Disclaimer: I own nothing.

For those of you who have read the two stories that precede this one (The Consulting Hunter and The Untraceable Enemy), or any of my other stories, these chapters will likely come out much slower than I usually get them out because I'm back in classes. I'll try to get one out every other day, which should be easy unless I get a lot of homework very suddenly.

Also, if you haven't read the two stories that precede this one, I suggest that you do, or you won't understand some of the references.

Also again, this will have more Sherlock spoilers than the other two, up until the end of season 2. You have been warned.

John had no idea what to do until he saw the giant bag of salt.

Before that, he'd been lost. Sherlock had been cooped up in the flat for almost a month, doing nothing but sitting on the computer and researching something. This wouldn't have been particularly odd, except for the fact that he didn't even leave the house for cases. Sherlock had put in a lot of effort to get Lestrade's trust back. It had been important to him to get back to his job, to get back to consulting. And Sherlock had done it, and he had been happily—well, happily in the weird, Sherlock sort of way—going about his daily routine… until suddenly, one day, John came home from work and Sherlock had been sitting on the couch, staring at the floor. John ignored it for a long time. After all, Sherlock was like that sometimes. He turned on the telly and tried to ignore him, but it didn't work. Sherlock was even more distracting when he was silent. After a few hours, John was tired of waiting for Sherlock to talk.

"What is it?" John asked.

Sherlock looked up suddenly, as if he hadn't realised anyone was there. His eyes were wide, his breathing was shallow, he was twitching oddly… John had only seen Sherlock that way once, and he hadn't liked it the first time. It was what Sherlock Holmes looked like when he was scared.

"Oh, you're… of course…" Sherlock replied, looking mildly calmer as he met John's gaze.

"I'm what?"

"You're, well, you."

"That wasn't helpful."

"It's not time yet anyway. Of course it's you and not…"

"Not what? Sherlock, what's happening? Please tell me. Is it a case?"

"They're going to come. Whether I'm ready or not."

John really hoped that Sherlock wasn't trying to talk to him, because Sherlock was making no sense at all to John. "Sherlock, stop with the riddles."

"I have to be ready," he said as if John had said nothing. And he went to the computer. And that's where he stayed. For an entire month. He didn't sleep or eat or drink—well, John had forced water and food down his throat a few times, just so he didn't fall over dead, but he didn't do anything voluntarily except his damned research. John had considered hitting him over the head in order to force him to sleep, but decided he'd better not try.

Sherlock had never let John see it, so he had no idea what Sherlock was actually doing.

But then, one day, Sherlock got up. And he left the flat, ignoring John's questions about where he might be going. Then, a half hour later, Sherlock came back in, hefting a brown bag in one hand and a rather large sack of rock salt in the other.

John stood up. "It's supernatural!"

Sherlock looked over to John blankly. "Where've you been lately? Haven't seen you in weeks."

John wanted to punch him. Honestly, he hadn't seen him? Hadn't noticed him, not once? John clenched his knuckles to keep from throwing any fists. "Whatever's after you, whatever you're having a bloody fit about, it's supernatural."

Sherlock looked down to the bag of salt, then back to John. "Yes, a bag of salt is rather obvious, isn't it?"

"Yes, a little."

"But it's not anything to worry about. Got it handled, as you can see," Sherlock said with an easy smirk. Too bad John knew Sherlock way better than the genius knew. He could see it in Sherlock's eyes: he was still petrified. It's just that he was a master at hiding compromising emotions such as fear. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't have emotions—though he had less than the average bloke, sure—it was just that he didn't want to show emotions.

John didn't say anything, so Sherlock put the salt down by the door and went back to the computer with his brown paper bag.

So whatever it was, it was supernatural. Something nasty. Something Sherlock didn't think he could handle, or didn't know how to handle in the first place.

So yes, when John saw the salt, he knew exactly what to do. He got out his phone and went through it until he found the number he needed. It only rang once before the person on the other line greeted him.

