It was several hours later and one trip on the Angel Castiel Express before Sam and Dean found themselves standing on a rainy street in London, England with Cas next to them.

"Why couldn't we have just zapped her to the States, instead of us to here?" Dean grumbled.

"We can't just ambush her," Sam replied. "Besides, we don't even know where she exactly is. We just know she's somehow connected to that Sherlock Holmes guy."

"Not necessarily," Dean reminded him. "Who knows? It could have been a coincidence that she was in the picture. She might have just been in the right place at the right time."

"Either way, I think we should start with him. He's a detective, right? Even if he doesn't know her, he might be able to help."

"If my services are no longer required, I think I'll be leaving…?" Castiel was looking slightly bored with the whole affair, but you never could tell with him. He didn't seem to grasp the whole "facial expressions mirroring interior emotions" thing.

"Oh, sorry, Cas. Yeah, you can go. Thanks for the lift." Dean said.

"Any time, Dean."

Castiel disappeared.

Sam pulled out his cell phone and found a hotel for them to stay in. They were forced to take a cab, with Dean muttering the whole time about missing his Baby. Sam had a brief moment of panic when he paid the cabbie, due to the fact that he had forgotten to exchange his American dollars for the British currency. Luckily, the cabbie hardly glanced at the bills Sam handed him. They used one of their credit cards to pay for a room.

"Okay, what's our cover?" Asked Sam.

"FBI agents from the U.S. investigating the disappearance of Elizabeth Winchester?" Dean suggested.

"Okay, that sounds good," Sam agreed.

Dean insisted on getting food before they did anything, having not finished his breakfast from earlier. After that, they changed into their suits and pocketed their fake ID's, stepping out into the street.

"So where does this guy live, Sam?" Asked Dean.

Sam glanced at the address scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper. "Two-two-one B Baker Street," He replied.

They caught a cab, and Sam gave the address. Sam held his breath as he offered his money, hoping to get away with paying with the American dollars again. Unfortunately, this cabbie wasn't as oblivious as the last.

"Hey! These ain't British notes!" He glared at them.

Dean quickly whisked out his FBI badge. "Sir, we're here on official FBI business. We cannot afford to be delayed. I suggest you take the money and say no more or we'll be forced to put you under arrest."

The driver glanced back and forth between the money and Dean's badge. He looked like he wanted wanted to argue, but thought better of it and settled for a nasty glare.

"Yeah, fine," he said gruffly.

They climbed out of the cab and Sam gave Dean a quick smirk. "Nice one," He complimented as he rapped on the door. Dean returned the sly smile quickly and then morphed his facial features to serious and business-like. As the door opened, they both held out their badges. Neither Dean nor Sam knew exactly what they were expecting, but it wasn't the kindly, elderly woman in front of them.

"Oh, hello," She greeted, looking slightly worried. "Can I help you?"

Dean took the lead. "My name is Agent Starr, and this is my partner, Agent Harrison."

The woman looked even more worried at this. "Is there a problem?" She asked.

"Well, we hope not," Sam said, "We're here to speak to a Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

The old lady looked positively distressed. "Oh, dear. Is he in trouble?"

Dean raised in eyebrow. "Does he have a reason to be?"

Before the now flustered lady could make a response, Sam cut in.

"We're here about a missing person," he told her.

The woman visibly relaxed at this. "Oh, a case! Of course, of course, I'll see if he's busy. Please, come inside." She ushered them through the door, where they stood a bit awkwardly in the entrance as she bustled up the stairs. After a moment, they heard a door open and voices drift down to where they were waiting.

"Sherlock! What in the name of sanity are you doing?"

"John's out grocery shopping, I was bored," replied a deep voice that had to belong to Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes, dear, I can see that. But why have you got an arm on my table?"

Sam and Dean exchanged looks, wondering if they had heard correctly. The old lady sounded strangely calm, if a little irritated, considering the conversation they had just overheard.

"It's an experiment, Mrs. Hudson, and highly scientific. I'm not going to bother trying to explain to you," Sherlock drawled. "Why are you here, anyways? Don't you have, I don't know, things to do?"

The boys glanced at each other again. They hadn't known the old lady (they had heard her name was Mrs. Hudson) for very long, but this Sherlock Holmes was being awfully rude to her. Surprisingly, she didn't even seem offended.

"There are two Americans downstairs, I think they're detectives of some sort. They're here about a missing person."

"Scotland Yard has Americans now?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know, dear. They didn't say."

"Well, I suppose you should send them up. Even the Americans need my help now!"

The brothers were liking this Holmes guy less and less as they heard him talking. He was sounding less like a genius detective and more like a rude, arrogant jerk.

A moment later, Mrs. Hudson came down the stairs.

"Mr. Holmes will see you now," she told them.

"Thank you, ma'am," Dean said. Sam offered her a courteous nod.

They headed up the stairs, Dean leading the way, and tapped lightly on the door.

"Come in." Sherlock Holmes sounded surprisingly bored for a man being visited by the FBI.

