"Ohhh…" Merlin awoke slowly, squinting up at the sky. He felt like he'd just been through twelve sword-training sessions, and then gotten run over by a vegetable cart. Only sheer determination enabled him to sit up and take in his surroundings.
All right—so he wasn't in the forest anymore. That meant it had to have been some kind of spell, which meant that it was probably Morgana's doing, which was worrisome. It meant that she was more powerful than ever before.
He was in front of a castle, but it wasn't one Merlin had ever seen before. Or, perhaps he was in back of it—the grass he was sitting on was very green and very neat, and there were several fancy hedges and cobblestone paths. The doors leading inside the castle were open, and from what Merlin could see, there were a number of people milling about inside; though they were clothed quite strangely. Perhaps that was just a trick of the light?
Merlin got distracted as his companions began to stir. Guiltily, he realized that he had forgotten they were even with him. He crawled over to Arthur and laid his head on the king's chest, listening to make sure that he was still alive.
"Uh… Merlin," Arthur said in a low voice.
"Yes, sire?" Merlin asked, still studying the king's heartbeat.
"Get off me, you clotpole."
Merlin quickly obliged and stood, glancing over at Gwaine and Percival. They seemed well enough: they were on their feet, brushing themselves off and looking about with dazed expressions.
Arthur also got up and looked around, analyzing the situation. "There's only one explanation for this, men—sorcery. I suggest we get a lay of the land and figure out whether these people are hostile or not." He paused as his stomach loudly interrupted him. "Merlin, go and find us some food."
"So where the hell should we start, if we want to find some more answers?" Dean asked.
"It sounds like it would be a good idea to go to the source," Sam pointed out. "The disappearances in England are really all clustered in one area of London, whereas the ones that have happened here in America are pretty random. If this is a group movement, it could be that any local cult members are just stragglers, joining their larger groups across the ocean."
"But England's not under our jurisdiction," Dean argued. "There are plenty of hunters in London."
"Clearly, they're not doing a very good job," Tracy interjected.
"Everything here in America could get worse and worse if we don't find out what's going on," Alina added as she sat down at the computer and started tapping away, her eyes on the screen. "Who knows? These cult wackos could start kidnapping regular citizens or murdering them in sacrificial rituals to Morgan Le Fay. They could set fire to churches and summon hostile spirits or even demons. We have no idea how big their group really is. And the biggest questions are: Where are they going? And what will they do when they return?"
"Okay, I get your point," Dean admitted. "But we can't just pop over to London in a magical phone booth or something. And what are we supposed to do when we get there? I don't think we have many connections in London… aside from She-who-must-not-be-named." He grimaced as an image of Bella's face came to mind.
"Uhh… I'm not going to ask who you're talking about; but I do have a solution," Tracy told him. "Alina and I wouldn't be consulting detectives if not for inspiration from a man who happens to live in London, and may be willing to help us, if we approach him in the right way."
"Are you talking about Sherlock?" Sam asked. "I think I've seen his partner's blog."
"Wait, Sherlock Holmes?" Dean said incredulously. "Are we talking about the dude from Arthur Conan Doyle's mystery stories?"
"As impressed as I am that you know that, no, we're not," Sam said drily. "There's an actual real-live detective named Sherlock Holmes who lives at 221 B Baker Street in London. His flat-mate is a former army doctor; John Watson. As fantastical as that sounds… remember that we've encountered stranger things."
"Oh, don't worry… I realize that," Dean assured him with a hint of sarcasm. "So, are we seriously, uh… flying out to London, then? Just like that?"
"That's what it looks like." Sam nodded thoughtfully. "We don't have any pressing matters to attend to here, and I'm sure if anything pops up too close to home, Bobby will handle it." He turned to Alina. "Do you two have a way for us to get there?"
"Already taken care of," Alina said, glancing up briefly from the computer screen. "We leave in two days. That's enough time for you to have someone come pick up your Impala, if you don't want to leave it in a shady Vegas motel parking lot," she told Dean, smiling slightly when he raised his eyebrows, surprised.
"Observational skills," Tracy explained. "Alina knew what kind of car you had because of your keys; and the way you hold them, plus the marks on your hands from years of working on cars or in a garage, told her that you're a man who cares a great deal about his car. It's all obvious if you look, really. That, and those books about you guys talk about Baby quite a lot."
Dean opened his mouth, and then closed it. "Huh."
"That's a pretty useful skill," Sam acknowledged. "Observational skills, I mean. If we got better at observing and deducing, it would be a whole lot easier to tell when we're facing demons, or shifters, or characters that shouldn't be trusted."
"I could give you a few tips on that, if you want," Tracy said, trying to sound casual, even though she was really hoping he would say yes.
Sam smiled. "That sounds great."
The two brothers bid farewell to Alina and Tracy, after making plans to meet again at the airport in two days' time. They drove back to the motel, fairly quiet except for the sound of Dean's fingers tapping a Led Zeppelin drumbeat onto his thigh.
It wasn't until they went inside their room that they started talking again.
"…Sam."
"Yeah?"
"Did we just agree to fly halfway across the world with two girls we just met to hunt missing members of a cult that worships a long-dead pagan priestess?"
"…Yeah."
Dean sat down on his bed, shaking his head ruefully. "What the hell, man. I don't know what it was, but something about those two made me just want to trust them. Almost too quickly, you know? What if they somehow, I don't know, bewitched us or something?"
"I guess it's possible. Now that you mention it, they were really easy to trust. I felt comfortable, like we had known them forever, and I just wanted to go along with everything they said. And they seemed to know a lot about a lot…We better call Bobby, see if he can do a background check on them." He dialed the number and held his cell phone up to his ear, waiting. Meanwhile, Dean stood up and grabbed a beer from the shoddy semblance of a kitchen area.
"Hey, Bobby? Yeah, it's me. …Well, Dean and I are working a case, and it might involve flying to London. But, we started working with these girls that seem just a little too good to be true. Have you heard of them? …Tracy and Alina Collins. …I guess you could call them detectives. …Yeah, a blog."
Dean flopped down on his bed, watching intently as he listened to Sam's half of the conversation.
"…Oh, they do? So they are. …Of course we will. We'll let you know more as soon as possible. And yeah, your lot would be perfect. Thanks again." He pressed the "End Call" button and slid his phone back into his pocket. "Well, their story checks out. Apparently, Bobby's even heard of them from some circles of hunters, but they've never met in person. I guess the Collins sisters are good friends of Jo and Ellen Harvelle, too."
"He say anything else?" Dean asked, taking a swig of his beer.
"Just that he'll fly over, come get the Impala from the airport and drive it back to his place, but we owe him one. Oh, and that we should watch our asses, regardless of how 'pretty and witty' the girls may seem. Just because they're not supernatural creatures, doesn't mean they can't have their own motives or personal objectives that we don't know about."
"That's true," Dean mused. "Well, I'm going to have to drink a lot more if I'm going to be on a plane for 5 hours."
Sam chuckled awkwardly. "Uh, Dean?"
"What?"
"A flight from Las Vegas to London takes approximately 10 hours. Sorry."
Dean scowled. "Son of a bitch."