Within the hollow interior of the fire place there are a series of shelves. The inside is far larger than any casual observer would believe; it stretches to the size of a fairly large walk in closet, but there is hardly room for more than two people. The area is clustered, as is the entirety of the flat. The wooden floor of this room has a large symbol painted in a rusty red at its entrance, a devils trap. Against the back wall lies large bags of rock salt . An assortment of guns, blades and machetes of all sizes are hung to the wall as if they are prized possessions. Four long rows of shelves line on the two opposing walls.
These shelves are filled in no noticeable pattern, but with the owner of this flat, you can never b e too sure. There are boxes filled with supplies of all sorts, bones and woods and herbs. There are boxes that house curs ed objects, locked up for safe keeping and lined with a healthy layer of years old dust. Various knives of silver and iron with strange and unknown carvings along the blade were tossed carelessly among a few old guns. Books lined two of the shelves entirely, but they had not been read in ages, all their information had been absorbed and used to the fullest extent. These books were filled with popular lore from all corners of the earth, and some even from the darkest corners of hell. It was a small collection, after all this is a small room. None the less the collection was valuable, one might sell their soul to learn the things hidden within them.
along the floors of this room there were also a couple of books, stacked anything but neatly next to a bucket of paint, a few bowls that had dried blood along the inner curve. countless boxes of ammunition were in a scattered pile, along with various tools that were used for things such as melting metal, and sharpening and cleaning weapons.
From outside this fireplace, the only thing you could see was yourself when you looked into the mirror above the mantle, and a couple of assorted decorations such as the human scull that rest to the left of a moth display. The inside of the fire place looked dark, and utterly normal, which was perfect of course.
Behind the eye catching black and white wallpaper of this living area, there are numerous sigils painted to protect the flat and ward off various creatures.
A man sat in an armchair, in the relative center of the room, his palms are pressed against each other, the tips of his fingers just barely touching the underbelly of his nose. He sat in deep thought, lips mumbling unnoticed words before he was interrupted.
A petite middle aged woman entered the space,
"Oh hoo! Sherlock, I'm making tea, do you want any?" She paraded through the room and into the kitchen.
"No Mrs. Hudson. I'm going out" He rose from his chair and put his coat on, weaving his scarf around his neck.
"Alright, dear" Mrs. Hudson called, "Do bring your brother back safely."
"Yes, yes" Sherlock spoke almost irritatedly as he started down the stairs to leave 221b.
Sherlock took long precise steps down the block and around the corner until he found what he was looking for, a man.
"Spare change," The man was sitting, back against a black metal fence that lined the street. "spare change" His clothes were old, he'd been wearing them for a long time. it was evident that this man was homeless, late thirties and had a history of gambling and alcohol. He most likely once worked in an office, something along the line of assistant.
"Spare change" He called one more time, grateful meeting eyes with sherlocks.
"Don't mind if I do," Sherlock said to the man as he took a folded paper into clenched fingers and turned on his heels to the curb. A taxi was hauled and the note was opened, across it the word 'Seen' was written, accompanied by a street name that he read to the cabbie.
His brother had been quite preoccupied as of late, partaking in hunt after hunt. Mycroft was never one to let a job go unfinished, and he was convinced that something big was coming. With the sources the Holmes brothers have, it wasn't unlikely. They had not hunted as brothers in well over a year, but that would change soon.
Sherlock fished a fag from his coat pocket and after lighting it, placed it in its place between his lips. He had stress to relieve. There was no telling yet what his brother had gotten himself into. Another quarrel with demons no doubt. Perhaps he's found himself hog tied in a nest of vampires, less likely but far more amusing.
"You can't do that here." The cabbie broke through his train of thought. Sherlock glanced at him, reading him for only a moment before turning back to his fag for another hearty puff.
"you can't smoke in the taxi, sir" the man spoke more forcefully.
"You don't really want me to stop, You're a smoker yourself. Chain smoker actually, since a young age. But I'm sure with this job you can't smoke nearly as much as you'd like. My every puff is feeding your desire" He said dryly, before sucking in another tobacco filled breath.
"I'm trying to quit," The cabbie defended.
"Hardly." Sherlock breathed, "You've smoked less than an hour ago, two, no three cigarets back to back. You've told your wife of over five years that you're quitting, but you have not put forth the effort. Are the children worried? I'm sure they ask about your cough. I would be worried too with that breathing pattern."
The cabbie tried his best to cover up a perfectly timed rough heave in his lungs, and the rest of the ride was silent.
The taxi stopped, and sherlock paid what he owed the man, leaving the car and stepping onto the pavement of a familiar street. He knew all the streets in London, of course.
"Ah, I see your little homeless experiment got the memo across?" The man had his back leaning against the pale exterior of the building behind him. Back straight, posture confident, as always. His eyes were serious but remained as carelessly daring as they always were. He stepped away from the wall, footsteps casual, arms crossed over his chest, and judging by his palms, he had been drinking just enough. But when hadn't he?
The mans body language had always been rather difficult to read,after all he is not human, but Sherlock was accustomed to it now.
"Balthazar," Sherlock starts, sounding rather agitated. "I don't have time for this."
"I know you aren't working a case, darling."
"Wheres Mycroft?" Sherlock responded impatiently.
"He's in the Library, same place he always is when he's in town." Balthazar's voice proved his disappointment. They were both aware of how obsessive his brother could get, spending hours even days reading up in his own personal library of the supernatural. Sherlock hadn't actually seen him in about a month.