Dean pushed open the door, Sam peering over his shoulder to get a look at the apartment. It was a little messy, and obviously well-lived in, with a number of books and papers scattered about the floor and furniture. It was a rather attractive place, though. The apartment had a had a comfortable and home-y feel to it. That is, except for the fact that the owner of said apartment was sitting at the kitchen table holding a severed human arm. Sherlock Holmes was wearing a bathrobe, his dark, curly hair uncombed and falling into his eyes.

"Oh, hello," He said, his bored tone not changing, "What do you want?"

"You might want to treat us with a little more respect, sir," Sam told him sternly, holding out his badge.

"I'm Agent Starr, this is Agent Harrison. We're with the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the U.S.A. and we're here on the case of a missing person—" Dean began, but was cut off.

"Nope," Sherlock interrupted, hardly glancing up from the arm.

"Sorry?"

"Nope."

The brothers glanced at each other.

"May I ask what you're denying?" Sam asked irritatedly.

"You may."

"Okay, cut the smart-ass," Dean snapped.

Sherlock smirked at him. "The intended meaning of my statement was, no, you are not in fact FBI agents. Please, don't bother denying it," he added as they began opening their mouths, "It's painfully obvious that you are in disguise. Although, next time you try to hoodwink a genius detective with mere fake identification, I'd advise you to begin by not using the names of two members of the Beatles— which, if you didn't know, is one of the most well-known musical groups in the world. Even John would observe the oddness of two partners coincidentally sharing those names."

"I heard my name?" A blonde-haired man carrying bags of groceries walked through the door. "And something about the Beatles?"

"Ah, hello, John. It appears we have a case."

"Right." John glanced warily at the severed arm Sherlock was still grasping. "You haven't— er— done anything to be rude, I hope."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John set his bags down and offered a handshake to Sam and Dean. "I'm John Watson," he introduced himself. "Please, take a seat." He drew two chairs and offered them to the brothers. They lowered themselves into the seats, gawking at Sherlock, who left the arm on the table and sat down as well, with John across him.

"Now, then, tell us why you're here." John instructed kindly.

Surprisingly, Sherlock Holmes stayed quiet instead of informing his partner that the two men in front of them had just tried to fake being FBI agents.

Sam nudged Dean. "Should we tell them…?" He muttered.

Dean shrugged. "I guess."

"Okay," Sam said, louder so that Sherlock and John could hear. "My name is Sam, and this is my brother Dean. Mr. Holmes, you're right; we're not actually with the FBI."

Sherlock smirked. John opened his mouth, no doubt to question Sam's statement, but Sherlock held up a hand, silencing the other man.

"But we are here about a missing person," Sam continued. "Elizabeth Winchester." He paused to look, slightly expectant, at Sherlock and John.

"Never heard of her," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, well, not many people have. She's our sister. We've been looking for her for fourteen years."

Sherlock smirked. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but if your sister has been missing for fourteen years, I'm afraid I can't help you."

Sam went on, ignoring Sherlock. "But the thing is, yesterday, I was looking at the world news, and I saw an article about you."

"Look," John cut in gently, "I know you've probably heard that we can solve any mystery, but the truth is, your sister probably really is gone if you haven't found her after fourteen years."

"There was a photograph, though," Sam pushed on, "of Mr. Holmes. And she was in it."

Sherlock, who's concentration had been wandering elsewhere, suddenly snapped into focus at this.

"You saw her? In a photograph with me?"

Sam nodded.

"And it was definitely her?"

"Yeah, I'd know her anywhere. Dean saw her, too. There's no doubt about it; Elizabeth is alive, and she was in London when that picture was taken."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. It was evident they had his attention now.

"Hm. That's interesting…" He muttered, mostly to himself.

John spoke up then. "When exactly did your sister disappear?" He asked.

"Well, she didn't exactly disappear," Dean said. "She ran away."

"Really? And you truly haven't heard anything from her in fourteen years?"

Both Winchesters shook their heads.

"She hated the family business. Wanted to be a doctor or something. Ran off practically the moment she turned eighteen, didn't even say goodbye in person to our dad," Dean explained.

"The photograph. Can you find it again?" Asked Sherlock, who had evidently not been following the conversation.

"Uh, yeah, I think so," Sam replied.

"Here, use my laptop," John offered, logging in for him.

"Thanks." Sam took the computer and typed in the world news website he had found the article on. It only took him a few minutes to find the story.

"Here it is," he said, showing the screen to Sherlock and John.

"That's her," said Dean, pointing to Elizabeth.

John looked up at him, confusion evident on his face. "But, that can't be her— that's Molly!"

A/N: Hello beautiful readers! I apologize for the sort-of-cliffhanger. This chapter was originally supposed to be longer, but I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer, so I decided to go ahead and post this much. Thank you to everyone who has followed/favorited/reviewed. It truly means a lot to me. I didn't get a chance to reply to any reviews, but I promise I'll make an effort to do so in the future. Thank you so much for reading. Please take time to review, it really boosts my motivation and creativity.