Hopkinsville Kentucky. 6:48 am
As soon as Sherlock had woken up he had pondered what had recently happened, even before he opened his eyes. He remembered staring at a goblet. There was a gemstone a possible sapphire or a blue diamond, or a blue emerald or blue topaz and it was illuminated. The color of the gem seemed to change from blue to red. The whole room became illuminated before he was thrown back and received his concussion.
He knew he was in a hospital. It was logical for John to bring him to one and even if he wasn’t with John he knew he would be in one. He could feel the fabric of the sheet that was unfamiliar although they were trying to make it feel soft by using too much fabric softener, one that hadn’t been treated with chemicals of course. He could also smell the kind of disinfectant that was used to clean the room and hear sound of the heart monitor and feel the sensor on his finger.
There was something odd, something he couldn’t quite figure out. He didn’t feel right and that would be logical considered he was caught in a strange explosion. That had to be it. It was only rational for it to be a small bomb. He wasn’t any pain and as he shifted around in the bed he didn’t feel any pain, no wound that would be hurt if he had brushed it against something.
He froze when he realized he could no longer feel his curled bangs on his forehead. He reached up, wondering if a member of the hospital staff had did something to his hair. It felt like they had given him a trim. His hair was short and straight. It felt even shorter at the sides. His temples felt different and as he explored so did the rest of his face. The only logical reason was that someone had performed cosmetic surgery on his face, but for what and why.
Finally he opened his eyes. The room was barely lit and Sherlock decided to try to figure out which hospital he was in. He examined the ceiling, the window frame and sat up to look at the bed and night stand. He wasn’t at Saint Bart’s, or Saint Peter Baptist, nor was it Saint John or Royal Free. John wouldn’t take him out of the way to get medical treatment.
“Blast,” he grumbled and paused. His voice was different. It was higher in pitch and a bit gruffer. Perhaps a glass of water might help with that. He glanced over at the nightstand and the phone. He read the list of numbers to call within the facility including room service. His eyes widened when he found out the name of the hospital and its location.
“This cannot be right,” he gasped. How did he get to Kentucky? He glanced out the window. Considering how dark it is he might have been out longer. He might have been kidnapped and taken out of the country and that might have been the reason for the explosion. Catherine might have been working for someone, possibly Moriarty.
A snort brought Sherlock’s attention to the other side of the room to where a man was sleeping on the couch. He had assumed it was John at first and felt it was not important. The strange man was too tall to be John and his hair was too long. It was dark brown in color and he was sitting up and the angle of his back and how his head was back against the wall he could see that the man was trying not to fall asleep, of course he was Sherlock’s guard.
Sherlock had a good look at the man’s attire. He was dressed in a plaid shirt under a short denim jacket, blue jeans and leather shoes. A man like this did grunt work, wasn’t afraid to get dirty or physical. There was also a concealed weapon strapped to his ankle under the jeans. He shouldn’t be too hard to outwit and escape.
The man shifted and his head snapped forward. He woke with another snort.
“So you are awake,” Sherlock said. He still couldn’t figure out what was wrong with his voice.
“Dean,” the man said and to Sherlock’s surprise he was relieved and smiling.
“Who are you and where is John?”
“Crap,” the man said took a deep breath. “You hit your head harder than thought. How many fingers am I holding up?” He held up two fingers.
“You are a bigger idiot than I thought.”
“Answer the question.”
“If you must insist then two. This conversation is getting rather dull.”
“Dean, this is serious. You were hit by a strange explosion. You were unconscious and now you can’t remember who I am and you are talking strange.” He was staring into Sherlock’s eyes hoping for some form of recognition. It’s me, Sam.”
“Who do you work for?” Sherlock asked.
“Uh no one,” the man was clearly worried for him by the sound of his voice and the way he stared at him.
“Why did you bring me to America and you are working for someone. I can tell a person like you is fitted for manual labor. Your physical stature gives it away as does the gun powder residue on the cuff of your shirt.” He should have been able to read more clues off of him, granted the room was only half lit. “There is a tear in your jacket from a knife. You are either a hit man or an assassin. Your employer wants me out of the way.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” The man, Sam asked. “I brought you to the hospital because that blast knocked you out and you always been in America, Dean.”
“You keep calling me Dean,” Sherlock said.
“It’s your name. Dean Winchester and I am your brother, Sam.”
“D-Dean W-W-Win-ch-chester?” Sherlock was at a loss for words for the first time in—he had no idea how long.