"Yes, hello, it's John."

"John... John Watson?"

"Yes, I know, it's been a while," John said. Sherlock turned, looking mildly curious. John casually started walking farther back into the flat.

"Is something wrong?"

"Yeah, looks like it."

"Who is that?" Sherlock hissed. John turned.

"None of your business," he replied, then put his mouth back to the phone.

"Can you give us any details?"

"It's Sherlock. He's worried about something."

"John, who is that?" Sherlock demanded more loudly. John heard Sherlock's chair scrape against the floor as he got out of his chair to follow John.

"You don't know what?"

"No, but it's your type of thing."

"John!" Sherlock bellowed. "You called them? Why on earth would you call them?!"

The man on the phone asked something else, but John couldn't hear over Sherlock yelling.

"Get off the phone, John," Sherlock growled.

"Sam, wait a second, I need to get somewhere where I can hear you."

"JOHN!"

And at that John ran. Sherlock was between him and the door, so he could only go deeper into the flat. He went for the john and shut and locked the door. There was furious knocking outside a few moments later.

"John, put that phone down right now."

"Sherlock, you need help. They can help you."

"I don't need any help! I've never needed help a day in my life, John. Hang up on him!"

"Is he trying to kill you?" Sam asked.

"Wait, who's getting killed? Sherlock? I'd pay to see that," Dean could be heard saying in the background.

"Yes, a little, but it's fine, I'm locked in the toilet," John replied.

"You have a weirder life than I do," Sam said, "and that's sayin' something."

"Yes, yes, I know. The point is—"

John was interrupted by an extremely loud slam against the door. John looked over to it in alarm.

"What the hell was that?" Sam asked.

"Sherlock, honestly, don't break the door," John said. "I'm going to call whether you want me to or not. I'll just do it next time I leave the house."

"And I'll turn off your account."

"You need my account information to do that."

"Yes. Your point?"

Right, of course Sherlock knew his account information. "Could you please just come as soon as you can? It's kind of urgent."

"Dean, want to go to England?" Sam asked.

An audible sigh. "Sure, whatever."

"We'll be there within the hour," Sam said to John.

"Thank you so much. Come in with weapons in case Sherlock attacks you," John added nonchalantly.

"Hey, we kill monsters for a living. I think we can take Sherlock Holmes."

"Don't be so sure."

Sherlock stopped banging on the door when he heard John hang up.

"Are you going to hit me?"

"No, I'm leaving," Sherlock said. He sounded like he was going back down the stairs. John opened the door and sure enough, Sherlock was gone. He raced down the stairs and saw Sherlock putting the lamp back by the bookcase.

"You bludgeoned the loo door with our lamp?"

Sherlock turned. "You shouldn't have called them. I don't need them."

"Sherlock, you do."

"I don't. I'm locking the door."

"And Castiel will get them in."

"I'll angel-proof the flat."

"You don't know how to do that."

"Did you just accuse me of not knowing how to do something?"

"Right, that was stupid. But Sherlock, listen to me, you need help with whatever this is. You aren't okay, even though you keep talking as if you are. You've been completely frantic, which isn't like you. You just damaged our lavatory with the furniture."

"I always damage things. That's not different."

"You don't do it in desperation. Well, other than desperate boredom."

Sherlock actually smirked, then sighed and sat down, looking less angry now. Well, now he looked anxious like before—though he tried to hide it. "I wish you hadn't called them, John."

"You need help. You aren't comfortable talking to me about it—"

"So that makes you think I would be comfortable talking to them about it?"

"No. They'll force it out of you. And once they do, they'll help you. That's what matters to me. So they're coming and I won't let them leave until you talk to them. Maybe I'll have Dean take your bed…"

"Shut up."

"So will you talk to them?"

"No." He crossed his arms petulantly. "But I won't try to kill them when they arrive," he added.

"That's all I ask."