Disclaimer: All characters belong to their respected owners, except the ones I've created for the purpose of the plot.
A.N: For Supernatural, this is a slight AU that takes place at the beginning of Season 8. It doesn't interfere that much with the plot of the seasons, but diverts from them. It's a like a lost episode. For Sherlock, this takes place after series 3. For Doctor Who, this takes place during series 7, before the Doctor met modern-Clara but after he met Victorian-Clara.
Warning: There are graphic torture scenes later in the story and extreme angst that could be uncomfortable to some. This fic contains het and hints of both fem-slash and slash (mostly because of Jack Harkness.) There is also an OC, but she is only used for plot purposes and isn't a main character.
One
The Girl With The Ring
Dean Winchester woke gasping for breath and covered in sweat. It was a very familiar sensation, but it still left him breathless and afraid. He took deep, slow breaths to calm himself, and locked his gaze on something comforting: his younger brother, Sammy. Sam Winchester was sleeping in the bed opposite, his form rising and falling with his quiet snores. Over the beating of his feverish heart, Dean tried to think: Where was he? What was he doing? Then he remembered. He was in Iowa.
He and his brother had been drawn there by a chain of very bloody deaths, which had left nothing remaining of what could have possibly been called a person. To make matters more interesting, the latest victim would always be seen walking around the city, days after being killed. After a few days investigating, they discovered that it was a Ghoul roaming the area with a taste for fresh meat, and after taking the form of those it killed, as a sick joke, it would visit it's 'own' funeral.
That's how they caught it.
The Ghoul was walking down to the funeral home, dressed in a tie and a black suit, when the Winchesters located it. It had put up a good fight, but together, the brothers managed to kill it with a head-shot. Disposing of the body was a little harder, but they managed to remove it before the funeral began. Luckily, the Winchesters were not seen while they did any of this. This meant they could stay in a comfortable bed for a night longer without the police banging on their door. It was not something that happened often, nor was it something that they could allow to slow them down. There were too many monsters in the world, and not nearly enough hunters to deal with them, so stopping and staying was simply not an option. The brothers agreed leave the next morning.
It was 2:10 am. The night was still young, and the only sounds were Sammy's quiet snores and the occasional car humming past the motel. As Dean lay awake, listening to Sam's breathing, he felt his heart steady to a nervous rhythm. The fact that he knew Sam was there was a comfort. It meant that he wasn't alone and, in the end, that was all he needed.
After a while, Dean closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He lay still for a short moment, watching the light show under his eyelids, and then, uncomfortable, he turned over. Then he turned his pillow over, rubbing his face into the cold softness and sighing. His body felt hot and sticky. His clothes clung to him. At last, Dean hauled his himself out of bed with a sound somewhere between a sigh and a grunt, and he wandered sleepily to the wash room.
He stumbled from fatigue, his hand shooting out towards the wall to steady himself. He pressed his forehead against the door frame and sighed.
This didn't usually happen. But then again, Dean's nightmares weren't usually so vivid - so realistic - as the one he'd just experienced. Like all his nightmares, Dean remembered being in Hell. Everything was toneless, bland - a dark void. There were rusty chains so long that they stretched further than the eye could see. From the chains hung meat hooks; blunted so they'd hurt more when they stuck into you. Some of the hooks were empty, but most of them had souls dangling like rags from them. Every second of every day, hungry demons would tear into them, ripping and carving the flesh apart until there was nothing remaining, and Hell would be constantly filled with millions of screams.
Dean rubbed his eyes to expel the memories, both guilty and pained by them, but it didn't work. He found himself wishing that he was back in Purgatory, where everything was so pure and he felt clean - even with the filth on his skin and clothes.
In his dream, Alistair the demon came to him, handing him a blade with the promise that the pain would stop. Dean had clasped the blade firmly with a new resolve. Alistair pointed at the wailing soul of a woman, and then leaned across and whispered in his ear: tips for how to get the girl to really scream. Dean approached her, licking his lips like a wolf, and she begged him to stop. She begged, and begged, and begged - and that's when Dean sliced the lips clean off her face. He felt her hot blood oozing down his hands – then he turned off the hot water tap and dried his hands on the towel, shuddering.
Pull it together, Dean, he told himself, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. His reflection stared back at him mockingly, but Dean held his own gaze. He was Dean Winchester. He helped saved the world. He saved more people than he could count. He fought monsters for a living, and Dean Winchester was never, ever afraid.
Dean sighed - like he actually believed that - and buried his face into his towel. It was going to be a long night.
