It was another cold, cloudy day in London. The weak sunlight peered through the shades of the windows to 221B. John was busy typing away on his blog, content to be sitting in the (mostly) quiet living room, after spending two long days on a case. Sherlock, however, was quite the opposite. He was twitching; his fingers thumping a tune on the arms of his chair, his heels bouncing up and down on the ground. John ignored him as long as he could, but to no avail.
"Bored, John," he said hastily.
"Shall I make a cuppa, then?" John replied, not looking up from his screen.
"I need a case, John!" he practically shouted.
"Right then." John saved his work, then got up, closing his laptop. He made his way to the kitchen, pulling out the kettle. He was just putting it on the stove when Sherlock's phone announced a text message.
"John," Sherlock called, bounding off his chair and into the doorway to the kitchen.
"Got a case, then?"
"Lestrade," Sherlock said, ignoring him. "Three murders, well, suicides, Lestrade seems to think. Why didn't he tell me sooner?" And just like that, he was striding down the hallway to his room, stripping his dressing gown as he went. John grinned and turned the stove off.
Twenty minutes later, they were in a taxi, heading to the scene of the latest 'suicide'.
"So, why do you think it's murder?" John asked, forever curious about his friends' deductions.
"There seems to be a pattern to the deaths. I ran the names of the victims. They were all male, foreigners, and on vacation with their significant others. So, no reason to kill themselves. All deaths were drownings, but all three were professional swimmers. Plus, they drowned in the tub."
"Lovers killed them?"
"No," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, if not a little bored, "all had alibis, same one, actually. They all went out to get dinner. Plus..." he trailed off for a moment.
John realized he wasn't going to say more, and asked, "Any ideas?"
"A few, but I need to see the bodies and scenes."
They sat in silence for the rest of the trip. As they pulled up to the hotel of the latest victim, John noticed Anderson by the front door. Oh God, here we go.
"No, Lestrade called you?" Anderson said, exasperated as Sherlock and John approached.
"Obviously," Sherlock retorted. "Oh, let me guess, you think these were suicides?"
"Of course they weren't suicides! Who drowns in a bathtub? Their wives must have killed them."
"I agree," Lestrade's voice replied. He was standing in the doorway, just behind Anderson.
"Unless they're all idiots, that doesn't make sense! Why would they kill their lovers when they're the only suspects? There must be something else! Let me see the scene," Sherlock said, pushing Anderson out of the way and brushed past Lestrade. John, looking down, followed.
The hotel room was ordinary enough; a plain wallpaper, a huge mirror outside the bathroom, and a single, large bed in the middle of the room, with an old TV facing it.
"Nothing looks...off," John said, looking around. Sherlock said nothing and made his way to the bathroom.
Lestrade's annoyed voice came in from outside. "Why wasn't I notified of this?"
"Couldn't tell ya," a male voice replied. As John and Sherlock, head poking out from the bathroom, looked at the door, two men, followed by a pissed-looking Lestrade, walked in. The taller was skinny, his brown hair hanging to his chin. The shorter one had short, spiked brown hair. His shoulders were much broader, and you could see the muscles through his white shirt. They were both dressed in charcoal-grey suits, the latter having his coat unbuttoned.
"I'm Dean, and this is Sam," the short one said in a gruff voice. "We're MI6." He held up a badge, then held out his hand to Sherlock.
"Oh, Americans," Sherlock retorted, ignoring the outstretched hand. "Well, we're done here. John," he said, leaving the room. John hastened to follow, nodding a hello (and goodbye) to the men in suits.
"Figured it out, then?" John asked when they were safely in the cab heading home.
"Just as I thought, not a suicide." John looked confused, but Sherlock was refusing to explain.
"So, those MI6 guys..." John trailed off.
"They weren't MI6."
"Wha-really?"
"Obviously," Sherlock said, glancing sideways at John.
"How could you tell?" John inquired.
"Besides the fact that they're American? They were obviously brothers. They carried no standard weapons found on MI6 personnel, and they had the wrong colored suits, with no ties. Plus, the IDs were fake."
"So, who were they?"
"No clue, but I'll find out," Sherlock said with a tone of definition.
The next day was just as gloomy as the previous. John awoke to find Sherlock already up.
"No sleep?" John yawned groggily.
"No time," Sherlock replied. Before John could complain about Sherlock's sleeping pattern, or lack thereof, the doorbell rang. They glanced at each other and nodded; John grabbed his pistol and went for the door. He opened it to find Dean and Sam, still in the suits, standing on the top step of the doorway.
"Sherlock Holmes?" Sam asked.
"John Watson. Sherlock's over there," he replied, gesturing and putting his gun away.
They came in, but before they said anything, Sherlock started with, "Who are you both. Really?"
"We're MI6-"
"Oh please," Sherlock scoffed. "You're obviously American brothers here for some reason or another." They looked at each other.