“Let me get the light.”
“Please do,” Sherlock said weakly. As soon as the room became brighter he stared down at his hands. They were a darker complexion, fingers not as long and they had been broken before. There was also some scaring and a bit of dirt under the nails. The scars were from knife wounds and scratches from large animals, possibly wolves or mountain lions. The callusing on the hands told him they were used to wield a variety of weapons: shotguns, hand guns and knives. He studied his arms and their muscle structure was as equally foreign to him.
“Those are not your hands are they?” Sam asked.
“No,” Sherlock said. “This is not possible. I must be dreaming, but why would I dream to be your brother? Why would I dream I was a man I have never met before? It has to be a dream. This cannot be real.”
“It is possible,” Sam answered. “It happened to me before. There was this kid, who switched bodies with me, but he did it on purpose and I don’t think you wanted this.”
“No,” Sherlock said as he pressed Dean’s fingers together. “You said you have experienced this before. Does this happen often in this country?”
“Body switching? Not so much but the weird and unusual? Yes and it happens all over the world. You just haven’t experienced it before.”
“Preposterous. I would have noticed.”
“Not if you didn’t know what you were looking for.”
“I certainly would have noticed. I notice everything. I would have come across magic before.”
“Uh trust me, not even you would have noticed,” Sam said
“You have no idea who I am.”
“No I don’t even know what your real name is.”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am a consulting detective.” He doubted that this Sam would even know who he was.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sam repeated. “Where have I—wait you are the famous detective? You work with John Watson and the pictures of you with that hat.”
“That bloody deerstalker,” Sherlock sighed and then brightened. “You know of me?”
“Yeah I read about your cases online. There was the Study in Pink, the Blind Banker and the Great Game. I haven’t gotten around reading the rest yet. I’m sorry.”
“You’re a bit of a fan?” He waited for Sam to nod. “And your brother, the one who switched with me?”
“He only looks up research for the case and porn.”
“And this is the man who is occupying my body.” A sudden fear entered his head. What if Dean had reacted the same way he had? “He wouldn’t tell anyone what has happened?” He knew how John and Lestrade would react if they were told the truth.
“He might not look it but he isn’t stupid. He would keep quiet until he knew how to act around your friends and the people you work with. He would wait until he was alone before he would try to contact me and tell me what had happened.”
“Could he be trying to contact you now?” Sherlock asked.
“He could but my phone is—shit.” Sam pulled his mobile out of his pocket and turned it on. It was only on for a second before it rang. “Hello?” He was quiet for few seconds. “Uh who is this?”
“I believe it’s your brother,” Sherlock said.
“Dean?” Another pause. “He was right you did call.”
“Of course I’m right.”
“He was right you did call.” He glanced over to Sherlock. “Sherlock.”
“Give me your mobile,” Sherlock demanded. “Let me speak with him.”
“He wants to speak with you,” Sam said before he handed the phone over to Sherlock.
“Hello Dean is it?” Sherlock greeted.
“Hi Sherlock,” Dean greeted. It was a bit odd to hear his own voice greet him. “Do you have any idea how this happened?”
“I will probably figure this out but I have only been informed of such magic existed just now. Where is John?”
“He went to the precinct to speak with a Lestrade and a witch you arrested.”
“So they have apprehended Catherine,” Sherlock said in a pleased tone. “Why didn’t you go with him?”
“Your friend wanted me to—correction you to take it easy and I’m kind of out of my element here, pal.”
“We both are,” Sherlock corrected. “That does seem like John.”
“I’m learning everything as best as I can here. I know you have issues with your brother Mine craft.”
“Whatever. John is a great friend. I like him already and Mrs. Hudson is real sweet, not to mention a great cook.”
“She cooked for you.”
“This thing called a full breakfast. It’s like a Grand Slam but with beans and-“
“I know what you are talking about.”
“Well I didn’t. I have to learn all this on my own. You have Sam over there to help you.”
“Look up John Watson’s blog. You will learn more about me. I’m also in the news. I’m quite well known.”
“Okay so you are fam—holy crap!”
“Is something wrong?”
“What the hell man. There is a jar of kidneys in the fridge. Why are there--Uh wait you guys eat that steak and kidney pie crap right?”
“First of all it is not crap.” Sherlock did not like the way Dean was insulting his culture. “Second of all those are human kidneys.”