After a while, Dean pulled the towel from his face, and scowled at his reflection. He remembered something odd from his dream. A bright light had engulfed Hell and everyone in it. It reminded him of when the projector had burnt out, in school, and the picture melted away in a bubble of gold and orange, leaving only him with his knife. Steadying his knife in his hand, Dean looked left and right. The light had engulfed everything, but he still felt a presence there with him. He turned around, expecting Alistair to be there, but instead he saw a young woman. She was clean, wearing a white dress, and her skin was a sun-kissed brown. Her hair was blondish-brown and hung in curls over her shoulders and there was an orchid behind her ear. She was attractive, but it made Dean uncomfortable to think of her in such a way.
The woman had approached him, and Dean remembered feeling a painful throbbing as she did so. She slipped something into the pocket of his jeans and then vanished - which was when Dean woke in his bed.
Now, in the wash room, Dean slipped his hand into his pocket. He felt something small, hard, and cool; something that was not there when he went to sleep. Dean yanked his hand out of his pocket and found a ring laying in his open palm. It had a silver band, well-polished, with a milky white gem in it. There was something familiar about it, almost as if Dean had seen, or held, it once before. Dean held the ring between his fore finger and thumb and peered closer, turning the ring over in his fingers until –
"Holy crap!" Dean cried, jerking backwards as realisation hit him. The ring fell to the floor with a clatter and spun out of view. Dean flailed about in shock, bashing his shoulder against the shelf and knocking off all the shampoo bottles.
Uh, oh. Dean bit his lip. Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up!
Heavy footsteps made their way towards him. Damn it.
Sam appeared in the doorway. His eyes were still closed and his long hair was tussled from sleep. He yawned loudly, rubbed his eyes, and blinked at his brother. Dean was suddenly engulfed with an image of five-year-old Sammy as he tucked him into bed. He would ruffle his hair and Sam would playfully shove him away before curling up to sleep. Then, Dean would sit by his bed, a gun in his hand, waiting for their dad to return. Despite everything the brothers had endured, Sam still managed to keep a hold of himself, and he's suffered more than most people could bear. But Sam was still Sam - selfless little Sammy Winchester. Dean often wondered how he did it, when he, himself, felt so broken. Sam didn't even look annoyed at being woken - for crying out loud - he just looked curious and a little concerned for his brother's welfare. "Everything okay?" Sam said quietly.
Dean nodded meekly, unable to do much else. He wasn't entirely sure how he would explain the mess - and the ring at that! Also, to be honest, he felt too tired to even try. Something must have come off in Dean's response because suddenly Sam was wide awake, eyes large and staring at him with suspicion.
"What is it?" he demanded, "What's happened?"
"Nothing!" Dean said, too quickly.
Of course, Sam didn't look convinced at all.
Dean sighed, "Bad dream." He explained loosely, hoping it would be enough to deter his brother for the time being. He knew that Sam wouldn't give up so easily. It was admirable at times, but sometimes Dean wished he would leave him alone.
Sam gave him a sympathetic look, his lips forming a straight line. He nodded in understanding, and Dean silently thanked him. Before he left, Sam ran his eyes over the mess, raising an eye brow, "Just make sure you clean up." He gave the door frame a gentle tap, smiled, and turned away.
Dean nodded, "Right."
He waited until he was sure Sam had climbed back into bed, before he promptly dropped to the floor and began scrambling through the mess he'd made. He couldn't see the ring anywhere! Shit. Shit. Shit!
Dean swam madly through the bottles, pushing them away with his arms, but the ring was nowhere to be found. He dragged his hands down his face in his frustration. He checked under the shower curtain, hoping it hadn't gone done the drain. He looked through the bottles again. This time he picked up each bottle in turn and placed it on the shelf, making sure the ring was not trapped between or beneath them. He continued searching until, at last, he spotted a small silver shining thing beside the bin and dived forward to grab it, almost knocking his head against the wall. He pulled the ring to his chest and exhaled with relief.
The ring belonged to Death, the horseman, who'd probably make sure he died slowly and painfully if he lost it. He had enough beef with Death already – they didn't exactly have the best history, in more ways than one. Dean liked to think they could get along if – wait a minute.
Dean frowned: How on hell and earth did I get Death's ring?
The next morning was quiet, but the air was sourly flavoured with questions Sam had for his brother, hanging over them like water vapour. He was certain Dean hadn't gone back to sleep after the incident in the wash room. Usually Sam wouldn't worry about that, since Dean barely slept to begin with, but after last night he was keeping a close eye on him, and found that Dean was acting strangely. His first clue was when he woke up at 7:00 am and found Dean was pacing up and down the motel room. Since then, Sam watched Dean like a keen detective. He only left Dean alone when he went to go get breakfast and food for the road. He tried to act casual as he would every morning.
