"Whatcha got, Sammy?"
The giant of a younger brother flicked his hands toward the screen of his laptop in a gesture of hopelessness.
"Nothing. There is no sign that a man named 'Sherlock Holmes' ever really existed- just a crap-ton of news about his death."
Dean furrowed his brow in confusion and took a sip of his beer, absent mindeldy flicking the cap onto Bobby's kitchen counter. Sam looked at him intently. "You think it's an alias?"
"No, he was telling the truth," Dean answered, bottle still to his lips.
Sam paused, thinking.
"I feel like I've heard that name before...You, know, before this case and before the research."
"What? Where?"
"I don't remember," Sam replied, trying recoil his memory with the two words. Had he read them in a newspaper?
If 'Sherlock Holmes' was the real name of this man, then the siblings had some figuring to do. A miraculously undead detective who disappeared from the world without a trace and they were supposed to figure out what exactly the hell was going on here without any clues from him whatsoever.
Sam sighed.
"You know," he began, "We are sure there is something here, right? That he's not just... alive? Maybe he never died in the first place?"
"Sam, he's supposed to have been dead for three months," Dean got up from leaning against the counter top to make his point, "There were... how many eye witness reports?"
"Ten- officially- but there were apparently others who saw it happen."
"Right. Ten eye witnesses saw the man fall from the roof and hit the ground bloody. Who knows how many more attended the funeral and saw him buried. That's about as real as it gets." He took another sip of his beer and sat down at the table opposite to Sam. Dean continued "and, you know, when you look at his life, the guy was pretty far from normal."
There was a pause, both brothers lost in thought.
"What do you think he did, then?" Sam asked, eyes cold.
"To come back? I dunno."
"Demon deal?"
"Maybe..."
Sam figured that meant 'No.'
He wondered. What else could a soul do to come back from the dead? What kind of creature would take so much interest in a man, had access to all realms of the afterlife?
"Angels?" he asked.
Dean nodded, a scowl on his face. "I hate to say it but probably. Can't think of anything else that's capable of overriding death."
Sam took a moment to think.
"Is he even human?"
Dean paused and humbly stared at the top of his beer bottle.
"Yeah, I think so. If he weren't he would've pulled something by now."
"But Dean, if he is a human and really did commit suicide, wouldn't be be a little more... you know, upset? Confused? People who come back from the dead usually have no idea what happened to them."
Dean mock-grimaced as he brought the bottle back up to his mouth, "Yeah, I know," he swallowed and leaned forward, "There's something he knows, too. He's way too cool about it. And the whole business with the fake detective scandal, the 'crime' solving, the death match on the roof. I get the feeling something nasty is going down, or went down."
Sam nodded sagely and fiddled with an empty glass on the table.
"So what do we do if we can't find out what- or who- he is?"
Dean didn't know, and looked at Sam with hard eyes.
"Well, whatever he is, he's stuck down there. For now."