“Human kidneys?” Sam asked. Sherlock continued to ignore him.
“Dude, human kidneys?”
“Those are for an experiment. Do not break anything when you stomp around my flat like an ox.”
“You have kidneys in there and no beer? There is something wrong with you.”
Sherlock sighed. “I also appreciate it if you kept your hands off my violin.”
“Don’t worry and you don’t mess with my car. I don’t want you driving it. There is this whole everything being flipped over and besides do you even know how to drive?”
“Of course I do. I have one last request and that is try not to make me sound like an idiot.”
“Don’t make me sound like a pompous dick. “
“I believe it would be best if I put your brother back on.” Sherlock handed the phone back to Sam. He wanted out of the room. He was also curious on what he looked like. He unhooked himself from the machine and turned it off before he got out of bed. The first thing he noticed was the large gap between his thighs as he walked around on bowed legs.
The man in the mirror was slightly taller than Sherlock. His hair was in between light brown and dark blond in color and cut short. He had intense green eyes, a darker complexion and light freckles that were probably more prominent when he was younger. He also appeared to have skipped a day of shaving and when he did shave he preferred to us an electric razor. Despite being out and sleeping for several hours there were dark circles under his eyes. Just one look into those eyes he knew this was a man who had erratic sleeping style similar to him. He was a man who carried a great responsibility on his shoulders.
“Mr. Winchester,” a woman was crying out to him. “You should have waited for a doctor to check you out.” It was one of the local nurses. She was somewhere in her late forties and early fifties and had her hands on her hips.
“I have no need of a doctor. I am quite all right,” Sherlock answered.
“The hell you don’t,” the nurse said and despite her short stature she was able to grab him and hauled him back to the bed. “I ought to strap you down myself.”
“Ugh fine let’s be done with this.” He glanced over to Sam who was still on the phone and shrugged in an apologetic manner.
The doctor examined his vitals while Sherlock just sat there glaring at the floor and scowling. He counted the seconds that it took to get the job done backwards in his mind. He was off by half a second.
“Everything checks out,” the doctor said. “I’m surprised there isn’t a scratch.” He turned to Sam. “Don’t let him sleep for more than 45 minute intervals for the next two days.”
“I won’t,” Sam said.
There were some more exchanges between them that were so dull Sherlock tuned them out. He let out a sigh of relief once that medical team had left.
“Really?” Sam asked.
“ There should be a change of clothes,” he turned to the chair where he expected was the most likely area. “Ah there they are.” He removed the hospital gown and threw it on the floor.
“Dude,” Sam gasped and covered his eyes.
Sherlock ignored him as he got dressed. He had noted the locations on Dean’s body where he had more breaks, the scars and what appeared to be a tattoo. He had finished with the pants and trousers and stepped into the bathroom where he examined the mark more clearly. It was mystical and cult like in design and its purpose was to protect the body in some fashion.
“What is this?” Sherlock asked as he pointed at the mark. He had just put the denim shirt on.
“Keeps demons from possessing your body,” Sam explained.
“But it doesn’t keep one’s own soul from being switched with another?”
“Sadly it doesn’t.”
“Demons are real?”
Sam nodded. “I hate having to dump this on you.”
“I have to know.” His eyes widened. “I need to know this and in fact I want to know.” All this time he had disregarded the elements of supernatural as figments of the imagination, stories to entertain. There was always an explanation and he would be able to deduce what they are to get to the truth, but now that he was in the body of someone he had never met before he had to wonder what was true and how much of it was out there.
“Demons are real and so are ghosts, vampires, werewolves, wendigos, shape shifters, skin walkers, fairies, trickster gods, angels, and a whole lot more.”
Sherlock closed his eyes as he processed it all. “I will need to learn how to protect myself from these things, except for the angels.”
“You want to protect yourself from the angels as well.”
“Lucifer is an angel,” Sherlock said. “He is described as such in the bible and other works of fiction.”
“There are some angels we can’t trust, but there is one we can count on. His name is Castiel and he has helped us.” He held up his phone. “In fact Dean wants us to call him when we get back to the motel.”
“Does this Castiel have knowledge on how to switch us back?”
“Maybe but first we still have a witch to catch. Dean wants us to finish the job.”
“Track down a witch,” Sherlock said and couldn’t help but smile at the idea. He had help track down one and even though he wanted to be in his flesh and blood he could not resist this type of case. “Take me to your home, Mr. Winchester.”-Enter your cut contents here.