When he returned, Dean was slouched at Sam's laptop, rubbing his bottom lip in thought, but he slammed it shut when he noticed that Sam was in the motel.
"Pie?" Dean asked instantly, a hopeful gleam in his eyes.
"I got Twinkies." Sam replied, and Dean looked disappointed. It only made Sam smirk. He went past Dean and towards the kitchen, watching his older brother through the corner of his eye. His smile dropped when he noticed Dean delete the internet history on his laptop. Sam knew two things for certain: 1. Dean only used his laptop for last-minute research or porn, and, 2. Dean would never delete the history if it was porn and leave Sam to face the embarrassment. Dean was up to something, and he didn't want Sam to know what.
Sam turned away from Dean as he placed the shopping on the kitchen counter. He began to unpack the fresh fruit and vegetables, microwavable rice and pasta – the edible food rather than the things his brother consumed.
"I found a job." Dean said as he ate his Twinkies.
Sam frowned, unsure, but he pretended to be innocently curious, "Really? Already? I mean, we just finished off that Ghoul yesterday – are you sure you want to start working straight away?"
"Yep." Dean said and jumped up from where he was sat at the table. He strolled over to his bed, picking up his duffel bag, "So get packing. We're going to England."
Now that threw Sam off completely. "Wait, what?" Surely, Dean was joking? Why would he want to take a job all the way in England? It wasn't like there wasn't enough work in the whole of America to occupy themselves with. It was a big country, and monsters of all kinds were popping up all over the place.
Dean's face seemed to close off from Sam's, and he turned so he was facing the complete opposite direction, and there was no way Sam could read his emotions. Usually, Sam read him like a book, and Dean did not want Sam to know what he was thinking. So, Dean continued to pack, and said to Sam, "I found a job. There has been, like, twenty-million random, unrelated, disappearances around south England. So I'm thinking maybe Spirits…"
"Spirits follow patterns and rules." Sam pointed out. He saw Dean roll his eyes.
"Well maybe there is a pattern and I haven't spotted it yet!" he huffed. Sam felt a little torn for a moment, and came close to spitting back at him for being reckless, but then he realised that Dean was tense around the shoulders. It suddenly hit him that Dean was upset and was using a job as a distraction. Sam was getting increasingly concerned by the minute because this meant that Dean wasn't thinking clearly, and in their line of work, this could cost them both and many others their lives. Sam bit his lip and tried to think what he could do.
When Sam hadn't said anything, Dean continued, "…So, anyway, I just thought it's something we should check out." He looked over his shoulder at Sam expectantly, "So pack, Sammy. We need to prepare for anything."
Sam was surprised at Dean's tone. For a moment, he sounded a lot like their dad. And, instinctual, Sam retaliated. "How do you know this is our kind of thing?"
"Because..." Dean threw a tight smile over his shoulder, "Apparently, there was some weird flux of energy where each of the victims was. That's why I thought spirits. Maybe it's some kind of ectoplasm."
Sam folded his arms sceptically, pressing his lips together.
As Dean went to go get his jacket, Sam stayed where he was and continued to watch him. Sam noticed that Dean tried to discreetly slip something small and silver into his pocket before he pulled his jacket on, and he found himself curious about what it could be. Talk to him! Sam's subconsciousness ordered, but Sam's brain knew he wouldn't get a decent answer out of Dean while his brother was in this state. Dean was secretive, and Sam knew it was none of his business to pry.
But still, Sam found it difficult to keep his concerns to himself, especially when they were about his brother. The best solution would possibly be for him to stay quiet - but Sam found himself protesting at that thought. Whenever they'd kept something a secret from the other, it had always ended badly, and Sam didn't want to make that mistake again. With that in mind, perhaps it would be better to let Dean know of his concerns. As Sam thought about this, it seemed to become the better solution. Dean would learn that Sam was worried about him, and know that Sam was there to confide in. Sam hesitated just a moment longer but, at last, he spoke; slowly and carefully, with a voice laced with understanding and sympathy. "Dean, you only go on a non-stop working spree when you're upset about something."
Dean just scowled. His shoulders tensed up even more than they already had, as though he felt that he was about to be attacked. It was almost possible to say that he was. "What would I have to be upset about?" he snapped.
"I don't know." Sam replied honestly, because it was the truth, "But that just worries me more. Plus you're taking a job in England, which involves flying. And you said that every hunter in England is tied up. You can't expect me not to be suspicious."
"Dude relax!" Dean cried, waving his hands in exasperation "It's not like that!"
Sam raised an eyebrow, prompting him to go on.
