Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Also, this is the sequel to another story, called "The Consulting Hunter", which can be found on my page.

Also again, This story is supposed to lack shipping, because that's not what I want the focus to be, so I apologize if my Johnlock and Destiel tendencies shine through. I can't help it.

Rated T for some language.

Sam was the one that called, because Dean couldn't believe they had to stoop to this level. Again.

They had called Bobby already and he had no clue what was going on. People were vanishing, but as far as Sam or Dean could tell, there were no clues at all. Not even one.

So there Sam was, on the phone with him. Dean was standing close enough that he could hear the conversation.

"Sam Winchester," the smooth, haughty voice said, not needing to ask who was calling.

"Hi Sherlock," Sam said awkwardly.

"Are you finding yourselves in need of my assistance?"

Dean grumbled, but Sam elbowed him in the stomach. "Yeah, actually."

"Tell me what's happening."

"People are being kidnapped."

A short silence. "That wasn't terribly helpful. Could you, perhaps, elaborate?"

"He's being so polite today," Dean said dryly.

Sam covered the mouth piece. "Dean, shut up. We need his help." He uncovered it. "That's the thing, there isn't anything else to tell you. We can't find any clues. No blood, no sulfur, no sign of struggle, no ectoplasm… nothing."

Sam could almost hear Sherlock's interest peaking over the phone. "Serial disappearances with no clues?" he said excitedly. Since it was normal to get excited about people vanishing and possibly dying. But they already knew Sherlock had a fascination with bad things happening to people, so Sam said nothing. "What about a pattern?"

"There isn't one."

"There's always a pattern."

Sam sighed. "Then we can't see it."

"Oh yes, this is perfect!" Sherlock sang. "I can't miss this one. John and I will be there in a few minutes."

"Minutes? Aren't you in Lond—" And that's when the line went dead.

"Did you even tell him where we are?"

"Nope."

"He's a weird son of a bitch, man."

"I know."

Sam and Dean were about to get into the Impala to go back to the motel when Sherlock Holmes and John Watson appeared in front of the car… with Castiel.

"Cas?" Dean grunted, getting back out.

"Hello Dean."

"You went and picked them up?" Dean asked.

"It seems," Sherlock said before Cas could answer, "that your angel is mildly enthralled with John. He comes to visit sometimes. So when John called, he answered. And here we are."

Sam got out too, looking at his brother. He had to try really hard not to laugh at the look on Dean's face, because he knew what it was: jealousy.

"You and John are all buddy-buddy now?" Dean demanded of Cas.

"I'm allowed to talk to other humans," Cas reminded him.

"Dean's just upset that you got a new favorite," Sherlock said.

"Nobody asked you!" Dean hollered at Sherlock, who smirked. "Do you just like pissing people off?"

"All I do is tell the truth, people just don't like it. Especially you. I hardly have to say a thing and you're already yelling. If you just spent a little less time eating and more time observing, maybe you would see these things too." Sherlock looked Dean up and down. "Though I doubt even that would help you."

"Sherlock," John muttered.

Sherlock had one of his very frequent mood swings, then, suddenly looking furious. "Stop trying to get me to behave, John! I'm not a child!"

"Then stop acting like one."

Sherlock turned to John, glaring at him murderously.

"Would it make this argument stop if I said that Dean is still my favorite human?" Castiel asked.

Dean looked a little embarrassed. "That does make me feel a little better, yeah."

"How old are you?" Sam asked.

"Shut up."

Then they both looked to John and Sherlock, who were having a glaring contest.

"Sherlock, please. Could you try to cooperate for just a day or two?" he paused, then spoke a little more quietly. "You know I've been waiting for them to call ever since they left," he admitted. The boys looked to each other in surprise.

"You never said it out loud, but it was obvious," muttered Sherlock.

"And if you keep on being a git, then they'll make us leave."

"They'll just make me leave. You can stay," Sherlock suggested.

John smiled a little. "You know I wouldn't do this without you," he said. This made what was left of Sherlock's glare go away. "So if you could not ruin this for me, that'd be great."