"What is it this time?"
"A crossroad's been making his way through a town about an hour up" Balthazar explained, and Sherlock waited for a moment, willing him with his eyes to continue.
"That isn't why you called me here" He pressed.
Balthazar pursed his lips and pulled a newly appeared glass of scotch to his lips before speaking.
"They've been talking," and that was all sherlock needed to hear to understand that things were only going to get worse from here. "Last week. 'Dean Winchester is saved'."
Everyone knew of the Winchesters just as well as people in the hunter community knew the Holmes'. Very few hunters could be considered the absolute best, but there was no doubt that the Holmes brothers and the Winchesters finished their jobs in an artistic manor to be admired. It was well known that Dean, the eldest of the brothers had sold his soul to save his brother, he's been in far worse a predicament than death for a few months now.
"It's the beginning of the end, Sherlock" Balthazar finished.
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"Sherlock. Thats him, thats the man I was talking to you about." John practically whispered urgently.
"I know exactly who that is."
"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited." Mycroft teased a smile "Though thats never really your motivation is it?"
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock met eyes with his brother.
"As ever, I'm concerned about you."
"Yes, I've heard of your concern" Sherlock spoke sarcastically. "Why are you really here, Mycroft?"
"Another one has been broken," Mycroft huffed out. "It would seem I need your help."
"Oddly enough, I'd like to decline that offer"
John watched their little banter carefully,still not quite sure how to feel about this whole arch enemy business.
"Yes- Another what then?" He chimed in curiously, only to be ignored.
"This isn't an offer, Sherlock. It is necessary." he stressed "This petty feud between us is simply childish. People are going to suffer. And you know how it always upset mummy"
"I upset her?" Sherlock pressed. "Me? It wasn't me who upset her, Mycroft."
"No, no. wait" John interjected "Mummy? Who's mummy?"
"Mother" sherlock explained, not looking away from Mycroft "Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft." he returned his attention to Mycroft, "Putting on weight again?"
"Losing it in fact" His eyes narrowed for a moment.
"He's your brother?" John still wasn't grasping the absurdity of the situation.
"Of course he's my brother"
"So he's not?"
"Not what?"
"I don't know, a criminal mastermind?"
"Close enough." Sherlock confirmed.
"For goodness sake, Sherlock. I haven't got the time" Mycroft stressed "They are losing this war."
"How many now?" He pressed.
"Twenty two yesterday."
"Well have we won any?! Bloody hell are we handing them out gift wrapped now?"
"You know as well as I do, dear brother, we haven't had any way of tracking which they will take next. They aren't nearly as predictable as the..usual" He refrained from stating words like demons or apocalypse or even the word humans in front of john. "None have been won yet. It seems as if its pointless" He let out a nervous chuckle. Sherlock could tell that this wasn't only a bad news visit, there was something else.
"They've made a mistake haven't they?" A mistake is just what they needed to get a step ahead of the game.
"Perhaps." Mycroft suggested, "I've got one, and he's let the name of who's been running this whole operation slip. She goes by the name of Lilith."
"And of course her group of cockroaches are placed across the globe, ready to break any one of the seals. No wonder the Winchesters have been having no progress." Sherlock sniffed.
"Could one of you please tell me what all this chat of seals is about? who are the Wi-" Johns irritation was cut short by the Holmes brothers continuing to ignore him. John doesn't know why he tried.
"Where to next?" sherlock asked.
"Balthazar will let us know soon enough."
Sherlock nodded at this, silently agreeing that he would get John back home to 221b Baker street, and prepare himself.
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"Sherlock, I do wish you would quit" Mycroft glanced at his brother from the drivers seat of the car.
Sherlock blew a breath of smoke out of the open window, "The thought had occurred to me once, but it was far too unlikely, so I deleted it."
"You know mother wou-" He was cut off
"Must you bring Mummy into everything!" Sherlock spat aggravated.
"Boys, Please can't you behave like grown-ups from time to time?" Balthazar's voice came from the back seat, after a flutter of wings.
"I hardly doubt little Sherly here could handle it." Mycroft mused only to have a glare of death shot at him from his brother. He payed no mind to it.
"Which seal are they after this time?" Sherlock sucked in a deep breath of tobacco and pleasure, only to blow it out into his brothers direction.
"Something about rising the first man and rubbish." He waved the words away with his hand.
"Adam and Eve? exactly what chaos will they bring, I'm sure its far more disastrous than apples." Mycroft questioned.
"Just Adam actually. They will resurrect him and he will bring immortality back to man. Not as lovely as it sounds," He started, only for Sherlock to catch where it was going and continue.
"Those who were not immortal will be. The dead will rise, without their souls and without nearly enough space. The panic will just be a delightful cup of tea for Lilith I'm sure." He smiled, interested in the idea.
"I'm Afraid her cup of tea wont be had until my Brother walks the earth once more." Balthazar stated bitterly.
"Do we know where this is happening? Where the garden actually was?" Mycroft pressed.
"Yes, It would seem that it is taking place somewhere in southern Africa. I've informed Castiel that we will handle this one as best we can."
"Well this does sound exciting!" Sherlock clapped his hands together, " The first man. Dead arising with immortality. Oh yes! It's starting to reek of apocalypse!" He dabbed his fag into the ash tray enthusiastically.