Dean opened his mouth, closed it, and then moved closer to his brother. He forced a fake reassuring smile that Sam could see straight through, and after a pause he said, "Garth called, all right? Apparently, he contacted a hunter in England to check this case out, and he hasn't heard from him since. And all the other hunters are stuck six-feet underground dealing with a massive monster pest problem - I'm talking The Birds kind of massive. So, we're pretty much the only hunters on the table that Garth trusts to find this guy and stop whatever took him - what with everyone else we know being dead!"
Sam flinched a little at that. When he looked at Dean, his eyes where at the floor, his eyebrows drawn, looking like he wasn't sure why he said that the way he did.
But he seemed to be telling the truth. Or most of it, and although he wondered when exactly Garth could have called, the younger Winchester decided to drop his concerns for the moment. Hopefully, Dean would be ready to open up to him later on, before things got too bad. In the meantime, Sam decided he would focus on the new case and, quickly choosing to change the subject, he asked, "What was the hunter's name?"
His brother looked pleased with himself, his ego allowing him to think that he'd deterred Sam on his own. He went to go pick up his bag and replied, "Jack."
Sam was quiet. He remembered hearing that name before, but he wasn't sure where.
Dean mistook Sam's silence for confusion, and nodded, "Yeah, I've never heard of him neither."
Sam went over to his bed, where his duffel bag perched, and began packing. He put his clothes in first, folding each one carefully, while asking Dean, "Did Garth send you a picture, or anything to go on?"
"Come on – it's Garth!" Dean exclaimed, and Sam chuckled. Garth was a good hunter, really, but sometimes he missed the obvious, like - oh, I don't know - sending them a picture so they knew who they were actually looking for. "All I know is that they hunted together, like, once and that he was a friend of Bobby's."
Sam stopped. Bobby's name had struck a chord in his memory, "Wait. Did you say Jack?"
Dean stopped as well, but only to blink at his brother, "Yeah?"
"Jack, as in, Jack the specialist?"
Dean just blinked again, a dumbfounded expression on his face.
Sam stared at him with disbelief, "Dude, he was in dad's journal! They went hunting together!"
Dean stared at him for a moment, and then said, "I'm not even going to ask how you remembered that." He went to his bag and pulled out the tattered remains of their father's journal. Dean had tried to keep it in good condition, to honour their father's memory, but it was difficult when they went travelling all over. He leafed through the crispy brown pages which were scrawled in black ink and stopped abruptly. Sam looked at him curiously, when Dean began to read:
"– 'July 14th. Jack and I went hunting for the pack.'–"
Sam blinked. He waited for Dean to keep going, but when he didn't, he simply stared, not knowing whether he should be surprised or simply annoyed. "Is that it?!" he cried.
"Yep. Doesn't even say what they were hunting for - actually it's been rubbed out. I can't make it out." After a moment, Dean shook his head, slammed the book close, and slipped it back into his bag. It wasn't the first time they had consulted the journal with disappointing results. Once upon a time, their survival depended on what was written in those pages, but recently it seemed as though their father was keen on keeping secrets from them. The record secret so far had been the discovery of their half-brother Adam - Sam just hoped that was the biggest secret their father had to hide...
After a pause, Sam just shrugged, "Oh well. We can call Garth when we get there, and ask more about this Jack. In the meantime, we should just prepare anything." He slipped a small knife into his shoe, the one they mostly used for cutting the heads off of vampires, while Dean migrated into the kitchen. Sam moved to pick up the Angel blade, then paused, remembering their angel-friend, Castiel. He asked Dean, "Hey, are you gonna call Cas?"
Dean had been in the kitchen searching through the food Sam bought and packing the essentials: cake and sweets – Sam would have to go back later and pack the real food – because God knows that Dean never takes care of his health. He stopped and sighed when Sam asked about Cas. It wasn't that he didn't like Castiel - no, quite the opposite. It was just that he hated flying, and flying with angels was no different. In fact, it was almost worse. It felt like he was falling a thousand miles in a spilt second; his stomach would bash around in his insides and it left him nauseated. The only upside that made it better than an aeroplane is that it only lasted a second.
So, Dean closed his eyes, and prayed, "Dear Castiel, our not-so heavenly angel. We pray in your good name – yadda, yadda, yadda – get your ass here and help us out. Amen."
They waited in silence for a response. It was so quiet that they could hear each other's breathing. Then it came – a gust of wind as a bird lands after flight, its feathers slicing through the air in clean-cut gestures. Dean and Sam spun round towards the sound and there stood Castiel. He wore his usual tattered trench coat and the navy blue tie that was never done up right. His raven-black hair was sticking up: this was the only evidence of his flight.
