Hello, all. This is my first fanfic I've written. I know it was bold of me to go for Superwholock on my first try, but I was feeling daring. Please bear with me. I'm very new to this, so any tips/reviews would be greatly appreciated. (Rated T just in case. There will be Winchesters in the next chapter, if this one has any mild success.)

A/N (10/24/13): I thought now would be a good time to get around to posting a disclaimer.

DISCLAIMER: The main characters featured in this work of fiction do not belong to me. The Winchesters, Castiel, and Bobby Singer are the property of Eric Kripke, Warner Brothers, The CW, and other Supernatural affiliates. The Doctor and his companions are the property of Stephen Moffat, the BBC and its affiliates, and others associated with Doctor Who. Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, , and Mycroft Holmes are the property of Mark Gatiss, Stephen Moffat, BBC One, and other Sherlock affiliates. All other characters are property of yours truly.

Chapter 1: Once in a Blue Moon

-London, England-

Sherlock sniffed at the man sitting on the couch in 221b. The man had his face in his hands and there was a dull noise of John moving about the kitchenette, readying a cup of tea for the exhausted detective inspector. There was a soft scrape. Sherlock analyzed the sound and direction of the noise before reaching a conclusion. 'Porcelain teacup. Lestrade doesn't qualify as one of our more prominent guests. Typical. Predictable,' Sherlock noted inwardly. A cabinet door shut quietly. 'The top cabinet to the right of the sink,' he observed. 'Sugar cabinet. No sound of the refrigerator. He takes sugar, but no milk.' His deductions were automatic at this point.

John strode into the room, no sign of rushing seen on his face. He handed a cup of tea to Lestrade, who mumbled a "thanks" in return. John took his place in his large comfy chair to begin the meeting. Sherlock preferred to sit in his green chair that much resembled a cube. The geometric shapes of the chairs were oddly fitting for the two men, as Sherlock had observed. John's chair was big and soft, reflecting his hardened and intimidating ex-army doctor façade with a calming and kind side. Sherlock's chair was more sleek and modern, with a cube shape and a metal frame. Of course, it was only natural for the consulting detective to prefer this chair, as per his cold personality and sharp edges.

Sherlock leaned forward on his knees, his hands propped up to gently touch his lips. It was odd, really, the way his palms touched as if he were praying. He was a man of such little faith in things he couldn't see. He didn't believe in a God, or anything beyond his own world. He didn't even have much knowledge of the solar system, which John never failed to point out at the most inconvenient of times. And yet he often assumed this position of prayer as he entered deep contemplation. To him, it represented focus and alertness. It showed that he was listening, ready, and deducing. His mind was a machine, and demanded use daily. Logic was his god.

Lestrade sipped from his tea and placed the cup back in the saucer. Sherlock's icy eyes flittered almost imperceptibly across Lestrade's face and body. It was already beyond obvious that a difficult case was troubling him, or else he wouldn't have bothered to stop by Baker Street. Dark circles under the eyes indicate a lack of sleep, but what's keeping him up? Perhaps a case more difficult than usual? Hair slightly spiked, an indication of fingers constantly running through it, which meant he'd been nervous. But murder cases didn't unnerve him, so not a murder case. He overslept this morning, Sherlock could tell by the folds in his shirt because he hadn't had time to iron it. Grease on his fingers leftover from lunch, Sherlock had felt it when Lestrade shook his hand, so he had eaten at a local place near the police station. He wouldn't have had grease if he had brought his usual lunch, a sandwich made by his wife, of course. She must be out of town, as Lestrade was not much of a cook and was likely to forget to make himself a sandwich.

Sherlock's mouth twitched a small bit at the side, almost in a smile. His deduction had taken about a minute. Seconds, really. John noted the proud twitch and rolled his eyes. Usually impressed by the consulting detective's skill, John still considered it rude for Sherlock to deduce clients before they were given the chance to speak. Lestrade didn't notice. He looked up at Sherlock and smiled wryly. "Assuming you've already deduced why I'm here, you tell me," he scoffed knowingly. "What do you need to know?"

"What makes this one special? I don't do missing persons, you know," Sherlock said, eyes trained on the man's face, ready to pick up any change in emotion.

"Missing persons indeed," Lestrade began, sighing in a bug huff of air. He leaned forward to place his teacup on the coffee table, only half drained. "Five, to be exact. All from Cardiff."

"Were there any connections between the victims? Family? Sex? Occupation?" John inquired.

"Of course there were, all were on the verge of world-changing scientific advancements. What I'm interested in is what you've found that has you so unnerved that you need my help. I don't leave the flat for anything less than a seven and thus far this is measuring a two," came the clipped response. Sherlock's eyes never wavered.

"Well, how about this, then? All five just up and left. Neighbors saw them enter their house, but never leave. There are no fingerprints, no signs of any struggle, and no indication of how they got out, let alone who took them, where they took them to, or why."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, clearly through discussing the situation. "I'm sorry, but I don't think-"

"We'll take the case," John interjected. Sherlock glanced over at John, not saying anything. John just looked back at him, his features set in his determined face. His mind was so easy to occupy. Sherlock drank in the look of thought on his companion's face. He wondered what it would be like to have a mind like that, one that many would consider to be normal. He imagined it was a dull existence, but peaceful. John's mind could rest. Sherlock's mind required constant attention.

Lestrade's raised eyebrows almost touched the ends of his hair. "You will?"

"Yes," John said quickly. "We will." His eyes never left Sherlock's face.

There was silence in the flat, Lestrade's eyes snapping back and forth between the two men in direct opposition wondering which one would win out. There was a tension in the room that was nearly tangible and Sherlock and John just stared at each other, willing the other to crack. After a few seconds that felt like hours, Sherlock broke the silence.

"I need the files. I'll call tomorrow morning if it's worth my time," Sherlock slowly moved his eyes from John to Lestrade. Lestrade's shocked look didn't waver, but he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah, ok. Thanks," he offered up. He stood and grabbed his jacket. "Sergeant Donovan will be over shortly with-"

"Don't send Sergeant Donovan, or Anderson, for that matter, or I won't take the case," Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade huffed. "Pardon me. I'll send someone over shortly with the files." He strode out and John stood to shut the door behind him. Sherlock returned to his praying position and John knew his flatmate well enough to read the expression as one of silent frustration. John sighed, knowing he'd have to talk to Sherlock eventually, but he didn't want to. Sherlock wasn't going to like the fact that John volunteered his time and effort for a case that Sherlock didn't deem worthy.

"Sherlock-" John began.

Sherlock's head snapped to face John so quickly that he shut up right then. "Would you care to explain why I just accepted a case that I said only measured a two?"

"Sherlock, you haven't had a proper case in days and this is Lestrade that needs your help! Can't you accept this one just because it's the right thing to do? You can help these people."

"I don't 'help people,' John. I solve crimes. Murders, mostly, except for now. Now apparently I do missing persons, too!"

"Sherlock!" John yelled. He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed softly. "Sherlock, just take the case, alright?"

Sherlock studied John, ever the observer. He was clearly distressed by Sherlock's lack of morals, and Sherlock didn't like upsetting him. He was right, there hadn't been any cases in days. It had been a little while since Lestrade had last asked for his help. Besides, how long could this case take? All Sherlock needed was one look at the scenes, anyway. Maybe a few interviews. Then he could get back to his murders.

"Fine," Sherlock said tightly.

John let out a breath of relief. "Good. I need another cup of tea."

The Sherlock portion of this story takes place pre-Reichenbach Fall.