"Detective Lestrade did say you could see right through people," Sam said. Sherlock merely shrugged.
"Well, no point lying, though we doubt you'll believe us. We're hunters," Dean replied slowly.
"What, like bounty hunters?" John asked.
"Not exactly. We hunt...things. Paranormal...supernatural things," Sam explained. He continued when they looked at him skeptically, "like, demons, ghosts, vampires..."
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me. Those things don't exist. It's impossible," Sherlock sneered.
"It's not impossible. It's our...job," Sam replied innocently.
Sherlock ignored this; John could tell by his face that he was deep in thought. Did he really believe them?
"So, why are you in London?" John asked.
"We were sent," Dean replied with a tone that said no more questions about that.
"And you think this is...supernatural?" John was definitely skeptical; this was just too weird.
"We're thinking ghost. The smell, the deaths, everything adds up," Dean said.
"We're also thinking that the spirit in question had something against swimmers," Sam finished. John noticed Sherlock sit up a little straighter. Dean opened his mouth to continue, but Sherlock's phone announced a text.
"Ah, there's been a fourth," Sherlock said happily, a little too happily, without looking at his phone. Sherlock and John got dressed, then led Sam and Dean out into the brisk London air. They climbed into a cab as Sam and Dean got into their black, rented car.
"Where's this one?" John asked.
"It's different this time; a house, not a hotel."
Once at the crime scene, Sherlock rushed in without waiting for John, the brothers hot on his heels. Lestrade was inside, directing his team, when he saw them.
"Thank you, Inspector. We'll take it from here," Dean said in an commanding tone. Lestrade looked like he was going to argue, thought better of it, and left with his team, Anderson throwing Sherlock evil looks as he left.
As Dean and Sam went towards the bathroom, Sherlock went to the kitchen. Something caught his eye when he first walked in, and he wanted to investigate.
Everything in the kitchen looked normal, if not too clean, but there was one thing that made Sherlock's heart skip a beat. On the perfectly clean, tile counter top, there was a smooth, wooden bowl. And in this bowl, there was a variety of fruit. And right on top, perfectly in the middle, was an apple with I.O.U. carved into it.
No. It couldn't be. But there it was. Proof. Sherlock hadn't told anyone about the apple, not even John.
John.
"John!" Sherlock called, turning around. But John was gone. No.
All rational thought stopped running through Sherlock's mind. Nothing mattered except John was gone. Sherlock's legs seemed to work on their own, moving him quickly to the door, but a body blocked him; it was Dean. Sherlock tried to shove him out of the way, but Dean grabbed him by the shoulders.
"Where would he have gone?" he asked, glaring directly into Sherlock's eyes. He sat there for a moment, his mind seemed to be moving through honey.
"The pool, " he replied. Obviously.
"Which pool?" Sam started to ask, but Sherlock had broken out of Dean's grip, and was out the door. The brothers exchanged a look, the followed.
"Dammit!" Dean yelled suddenly.
"What?"
"Stole the car keys!" And sure enough, the rental keys to Dean's black Ford Focus was gone.
It was as if Sherlock had gone back in time. He walked into the pool area and was face to face with John. But something was off; John had a grin that didn't belong to him. It sent chills down Sherlock's spine.
"Well, this is a turn up, isn't it?" he asked, completing the illusion.
"John?"
"Close, but no," not-John replied.
"Moriarty," Sherlock muttered.
"Ah, you could tell. I'm flattered," he replied in a sing-song voice.
"But, you're dead," Sherlock said bluntly.
"No shit, Sherlock!" he yelled unexpectantly.
At that moment, Sam and Dean came in the door behind Sherlock.
"Oh, brought back up, did you?" Moriarty/John called. The brothers looked at what appeared to be John, then looked at each other.
"Possession," they said simultaneously.
"And, they're idiots," Moriarty/John replied, looking disappointed.
"Why are you back?" Sherlock asked, his mind finally catching up with the events.
"To say hi."
"Tell me why you're here!"
Moriarty/John sighed. "Hell was so...boring. I thought you could spice it up."
Sherlock was faintly aware that Sam and Dean were whispering behind him. Then, Dean slowly came up and muttered in his ear, "Any idea where his grave is?"
"On his family's property. 6356 Rosewood Drive. James Moriarty," he murmured back. Of course he knew. He had to visit the grave to make sure the nightmare with Moriarty was finally over. But, apparently, it wasn't so.
Dean was instantly gone. Sherlock watched Moriarty in John's body, waiting for his first move. Sam was rustling in his pockets behind Sherlock's back.