"Hello, Dean." Castiel greeted. He looked at Sam and gave a polite nod, "Hello, Sam."
Dean grinned, his face brightening up instantly, "It's good to see you, Cas."
Castiel gave a small smile, too innocent for a mighty angel. He asked, "You required my help?"
"Yeah." Sam said, "We need a lift to England, London."
That's when everything became tense - or, at least, more tense then it already was. Castiel looked horrified to say the least. His blue eyes were wide with horror and longing, but also hesitation. For a being that was not meant to feel emotions, there were so many present on his face. His face was stiff with the weight of them.
The two brothers exchanged worried glances, and Sam asked, carefully, "Is that okay, Cas?"
Castiel didn't reply but nodded tersely and looked up again, a smile masking his face. Sam wasn't too keen with the response. However, Castiel had agreed and the two brothers positioned themselves in front of the angel, with their bags on their backs. Castiel lifted his arms, and the brother's quickly bent their legs before the angel pressed two fingers to their foreheads. They felt themselves lift of the ground for a moment and faster than the eye could blink, the ground returned as they found themselves on an unfamiliar street in the pouring rain.
Dean swung dizzily, a green look on his face, before he steadied himself and scowled at the rain. "Oh jeez." Dean muttered, glancing up at the dark clouded sky and then back at his brother, yanking his jacket over his head, "Fucking England, man."
Sam nodded in agreement, pulling his own jacket tighter around him as the shock of the sudden 10 degree temperature drop reached his skin, and he shuddered. "There's an apartment down there." He said, nodding his head to a row of buildings on the opposite side of the road, "If you get us a room, I can go to Scotland Yard and ask for some records."
Dean nodded in agreement, and then turned to where Castiel stood, "Hey, Cas, thanks for the…" The angel had disappeared, like he had never been there in the first place. Dean sighed, glancing round to see if the angel was nearby, but he was gone. Sam wasn't too surprised; Castiel didn't look very comfortable with the idea of coming to England. But there was no time to ponder about that. Sam turned to his brother, "I'll meet you in New Scotland Yard."
Dean nodded once, and the two brothers spilt up in opposite directions.
Sam knew his way around London because of a field trip he once went on with one of his schools. He remembered it was something to do with tourist attractions, in his Humanities class, and they had come mainly to analyse why London was popular. Sam didn't have many friends, no one who wanted to work or even be around him, the 'Freak', so he sneaked away from the class when no one was looking. He went around the stalls first, but ended up getting lost. He panicked for a moment, but when he saw the London Eye, standing tall as his beacon of hope, he got an idea. If Sam went on the London Eye, where he could see everything, wouldn't he be able to find his way back? He remembered being dazzled by the view and talking to a man who was older than he was but looked equally dazzled. They stayed on the Eye long after it went dark, talking about the amazing universe and the stars. It was only when the police came looking for him did he leave. He'd gotten in deep trouble for it, but he thought it was worth it.
Now, Sam made sure he wouldn't get lost.
He took a quick detour to some public toilets and got changed into his suit. It was not the most dignified thing to do, but the Winchesters had done worse. Much worse. He made sure he looked professional before he stepped out into the streets, pretending that he'd not just got changed in the toilets despite the looks he was getting. When Sam arrived at New Scotland Yard, he quickly got out one of his fake badges for the Secret Service. Usually, he and his brother picked to pose as the FBI for a case such as this, but Sam knew that the FBI had nothing to do with England and wouldn't work. He checked the name on the badge, and then slipped it into his inside pocket of his blazer.
As soon as Sam entered the building, the woman at the front desk glanced up. Her hair was red and tied into a long ponytail, and her eyes were round and blue and peered at him through small glasses. Sam got his badge out ready.
"Hi." He said, smiling, "I'm Sergeant Worden. I was wondering if I could see some missing person reports."
"Can I see some I.D?" asked the woman. Sam had heard that line so many times, he could have mouthed it along with her. He pulled his badge out his pocket and showed it to her. The woman took the badge and peered closer. Her eyebrows raised, and she seemed a little curious, but she gave him back his badge none the less. "How may I help you?"
Unknown to Sam, another man had entered the building. He was tall and slender, wearing a dark suit, much like Sam's own. He had short grey hair which was damp and carried dew drops from the rain. He held a coffee in his left hand, and his coat was slung over his right arm. He was walking towards the lift, but stopped when he saw Sam out of the corner of his eye.
Sam continued, "I'm here about the disappearances across London."
