had everything that Dean would expect to find on an altar from a witch. There were candles at one end, pentacles drawn onto it, a mortar and pestle and a dagger with a black handle with bright red gemstones. The most disturbing thing was the skinned decapitated mouse that was on the center.

“Not a present from a cat,” Sam said has he grimaced.

“No kidding,” Dean agreed as he turned away from the display. “We know this where they have their yaya sisterhood parties, now where are they?”

Sam shrugged. “They could be anywhere. We don’t even know who it is or how many there are.”

“Just a couple of vics,” Dean sighed.

The case came across their radar a couple of days ago when Sam read about it online. A repairman drowned while he was trying to fix a washing machine. Since people do not normally fall into washing machines, and even less drown in them they knew it was their type of job. They just didn’t know what it was until they found the hex bag behind the washer. Once they knew they were up against witches they just had to go through the suspects.

That was easier said than done. They talked with people who knew the repairman and asked the usual questions of who would want to hurt him, if he had an enemies or was there someone that he had pissed off and after interviewing they came up with bupkis.

Then came the second victim in the form of a catholic school teacher, not a nun, but happily married woman who taught third grade at a catholic school. Her death was pretty horrific. Her insides were cooked and came dribbling out of her eyes, mouth, nose ears and Dean was sure a few other places but he did not want to look.

Again they went through a few interviews and there were three people that knew both victims and they had to narrow it down before the witch struck again.

Witches tend to kill for different reasons. One is in defense against something more sinister. Dean felt like this wasn’t the case. They also kill if they can gain something that will make them more powerful or live longer. There were no signs that the repairman or the teacher had any special gift and they did not frequent a special club, or game room or bar where they might gamble away their years. Witches kill if someone pisses them off and this seems like the most likely reason and the fourth is for a demon ceremony. Dean is hoping just for the pissed off.

“We could call Cas,” Sam suggested. “Make sure there is no demon connection.”

“You reading my mind?” Dean asked.

“Don’t want any real powerful demon to appear,” Sam said. “We should at least ask before another person dies, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean agreed. “After we search this place. I know we found that altar but I don’t want to feel like we might have overlooked something.”

“Good point. Should we separate?”

“Cover more ground. We call Cas after we returned to the hotel.” He was not going to call him while they were at the creepy spell summoning house.

Dean searched upstairs while Sam searched the rest of the first floor and he had mentioned he would check out the basement. Dean wasn’t going to argue with them there. Basements of borded up places were filled with spider webs and while he wasn’t afraid of spiders he hated walking through their webs, especially when they covered his face.

The first room had nothing and Dean made certain to check the closet as well, nothing but a few dead roaches and what looked like rodent crap. There was more of that in the bathroom along with an ash tray that stank more of cannabis than tobacco. That wasn’t surprising. He and Sam did find several empty beer cans in the living room along with the alter and a few locals mentioned teens broke into the place from time to time and Dean was certain it wasn’t just to smoke weed and drink.

“Ah lovely,” Dean said when his suspicions came true. He found both empty condom wrappers and a few used condoms in one room that also held a dirty and torn mattress. “Kids partying and getting some ass, no problem.” He had no problem with them until they started killing people for their ceremonies.

The third room was the largest and most likely the master bedroom. There was an adjacent bathroom but that was not what grabbed Dean’s attention. There were more beer cans scattered about and some of them had been converted into homemade bongs. There were a few empty packets of rolling papers, a few empty match books, cigarette and cigar butts and a bookshelf against the wall.

The bookshelf was mostly empty. There were a few books there and some magazinesl, and just as Dean had thought they were issues of Playboy and Busty Asian Beauties, and their pages were stuck together. Two of the books were textbooks that were big enough to hide the porn and there was a leather bound book.

“A real non-school book,” Dean said as he picked it up. There was a symbol of a sun on top and a moon on the bottom and the borders had a Celtic design to them. The words were on the cover also seemed Celtic. “Hey Sam, I think I found something.”

He heard a muttered sound from down stairs.

“Sam?” Dean called out.

“I’m coming,” Sam shouted out.

Dean stared at the book and then back to the bookshelf. The only thing he didn’t examine was the pewter goblet in the middle of the top shelf. There wasn’t anything really special about it, just a cup stem and base with what looked like a shield in the center with some phrase in Latin above and below it and bright red gemstone in the center.

“Ut Restituo Pro A Melior Vita,” Dean read. It took him a couple minutes to translate it into “To Replace for a Better Life.” Yeah better life, wouldn’t that be nice to be someone who was rich or a rock star or maybe get out of hunting.

As Dean continued to study it the gem seemed like it was glowing, correction it was glowing a soft red glow.

“Sammy get in here now!” Dean shouted as the red changed to blue and filled his eyes with the light.

Dean heard Sam shout out for him a second before he was thrown backwards and kept on flying until he lost consciousness.


August 2013

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