SuperWhoLock: Nonexistent Chapter One

   Doctor John Watson sighed heavily as he stumbled into his room, nearly falling face first onto the floor when the corner of his jacket caught on the already closed door. After panicking and blindly grabbing the door knob to steady himself, he took a deep, calming breath and released his jacket from the door frame. Ambling past the light switch, John kicked off his shoes, flinging them into the dark. Too exhausted to change into something more comfortable, he ambled toward his bed and pulled back the sheets. Then he jolted, jumped back half a foot, and gave a yelp. Due to the initial shock wearing off he was able to catch his breath, but his annoyance with Sherlock did not waver. "SHERLOCK!" John shouted across the apartment.
   Sherlock came rushing through the door, his face lined with worry, but his eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like excitement. "Yes? Is everything alright, John?" Sherlock inquired. "What is a severed arm doing in my bed?" John spoke in an even tone and with an admirable amount of control, as was indicated as necessary by the tension in his muscles, tight set jaw, and disappearance of the intermittent twitch in his left hand. "It's an experiment." Sherlock stated as though it were the most obvious thing on Earth, and due to the circumstances and Sherlock's habits, it may have been just that. "I know it's an experiment! What I do not know is what it is doing in my bed!" John snapped, turning his head to glare at Sherlock. Raising his eyebrows and tilting his head slightly downwards in order to look at John more squarely, Sherlock intoned,"What is and is not in your bed-" Unfortunately, the sound of Sherlock's cell phone going off cut him off.
   Pulling his cell phone out, Sherlock drawled,"Good evening, Lestrade. Do you have a new case for me already?" "I'm sorry to call you so late, and right after a case, too, but I'm going to need you to come in first thing tomorrow morning." Lestrade's voice came through the phone sounding calm. "Tomorrow morning? Why so late?" Sherlock cast a confused glance towards John. Exasperated, John just left the room to make some tea and soothe his nerves. "Well, our new case is not local. The FBI has requested our assistance on a case that they have been working on for several years now, and we accepted in order to keep U.K.-U.S. relations healthy. As of right now, we know very little about the case, but we do know that it pertains to serial killings all over the U.S. The known perpetrators are Sam and Dean Winchester, sons of John and Mary Winchester." Lestrade explained.
   "There is enough evidence to convict them, but no one can catch them," Lestrade began. "They have escaped from jail, a mental asylum, and faked their deaths. Legally, they don't exist, and their father hasn't been sighted in years. It isn't much, but several FBI agents are arriving tomorrow with more details." "Why should I care about foreign affairs? If it's not in London, or at least England, then it doesn't concern me." Sherlock said with finality. "Sherlock, they only contacted us because they have reason to believe that they're traveling to England." Lestrade confessed. "Very well, then. John and I will head over first thing in the morning." Sherlock conceded. He hung up swiftly, turned on his heel, and stalked off to find John.
   John was pouring tea from a kettle into two cups, seeming far more relaxed then several minutes prior. He was used to Sherlock leaving body parts around the apartment, claiming that they were "experiments". Before he was mostly sure that he only did this to mess with his head, and the severed arm in his bed pretty much confirmed this theory. He shouldn't have been that distraught over the whole thing, beeing used to it, but he had had a long day and now he'd have to sleep on the lounge chair instead of his own bed.However, now had quickly decided that he was so exhausted that he would fall asleep anywhere after he finished his tea.
   The familiar swishing sound of Sherlock's long coat (he hadn't bothered to change either, although John doubted he'd go to bed that night anyway) alerted him to his companion's entrance to the kitchen, so he turned to face him, offering him the other cup. "So we have a new case already? We just got back from the last one, and I haven't even slept yet, no thanks to you." Watson inquired. Most people would think that he was complaining, because he was. However, Sherlock knew that at the same time, he was loving everything about it. "We are meeting with the FBI in the morning, around nine o'clock." Sherlock responded, sipping the tea and spitting it out. He grabbed John's cup and poured it out in the sink with the rest of the contents of his own cup. Then he dropped the cups and began to rinse his mouth out with a new one. Looking indignant, John asked, "Was it really that bad?" "No, no, it's just...well, I wouldn't have drank anything from that kettle, and I wouldn't have drank that tea if I'd spotted it before." Sherlock replied, pausing from his actions while he spoke and continuing when he was finished speaking. Paling, John rushed for the sink and began to rinse his mouth out too.
   After a full minute of repeatedly swishing water around their mouths, spitting it through their teeth, and hoping that whatever Sherlock did to the pot wouldn't cause a fatal illness, they decided that their mouths were sufficiently cleansed. "W-what did you do to that pot?..." John asked hesitantly. "You really don't want to know, John." Sherlock replied solemnly. Wishing to finally go to bed, John left the kitchen and lay on the couch, pulling the decorative blanket from the top of the couch and draping it over his lean frame. Sherlock wandered in, opened his mouth to say something, then shut it and walked away. "Sherlock? Why are we meeting with the FBI?" John called after him. "Go to sleep, John." Sherlock called back.