"I was on that case." The man said, suddenly. Sam turned around, surprised, as the other approached. As a first impression, Sam found himself liking the man. He had a smile of made of a genuine kindness, a compassion for others that could not be faked, but his deep brown eyes had a dark undertone, barely hidden by a coating of social teaching. "Sorry." the man continued, passing his cup to his right hand and holding out his left, "Inspector Lestrade. I hate to be rude, but you said you were looking into the disappearances?"
"Hello, Inspector." Sam greeted, politely shaking the man's hand before showing his badge, "Secret Service. And, yes I did." Sam took a moment to pull out a notebook from his top pocket and a pen, hoping to record anything that could be important for figuring out what was going on behind this case. "You were saying that you worked on this case?"
Lestrade nodded, "Yeah. A few months ago, actually."
"What happened?"
"Nothing." He admitted with a shrug, and Sam glanced up from his notebook in surprise, "It's still open, the case, but we've got no leads. It's like these people just vanish…into thin air."
Sam thought about it for a moment. It definitely sounded like a case he and his brother would usually take and, as usual, the police had no idea what they were up against. "It is mysterious." Sam said, "I was wondering if you could show me the missing person reports."
"Of course. This way."
As Lestrade lead him down the narrow corridor, Sam sent a quick text to Dean and hoped his brother would have found a place for them to stay by now, and hadn't gone to look for a bar, or something.
Dean: Secret Service. Wear a suit.
He glanced up from his phone when he heard clacking footsteps of high heels on the hard floor, and quickly slipped his phone into his pocket again. The woman coming down the opposite end of the corridor was thin and quite tall, although she was tiny compared to Sam, and had dark skin and dark fuzzy hair. By her uniform, Sam guessed she was a Sergeant.
Lestrade smiled courteously when he saw her, "Morning, Donovan."
Sergeant Donovan stopped, "Freak called." She informed him, unable to keep the snap out of her voice. Donovan looked more than irritated, not just at the fact that this 'Freak' called, but she also looked irritated with Lestrade, but a different kind of irritated - the type that Sam feels when he knows Dean is going to do something stupid. Donovan glanced briefly at Sam, whose eyebrows were raised high, and her eyes narrowed before she looked back at Lestrade.
Suddenly, Lestrade looked old, like he'd been working too hard. Sam was reminded of mothers who always looked tired because of the stress their baby caused. "You're joking."
"Nope." Donovan said, frowning, "This case has been open been open for ages, and now he's taken an interest? It's suspicious, and you know it."
The inspector glanced at Sam and back again, just like Donovan had done – suddenly Sam felt as though there was a lot more going on in Scotland Yard than meets the eye. "Tell him I'll talk to him later." He told Donovan, "I'm busy at the moment."
Donovan looked sceptical, almost like she wanted to protest, but she gave a sharp nod and continued down the corridor.
"What was that all about?" Sam asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
"We have an expert who comes in often, but he's, well…" Lestrade trailed off, thinking of the right word to describe this 'expert'.
"A nuisance?" Sam supplied helpfully.
Lestrade smirked, "Oh, you have no idea. Anyway, the archives are this way."
They continued their walk through the building until they came to the archives. The whole room was a labyrinth of shelves and filing cabinets, filled with millions of police records collected over the years, each one numbered differently. Lestrade lead the way, counting the numbers under his breath as they went, and Sam suspected he'd probably get lost if he was alone. Eventually, they came to a shelf labelled 32-29-10 and Lestrade pulled out a file titled 'Wester Drumlins' and handed it over to Sam.
"This has all records of reported disappearances." He explained as Sam looked through the file, "It also has the cars and objects we found that belonged to the people who went missing. They're in a warehouse over in Newport, if you're interested."
Sam looked up at him and smiled, "Thank you."
He noticed that Lestrade was looking behind him instead of at him and Sam glanced round and saw Dean, with an officer beside him, approaching them. He nodded to the officer, thanking her for directions, and joined Sam and Lestrade, "The woman at the desk said I could come straight through." Dean gave an innocent smile, and lifted up his badge for the Inspector to see, "David Nelson. I'm his partner."
Sam nodded to confirm this, and showed Dean the file. He looked through the file at the images of woman, children, men and the dates and locations they were last seen. Dean asked, "Any connection between the victims?"
"None whatsoever." Lestrade said, a thin smile on his lips, although there was no humour there.
Suddenly, Lestrade's phone beeped. He gave them an apologetic look and glanced at his phone."Bollocks." he hissed under his breath. Again, he gave the brothers another apologetic look and said, "I have to go. When you've finished, I recommend that you talk to our expert – try not to punch him." He added sincerely, and Sam and Dean exchanged surprised glances before watching Lestrade leave.
Dean smiled, "I kinda like him."