Sherlock was quiet. Dean and Sam couldn't help but marvel at the way that John could tame the shrew that was Sherlock Holmes. It was like John was the only thing that spoke to his humanity at all. Dean shuddered to think what Sherlock would have been like before he knew John. Maybe that was part of why Castiel was so fascinated with him. If he could keep Sherlock under control, what else could he do?

"It's starting to get dark," Sherlock said to the boys, his voice much more subdued now. All the usual arrogance was gone. "I suppose you are staying at a hotel, by the smell of you."

"Smell?" Dean muttered, sniffing himself. Did he smell bad?

"The generic soap that can't be bought in stores. Either you carry it around with you—which I doubt, because it doesn't smell or feel great—or you recently bathed at a motel."

Sam suddenly found himself intrigued. "You can really guess things like that?" he asked.

"Don't get him started," John said.

"What can you see about me?"

"Oh no, now you've done it," John muttered. Sherlock ignored him, looking Sam up and down.

"Much of it is obvious, things anyone could see. Your clothes are old and worn, bought for you years ago. You also have your hair grown long. Both suggest that you don't particularly care about personal appearance. You do keep yourself clean shaven, however, so that means that you probably don't want to look too out of place. Everything about your clothes make it seem that you are trying to blend in, in fact, but that is probably hard, considering your size. Your shoes are in very bad shape, which implies you are very active, as do your physique. You stand with your shoulders squared and feet apart, as if in warning to anyone who talks to you that you could hurt them. The thing is, you're already extremely tall, so you don't need to do that to show you're not someone to trifle with, so this means you probably are a little insecure about how much damage you could actually do, which is obviously because of your older brother, Dean. You usually stand behind him, first of all, which makes it seem that you are usually following his lead, even though you are the brains of your duo. Which means that all throughout your life, you were taught that brawns are more important than brains. Your brother, he stands much more at ease than you, implying he is not in question of whether or not he could hurt someone, but unless he is in a conversation when he needs to be charming, he dons a pretty menacing glare, which is his way of keeping people away. He stands protectively in front of you, even in a casual conversation where he needs not worry about you getting hurt, which means that the action is subconscious, and thus it has been hardwired into his brain that he needs to protect you, maybe to a point that it hinders him protecting himself. Shall I go on?"

Sam blinked. "You honestly got all that from looking at me?"

"Or he guessed based on what he's already seen," Dean said.

"There was no guessing about it. It's the Science of Deduction. I think you could be rather good at it, if you tried," he said to Sam.

"It's what Sherlock does," John said. "I've seen him do it a thousand times. He really can see all those things just by looking at a person." He said it in some sort of reverence, like he really admired Sherlock.

"That's cool," Sam agreed.

"I also think that was 'cool'," Castiel added, with air quotes around 'cool'. Everyone had almost forgotten about him being there.

"Yeah, if you think weird as hell is cool," Dean said.

"Stop it," Sam muttered.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Let's just get back to the motel, okay?" Castiel vanished a second later and the other four got into the Impala.

"This is a great car," John said.

Dean smiled. "I know, right? Baby's pretty great."

"Usually 'baby' is used romantically, but I suppose I shouldn't assume you are in a relationship with your car."

"Sherlock, I thought you were being nice."

"I was only—" Sherlock started, but when John glared, he sighed. "Fine. I'm done."

They got back to the motel and John and Sherlock got the room next to Sam and Dean's.

"See you in the morning," Sam said to the other two. Dean didn't speak.

"It's just humiliating, having to call them," he said when Sam had shut the door.

"Dean, I can do all the talking, okay? He just needs to help for a little bit. It'll be fine. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

Dean woke up feeling like something was wrong immediately. He couldn't really say why.

Then he looked over to Sam's bed. It was empty. He stood up, looking in the bathroom. "Sam?" he muttered. He looked around for another few seconds and got a really bad feeling. "Sammy?"

He ran out the motel door, looking around. The car was still out there, which meant...

"SAMMY!"

A second later, John came rushing out of his room. "What's wrong? Why're you yelling?"

"Sam. The son of a bitch took Sam."