"Shall we begin?" Moriarty/John asked. Not quite sure what he was planning, Sherlock didn't answer. Moriarty moved John's body towards him, bringing his right arm back. Sherlock went to block, but he was too slow. No, that's not it. He couldn't bring himself to hurt John. Pain exploded in his left cheek as Moriarty/John sent him flying with a well-placed right hook. He landed hard on the cement floor, his instinct to tuck in his chin saving his head from slamming on the ground. He was dimly aware of Sam speaking in what sounded like Latin. Moriarty/John, instead of going towards Sherlock, ran at Sam. Sam, nose deep in a small, black, leather bound book, glanced up just in time to catch a punch in the throat. He fell back, gasping and coughing, the book landing a short ways away.
"Trying to exorcize me, tch," Moriarty/John scoffed.
Dean finally found the address after driving for about twenty minutes, his GPS yelling commands at him. The estate was beautiful and expensive; the hedges were perfectly trimmed, and a black, wrought-iron gate stood locked in front. Dean jumped out of the car, grabbed his bag of supplies from the trunk, and went to the gate. He peered through and could make out the silhouettes of tombstones. He threw the bag over his shoulder and hopped the gate with ease. He pulled out his flashlight and flipped it on. He wandered into the graveyard, his light flashing on the names, looking for one James Moriarty. After about five minutes, he came to the grave site. He hefted the shovel off his shoulder, and drove it into the dirt.
Sherlock's head was swimming, blood filling his mouth. Pain flashed through him every couple of seconds as Moriarty, in John's strong and well-toned body, sat on his chest, punching him over and over again. Suddenly, the pressure on his chest was gone with a loud CLANK that echoed in the empty pool hall. Sherlock rolled onto his side, spitting out blood. He looked up and saw Moriarty/John on the ground, holding the back of his head. Sam stood next to Sherlock, a metal pool cleaning net in his hands. He helped Sherlock up and gave him the net, then continued reading in Latin from the book.
John's body convulsed as Sam's voice rang out. He stood up and desperately lunged at Sherlock. But Sherlock was ready this time. It's not John. It's not. He raised the net defensively, took a step back, and felt his stomach do a weird flip as he fell backwards. He didn't realize how close to the water he was, and his foot had missed the floor, sending him into the pool. He dropped the net and swam to the surface, taking in a lung full of air. But before he could even close his mouth, there were strong hands shoving him back under the surface. The water rushed into his mouth; his lungs burned with the first wave of water flooding into them. He coughed, his air leaving him in violent bubbles. His consciousness flickered.
Finally, with his arms burning, Dean looked down on a beautiful black coffin. He ripped it open and found the bones of Moriarty laying inside. He climbed out of the grave and grabbed the container of salt. He turned it over, emptying its contents into the coffin. Dean then emptied a can of gasoline.
"Let's light the bastard up," he grunted, lighting a match and tossing it in.
Sherlock could feel his brain slowing. He knew he was on the cusp of death. His limbs were too heavy to move, and his lungs and throat burned. He floated just under the surface, unable to get to the precious air inches away. He opened his eyes and looked up at the blurred figure that was John.
So this is what dying feels like...
Suddenly, John's silhouette was gone, and a hand grabbed Sherlock's arm, dragging him out of the water. He landed on the cement, hacking up water, his lungs and mind burning anew from the lack, and now sudden intake, of oxygen. His vision blurry, he looked around and saw Sam standing over him. But Sam wasn't looking at him; he was looking at a dark shadow, hovering a few feet off the ground.
All of a sudden, the shadow burst into flames. Moriarty's voice screamed from the center of the burning shadow. Slowly, it descending through the ground, and was no more.
Eyes still watering, Sherlock looked around for John. He was laying a couple of feet away, apparently unconscious. Even as he watched, however, John stirred, sitting up groggily. Relief spread throughout Sherlock, a faint smile touching his lips, before he gave into the darkness tugging at his mind.
Sherlock awoke in a warm, comfy bed. He rolled over, please to find a glass of water for his sore throat.
"Sherlock?"
He heard the familiar voice, and felt truly happy for the first time in years. John was standing in the doorway, looking relieved to find Sherlock awake, but with worry still painting his eyes.
"Are you alright?" he asked, coming into the hospital room.
"Of course," Sherlock replied, his voice hoarse. He took another drink of water, his throat still sore. "What about you?
John's face fell. When Sherlock gave him an imploring look, John walked over to the window, gazing out at the night sky.
"I'm not hurt, but I did try to kill you..." he trailed off. It sounded like he was talking past a lump in his throat.
"Oh, come off it. You were possessed; there was hardly anything you could have done. Speaking of which, where's the brothers? I have questions for them. Ghosts, possession, Hell? These things are, or should be, impossible."
John grinned as Sherlock rambled. He was forgiven for trying to kill his best friend, even if it wasn't really him.
"They made sure you were alright, then caught the first flight back to America, though Dean didn't seem so keen on flying. Anyways, they have another 'job' already," John explained.
His smile grew as Sherlock burst into a long-winded rant, and John knew that this would not be the last time they heard of Sam, Dean, or anything supernatural.