Sam huffed in amusement.
"So," Dean looked back at his brother, "I got us a room. The landlady has pie."
Rolling his eyes, Sam took the file off Dean, "We're on a case. Try to stay focused. Did you find out what happened to Cas?"
"No." Dean said with an annoyed sigh, "He just vanished – again. I don't know why I bother to be honest."
Sam was no longer listening. He was frowning at the pages he was looking at. On one, there was a picture of a woman called Katherine Costello Nightingale, and on the next, a boy called March Denton. Lestrade was right when he said that there appeared to be no connection – these two people weren't related, didn't live here each other, and Sam doubted that they'd even met, but there was something he had spotted.
According to the reports, Katherine disappeared on the 9th June 2007, whereas March went missing on the 5th February 2008. Sam looked back through the previous pages and noticed that before this point, the disappearances happened almost every three weeks to a month. Why the sudden gap? Sam looked at where they disappeared and suddenly his heart skipped a beat.
"Hey, I think I have a lead." Sam said, and Dean, who had been ranting about Cas the whole time, stopped short and blinked at him. Sam laid out the folder on the shelf in front of him and pulled out this phone, bringing up a map of the UK. "Check this out. I'm not sure what were after, but it turns out that the disappearances started over in Newport, around this old house called Wester Drumlins." Sam showed Dean the location on his phone. It was a good 100 miles from London, at least. Sam then gestured to the people in the file. "Katherine went missing in this house, and so did March."
Dean furrowed his brow, "So what then? A vengeful spirit has latched onto the house, and whoever goes inside vanishes?"
"I thought that too. But look at this." Sam pointed to the dates on the files, "There is a massive gap here, whereas the other disappearances happened within weeks."
"So?" Dean said, raising an eyebrow, "Maybe people got spooked and stayed away. It's what any rational person would have done."
Sam turned over the page where there was an older man and pointed to the location the man was last seen at.
"– 'The Celtic Manor Resort.' -" Dean read, frowning. He began to suspect what Sam was getting at, but didn't voice his thoughts in case they were wrong.
Sam showed him the map on his phone, pointing out the resort and the Wester Drumlins house, "That's about 5 miles away from the house, see?"
Dean chewed his lip thoughtfully, "So whatever it is, it's migrating."
"Exactly!" Sam declared. He suddenly felt like a detective in the books he used to read as a boy. "Spirits are supposed to follow patterns, and can't leave the place they're attached to. So, why would a spirit stop snatching people for eight months and then randomly start-up again outside the place it's supposedly attached to?"
"When did the vanishing stop vanishing?" Dean asked, seriously.
Sam ignored his brother's choice of wording. After all, it wasn't the dumbest thing Dean had ever said. "2007, I guess." He turned the page back to Katherine Costello Nightingale, "With her."
"Why?" Dean muttered, "What happened in 2007?"
"Nothing that made world news." Sam replied. He gestured to the page again. Beneath the personal details, and case notes, there was the name of the person who reported the disappearance, "Some woman reported something odd about the house, and a few days later the disappearances stopped – but only for eight months. After that, all the disappearances triangulate away from the house."
"But everything started there." Dean muttered, looking at his brother, "I guess we should too."
Sam nodded. He slipped the files into his bag and walked out with his brother. Dean stopped him. "Sam?" He looked at him with a cringe, "Keep control of your inner nerd, please. That was humiliating."
"It's not my fault you're an idiot." Sam retorted, with a smirk. "You would be lost without me! Admit it!"
As they approached the exit, they could hear muffled voices coming from the entrance room. When they walked in, they saw Lestrade talking to a dark-haired man in a long dark coat. He was slightly taller than Lestrade, but smaller than Dean, and was pale with sharp cheekbones and a pointed face. Next to him stood a shorter man with blondish-brown hair cropped short like in the military. Although he wasn't that short, he was the smallest person in the room. Meanwhile, Donovan was leaning against the wall beside Dean and Sam, and shaking her head.
"You can't do that!" Lestrade scolded. He sounded like a teacher trying to explain what was right and wrong to a three-year-old.
"Why not?" the taller man demanded, honestly confused. Yeah, Sam thought, definitely a three-year-old.
Donovan scoffed from where she was stood, "You harpooned a pig on a bus! Again!"
"I was bored." the taller man said, as if it justified everything. Lestrade folded his arms and scowled at him. The taller man looked to the shortest man in the room for help, "John."
John held up his hands took a step back, "I am not defending you!"
The taller man looked betrayed and turned away from John, looking at Sam and Dean. He stared hard at them.
