"Sherlock, don't you dare," John clutched the card in his hand, glaring at his flatmate with a stare colder than ice. Sherlock stared back at him, his expression blank excluding the unmistakable twinkle of mischief in his eyes. He moved his hands to a position similar to that of a prayer, his fingers resting just below his nose. He hummed quietly, actively fighting the smile away from his lips while he pretended to debate the decision that was presented to him.

"I think," He said, making sure to sound hesitant. He had long since made up his mind, but John didn't have to know that fact, "that I will purchase Mayfair for four hundred pounds."

"I hate you," John said after a moment's hesitation. The anger was fairly real in his voice; the doctor tended to take competitions of any sort very seriously. His hand shot out, forking over the last of the dark blue properties and demanding payment. John had elected to play as the banker, as Sherlock was fairly new to the game of Monopoly.

Sherlock let his smirk slip as he gently took his card and handed over the money. John snatched up the dice, not before releasing a sigh through his nose and noticeably calming, and tossed them onto the board. He moved his piece and landed on an unowned property. His whole attitude changed, his expression shifting to a much more mischievous one. He looked at Sherlock, a smile prominent on his face.

"Well, would you look at that."

"John," Sherlock said, a note of pleading in his voice. John had landed on the last space that Sherlock needed to complete a set and begin building his empire. John counted his money quickly, his smile growing. He had just enough.

"I'm going to buy Oxford Street for three hundred pounds." He announced, snatching the property card and paying himself. Sherlock grumbled, putting on a pout.

"It's called karma," John said, playing with the card with his fingers, "you better get used to it. She's a real b-"

Suddenly, the door of their flat burst open so hard it almost flew off its hinges. The men jumped to their feet, shocked but ready for a fight. Their jaws dropped when they saw who stood in the doorframe.

A young girl, no more than 9, stood with good posture. She wore a light pink dress with darker pink lace trimmings and a belt in the same color. She had a simple ribbon working as a headband the same pale color as the dress sitting in her long, straight, black hair. She had a pale complexion and blue eyes. She moved forward.

"I need your help." She said, demanding rather than asking. John, nerves easing, laughed to Sherlock and the child.

"What could you possibly need?" The doctor pushed. The detective, though, was lost in thought.

"John, come to speak with me in the kitchen." He turned to the girl. "You however, may take a seat." He pointed to the short leather chair they left for clients. The doctor followed Sherlock into the kitchen, confused. Why would Sherlock need to speak to him privately over a child? The door to the kitchen closed; Watson sighed at the head salivating on the table.

"I thought you'd already done that experiment." Sherlock glided to the decapitation and gazed into the mouth while prodding it open with a pen found on the table.

"Inconclusive," Sherlock said simply. John shook his head.

"My sister gave me that." He pointed out dryly, gesturing to the pen. Sherlock, still prodding, didn't need to face him.

"Yes, you haven't seen her in months, or at that even attempted to contact her. If your sister truly concerned you, you would have done so by now." Sherlock replied, still busy observing the inside of the dead man's mouth. John, having half expected a response of the sort, fought a half smile as Sherlock turned to face him.

"Why do we need to meet in here over the matter of a little girl?" John asked, changing the subject entirely.

"I can't read her."

"What do you mean 'you can't read her?' You can read everyone!"

"Obviously not everyone if I have failed to read a child. Her clothes are upper middle class but she is clean in some spots and dirty in others. There is a spot on her dress in which was recently scrubbed thoroughly in a pattern in which someone spilled something on her dress. She also has dirt under her nails and a nest of knots in her the left-right side of her hair. Her shoulder is also displaced on her left side…"

John looked at the detective, spacing out a little as he listed what he noticed. After a couple of seconds, he interrupted.

"Yeah, but, other than that, what makes her different from any other client? We've had younger clients before." He points out. Sherlock doesn't look up. He sets the pen back on the table and stares at the head in front of him.

