Chapter One- Two if by Plane
Sherlock drummed his fingers along the banister with practiced impatience. He felt ridiculous, childish, sitting here waiting like this. So this is what he had become. It was extremely inconvenient to have an...attachment. Even the word was irritating. Three and a half years ago he had selected someone who appeared to have been tolerable to share a flat with him, and now here he was. Sitting at the top of the stairs waiting to hear John's cab arrive, like some domesticated animal. The doctor had turned out to be far more than tolerable; he was now a necessity. As a graduate chemist Sherlock was quite familiar with the chain of hormones that produced feelings like infatuation in the human mind, and he had always felt a need to distance himself from such petty drunkenness. He had never experienced anything more than a biological love for his family, something that was a product of shared genes and extended time spent together. Now what he felt was much more. He hadn't expected it to feel so horrible. Yet not undesirable.
Stupid, stupid. You sound like one of them. You sound so terribly mundane Brother Dear.Sherlock waved his brothers' voice away in annoyance. Just like Mycroft to interrupt him when he was contemplating his most complex emotions. Even as a mental recreation he couldn't keep that nose out of Sherlock's business.
Outside the sound of a cab pulling up caught his attention, but he dismissed it when the passenger stepped out. Not John, obviously. Damn this waiting,Sherlock thought as he rose from his seated position on the top step. He was grown man, a genius. He should find something else to do, something that didn't involve thinking about John, who was distracting him even all the way from Bart's.
He paced the flat's living room, as much in anticipation for John as boredom. He needed a case. Well, that wasn't really true. As usual there was a long line of people waiting for replies to desperate emails, and as usual Sherlock had found none of them entertaining enough to bother. Some he had solved before he had finished reading them and still hadn't let the sender's know. His phone buzzed, and hope for a case rose like the tide. The tide receded when he saw the number.
"Mycroft."
"Hello, Brother Dear. I wonder if wouldn't mind dropping by my office, I have some very nice gentlemen here who would like to talk to you about something rather important." Sherlock pouted. This sounded like another political case, and frankly, he'd had no interest in those since the Woman.
"Mycroft, why do you insist on asking questions you already know the answers to?"
"How right you are Sherlock. I of course assumed you'd refuse, so I took the liberty of sending said gentleman to 221B. Put the kettle on and play nice, will you?"
"I won't take the case Mycroft. We've discussed on multiple occasions my aversions to anything high on your priorities list. These things always end up as more work than they're worth." He sighed like a tired parent.
"It's to do with Jim Moriarty." This elicited a millisecond of silence from Sherlock, which Mycroft rejoiced in on the other end line. Such silences were rare, and needed to be embraced.
"When did you send them?"
"They should be there momentarily. And they're Americans, so try not to use any big words or move to quickly; you might startle them. And for heaven's sake, don't make them shoot you. "Then he was gone, no doubt off to harass some diplomatic official or smoke with the Queen.
Sherlock turned his mind on. He had been in a state of complacency, still observing but not constructing. Now he was on high alert. Moriarty. The consulting criminal. He was dead. Of course he was. Sherlock didn't doubt himself, and certainly not the bullet he had seen go through the other man's head. But he had threatened John, drove Sherlock underground, and now the name was back to torment him. Downstairs Mrs. Hudson was letting men in. Two by the sound of it, and large. The detective took a seat in his armchair and crossed his long legs, feeling very much like a villain in a Vincent Price movie. Heavy footsteps up the stairs, and then they appeared in the doorway. Sherlock's mind went to work, and as the two men pulled out their badges he put them together in his head. What he found confused him.
Both men were in their late twenties and early thirties, and had all the tell tale signs of military service. Muscular builds the drawn faces of men who have seen and given out much death. On the other hand the lacked the order of soldiers. They both wore cheap suits and carried well concealed weapons. The taller one, the younger one, had shoulder length hair and a five o'clock shadow. The shorter one, the older one, seemed to be an alcoholic overcoming violent jet lag. They presented well made fake credentials that named them as Agents Stark and Banner.
"Mr. Holmes we'd like to ask you a few questions about James Moriarty."
"You don't have a case for me, do you?" This was an odd position for him- answering and interview rather than giving one.
"No. Just a few questions and then we'll be out of your hair."
"You're obviously not federal agents, and you're Americans so wouldn't have had much to with him in the criminal world. So you're after him for something else. You both have all the signs of prolonged exposure to war yet exhibit none of the tendencies of a veteran soldier. I should know, I live with one. Which leads me to wonder what you're really after? It is so very far to travel when a simple phone call would have done. "
The two men exchanged glances, the younger one looked annoyed and the older one looked tired. Now that he really looked, Sherlock was begging to suspect the two were brothers, judging by the way they moved around each other and their almost tangible codependency.
"I fold. Give him the birds and bees, Sammy. Better this way anyway." The taller one nodded and sat down in John's chair, which annoyed Sherlock to no end.
"My name is Sam Winchester and this is my brother Dean. We… hunt monsters."
"You don't seem to be speaking metaphorically." Dean snorted from the other side of the room where he was poking a glass Sherlock had filled coagulated blood for a case two days ago. He really needed to clean that out before John found it again.
"We're not. We think that the Jim Moriarty you dealt with two years ago was the same one that we've heard some...demons talking about, and we need to know what you knew about him." Sherlock turned his head back to Sam Winchester.
"Why?"
"All poetry aside, Jim Moriarty may have been a demon, and we need to know where he is so we can gank him."
"Gank him?"
"Kill him. Look I know this sounds-"
"No, no, no. I have an incredibly open mind. And if there is anyone walking this Earth who could be a demon, it's Jim Moriarty. "
"So you'll answer some questions?"
"I suppose. If in turn you answer one of mine for every one of yours." Sam Winchester didn't look thrilled with this request, but he seemed too tired to put up a fight. No doubt he would fabricate most of his answers anyway. Dean was flipping through a photo album of murder scene photos, looking at sometimes repulsed and at others impressed.
"Okay. So, did Moriarty ever make any Biblical references? Apocalypse, angels, that sort of thing?"
"He said to me these exact words, 'You're on the side of the angels.' And a few moments later he put a bullet in his head."
Dean joined his brother on the sofa and it creaked under the weight of the large Americans. "Did he mention specific angels? Or how about a douche named Crowley? He's British- maybe they had tea together." Sam ignored his brother and plowed on.
"If he didn't mention the Bible, did he ever talk about anything supernatural?"
"It's my turn for a question I think, if you would be so kind."
Sam conceded. "Shoot."
"We've already established that you're far from federal agents- and you certainly believe you're 'hunters.' I will grant you any information you want information of James Moriarty that you ask, and that's very generous of me, if you enlighten me on your world."
Dean snorted. "You wanna hunt? No offense buddy, but you're more Hannibal than Rambo."
"I haven't the slightest interest in…hunting. But as I've always said, one the key tenants of deducing is information. It has become very apparent to me that I may be lacking key components to solve cases."
Sam sighed. "Look, you help us find him, and we'll tell you whatever the hell you want."
Sherlock stood up, filled with excitement. He was standing on the precipice of new opportunities, he could feel it. If they were nothing more than mad men, at least he had something to entertain him for a while. If they were right- imagine the possibilities.
"Well then gentlemen, the games afoot."