Lestrade quickly said, "Secret Service. So keep your mouth shut." He smiled over at Sam and Dean like he was never angry, "Did you find what you were looking for?"
Sam nodded, "Yes, thank you. We'll be on our way now."
"Show me your badges." The tall, dark man said, suddenly, holding his hand out as though he was expecting sweets. Sam and Dean looked at one another again, and complied, watching cautiously as the tall man looked over their badges. "Fascinating." He whispered, looking up at them, "You're fakes."
"WHAT?!" Everyone in the room, except the tall man, screamed at once in one outrageous noise. Sam and Dean stared at him, unsure of what to do. John quickly moved to the doorway, blocking their escape. Donovan was now stood straight, looking at Lestrade for orders. Lestrade was looking between the tall man and the agents he knew to be fake, looking both betrayed and confused.
"Your suits." The tall man said as if it was obvious. He continued at an alarming speed before the brothers had time to question what was happening, "They are cheap and frayed along the elbow line, and patches have been stitched – rather badly and repeatedly – with dental floss. This means you have a very active job, but not one with the Secret Service or they'd provide new suits with better stitching. That, as well as the obvious fact that these badges –" he flopped the two badges around in his hands like rag dolls, "– are fake."
Sam stared at him, his eyes wide with both fear and admiration.
Dean just scowled and, feeling threatened by the man, he demanded, "Who are you?"
"Sherlock Holmes." The tall, dark man answered, swiftly, proudly, as though he was expecting them to ask for autographs, or grovel at his feet.
Dean raised an eyebrow and looked at him sceptically. Sam held back a snigger. "Sherlock Holmes?" the two of them said at the same time, both as disbelieving as the other. Did his parents have some kind of fetish? No one was called Sherlock Holmes!
Sherlock's greenish-brown eyes began to dart inhumanly fast over Dean and Sam's bodies, drinking all the details in from the bags under Sam's eyes to the way Dean had tied his tie. He looked back at Lestrade, "Honestly, Grady, it's obvious! Even you should have seen it."
"It's Greg!" Lestrade corrected, looking peeved. He paused, looking suspiciously at Sam and Dean, and then he turned back to Sherlock and asked quietly, "What else can you see, Sherlock?"
"You." Sherlock first focused on Sam, "There's a large cut on your arm – sewn up so it was obviously not self-harm. Once again, it's sewn up with dental floss so you don't have many luxuries, which implies that you're unemployed. Going by your accents, you travel often which is also proved by the bags under your eyes, probably from driving all night. There's three knifes and a gun hidden under your jacket, which means your line of work is very dangerous – that's probably were you got the scars from: Attackers; animals, perhaps."
He then gestured to Dean, "You. You're the eldest. When I saw through your disguise you took a protective stance, slightly in front of the other. You feel some sort of responsibility towards him which suggests a closer relationship than just 'partners'. Responsibility implies an elder age."
Dean's hand had clenched into a fist when Sherlock began to scrutinise him, and was tightening more and more as he spoke that his knuckles were turning pale.
"But it's more than just responsibility." Sherlock was saying, squinting at him, "You stepped in to protect him the exact second something seemed wrong – I doubt you noticed it at all, so it's something you've been taught to do from an early age and has become natural instinct, probably from an older member of your family. You're the eldest, so it was not an older brother. Maybe an uncle, or family friend, but your dependence on each other suggests that you have barely any family connections, or friends. Therefore, it must have been a parent. It could have been your mother, but judging by the way you tensed when I mentioned her, you either didn't know her or she left you at a young age, so it's your father. Also your co-dependency implies you had a dysfunctional family, as this is a common trait among people with relationships such as yours, which implies that either you hate your father or he's dead. Again, you've tensed up, and you're looking increasingly violent. But that's besides the point." Sherlock leaned closer to Dean, his eyes gleaming with excitement, "How long has your father been dead?"
That's when Dean punched him.
Chapter Notes: The day Katherine went missing, 9th June 2007, is the date the original Doctor Who episode 'Blink' aired in the UK (or at least it is according to Google) The distance between Wester Drumlins and the Celtic Manor Resort is 5 miles if you go the shortest way, and all information I got about the locations was from Google Maps. I apologize if any of it is inaccurate. I realised that 'Blink' was wrong when Katherine said that she was in the middle of London - she was in fact in Newport so factored this in this chapter. Heh, nerd, just like Sam. :D
Also, I researched about co-dependant relationships for part of Sherlock's deduction. It was like reading a profile about Sam and Dean. It's strange because before I found this I thought 'hey these two have a great relationship' but according to this co-dependency is a generally a negative thing. It really gave me some interesting insight into Sam and Dean's relationship.