"She has been sleeping outside for two days by the displacement in her shoulder and knots in her hair. But in a sleeping bag leaving her dress unaffected. Her dress is new and moderately priced, with a budget like that she should have been able to clean and change her clothes at her home. Where are her parents? Why would they let her wear a dress like that and sleep outside, it's moderately priced but used for special occasions... The scrubbing pattern is what I don't understand… It's not normal as if a drink were to be spilled on it. There are dark red traces on it as well, which I hope aren't what they are. Not to add the dirt under her nails and the… the-" He cut off and stuck his head out the door to glimpse at the child. He pulled himself back inside and slammed the doors.

"The blisters, she was digging. John, the spots aren't juice."

John stared at Sherlock, cold horror creeping through his veins. "You think… she was burying someone?"

"I don't think. I know." Sherlock said. Without saying another word, he walked back into the main room, his steely eyes meeting the little girls. "Who was it?"

"Who?" The little girl asked with an innocent tone.

"The person you were burying," John answered, having followed Sherlock out of the kitchen. His eyes were full of a parent-like concern.

"That's not important," the girl responded like the fact that she had been burying another human being was no big deal, "what it is that I need your help, Sherlock Holmes."

Suddenly, two men burst into the flat from downstairs. They were up the stairs before Sherlock or John could even make a comment. Both men pointed shotguns at the little girl, fire burning in their eyes.

"Don't listen to her, she's a demon!" The taller of the men shouted, glancing towards the flatmates.

John reached for his own gun, pulling it out and pointing it at the taller man. "Put the guns down." He said sternly. "Now."

There was a moment of hesitation before the two men lowered their guns slowly. John kept his gun high.

"Who are you, and why are you in our flat!?" He yelled, the years from when he was a soldier visible in this stance. The man who spoke first had shoulder length dark brown hair. He was tall, and when compared to John, a giant. He wore flannel in layers and jeans with boots, noticeably American. His companion was also tall but shorter by a few inches and about the height of Sherlock, but still intimidating against the man. The shorter of the men wore a leather jacket with a t-shirt underneath, also in jeans and boots. His hair was a light, doe brown and eyes candy green. The men had their guns pressed against the girl's back, out of John's concentrated view for the moment.

"My name is Sam Winchester, this is my brother Dean. We are hunters, we-" The man called Dean interrupted.

"We kill sons of bitches like this." Sherlock faced Dean.

"A child? There are no such things as demons. I'm sure you're here to tell us that ghosts, angels, and even God and the Devil exist too now aren't you." The detective retorted, mocking the men. Sam swallowed before responding.

"Actually yes-"

"And that's enough of that." spoke the 'Demon'. She looked at the brothers,

"You don't happen to know where Crowley is, or even your pet angel. Yes…angel radio would be useful right now." The boys looked at the girl. Dean raised his gun and pushed the end of it into her head. John's aim moved swiftly, his eyes dead set on Dean.

"Why do you need them, Lailah?" He asked, a growl in his voice. The girl didn't look at him, a smirk on her lips. Instead, her eyes met John's. She masked her previous exterior with a terrified expression, staring at the soldier with pleading eyes.

"Please don't let him hurt me. I'm scared," She whimpered. John reacted instantly. His breathing grew eerily calm, the panicked look in his eyes hardening to one of cold determination. He cocked his gun.

"I said put the guns down." Something in his voice must have hit Sam hard because he set his gun on the floor and raised his hands.

"Chill, man, we don't want any trouble," Sam said, trying to diffuse the situation. Dean just glared at John.

"You think I'm gonna listen to some short blond with a pistol? This girl is a demon, and if you think I'm going to let my guard down for a second you have another think coming." He said, cocking his own gun.

Sherlock could see that John was dangerously close to pulling the trigger. He had seen the face that John wore before, the most notable of times being when he had shot the cabby after they first met. He put his hand on John's arm gently. "John…"

John didn't look at his flatmate, completely separated from everything that didn't involve saving this girl's life. "Last warning." He stated simply.

"Dean, he's serious," Sam warned. Dean kept his eyes locked on the shorter man, not moving a muscle.

"So am I."