The first thing Sam took note of as the stepped into the living area of the apartment was that it was excessively orderly. Not just a neat-freak type of orderly, but something one might find in the home of say, a blind person. Everything was labeled and just so, and nothing was out of place. Dr. Watson, youngish, but had eyes centuries old, walked with a limp. His hair-cut and straight-backed demeanor told Sam he was ex-military. Sam had seen that sort of haunted look before. He'd grown up with it shouting insults at him and believing, in the end, he'd been responsible for the death of his mother.

Sam was instantly uncomfortable. He was offered tea, though, which he accepted for both himself and Dean after Dean pulled a face like he wouldn't be caught dead drinking something like that. Dr. Please-Call-Me-John went into the kitchen while the Winchesters made themselves at home on the sofa, looking around.

Dean gave a low whistle and leaned over to murmur out of the corner of his mouth, "Kind of a weirdo, eh Sammy?"

Sam rolled his eyes and elbowed his brother because it wasn't fair to assume that. He glanced around to more properly assess the situation. It was odd. Although this Sherlock person had been dead for nearly three years, it seemed like two people lived in the home. And not the old lady, either, because it was clear she kept her own quarters somewhere downstairs, or at least down the hall.

There was a hoodie draped across the back of a chair, and on the coffee table was two rings from a glass, fairly fresh. And then Sam heard down the hall a door slam and footsteps. A second later, a somewhat short, reedy young man with floppy brown hair and wide eyes came in the room. He was wearing glasses, had a smattering of freckles across his nose that Sam found instantly adorable. He gave a smile, his lips shaking.

"We've got guests, then?" he called out.

John popped his head out of the kitchen and promptly blushed. "Ah yes, sorry Henry. I thought you were still out." John straightened himself again and said, "This is Henry Knight. I still don't believe I know your names."

The corners of Sam's lips twitched just slightly, bemused at John's forgetfulness because he didn't really seem the type to be completely off his rocker, nor was he old enough to be suffering from memory loss. Trauma, he had to assume, because he'd seen enough odd behavior like that from Dean. Though Dean's was usually attributed to lack of sleep, too much booze, and way too much internet porn.

"Sam Winchester," he finally said, crossing the distance to shake hands with Henry.

Henry looked at John for approval before offering his own hand and then nodded. "Sorry, I just wasn't expecting anyone over."

"Yeah we just sort of dropped by," Dean said with a slight wink to the kid. "I'm Dean by the way."

"My brother," Sam clarified for John who was looking between them with a frown. "We uh… we've come about your problem with your former uh…"

"Right yes," Henry said. "I might um… might um pop out for a bit. If you don't mind?"

"Fine Henry, see you later," John said. He visibly startled when the kettle began to whistle, and busied himself for a few more minutes with the cups.

Sam could see him fussing around the kitchen almost hysterically and turned a concerned gaze back to his brother.

"Dude's a little…" Dean twirled his finger around his temple.

"Can you blame him, Dean?" Sam asked. "I mean the man's lost his companion and then three years later the guy starts showing up again in random places. I think you forget most people aren't used to that sort of thing happening."

Dean licked his lips and the unspoken, 'what if you started seeing Cas everywhere' hovered between them. Because in all honesty, it was like Dean's lover had died, and in all honesty Dean would probably be just as freaked out if Cas started popping up at random places.

"Here we are, hope black is okay. It's all I've got a the moment," John said, laying the tray down on the table.

"That's fine. You didn't have to go to all that trouble," Sam said, and shot Dean a furious glare when his brother grabbed one of the chocolate-topped cake things from one of the plates and crammed it into his mouth.

"Oh hell yes, these are great. What do you call these things?" Dean asked, crumbs spraying everywhere.

Sam's face lit up bright red, mortified at his brother's behavior while John, slightly flustered, said, "Ah Jaffa cakes. I imagine you don't have those over in the States."

"Nah. We have pie though. Pie's great," Dean said and looked a little dreamy.

Sam huffed and then regained the doctor's attention. "So your problem. You said in your blog that you were suddenly seeing the image of um…"

"Sherlock. Holmes." John's hand trembled a little as he reached for his tea. "And yes. It started a few weeks ago when I popped out to grab milk. I was rounding the corner near the market and I caught a glimpse of something… someone… who looked exactly like him walking out of a building. He got into a cab and I chased it as far as I could before I lost him. It's how I injured my hip."

Sam gave a slow nod. "So he got into a cab." Well that didn't sound very ghostly at all. Ghosts didn't usually employ public transport to get where they needed to go. Sam was beginning to doubt this was a case at all, and maybe just three years worth of grief taking over, making the poor man crack.

"I… that's what I thought I saw. Honestly I was so far away, I couldn't entirely make out what was happening. It was Saturday so it was terribly busy and I…" he trailed off. "Anyway, it didn't stop there. I saw him after that walking by Lestrade's office."

"Lestrade?" Sam asked.

"What the hell kind of name is Lestrade?" Dean added and Sam shot him another firm glare telling him to shut the hell up.

"He's the Detective Inspector," John said almost absently. He sipped his tea. "Equivalent to your Police Chief's I suppose. Sort of. It's a bit more complicated than that. Anyhow, then twice at the cemetery I swore he was there, but when I tried to follow he was just… gone."

"I don't mean to sound patronizing," Sam said slowly, watching the poor man's shaking hands set down the tea cup without spilling a drop, "but are you sure it was him? Often times grief can do strange things to our perceptions…"

"I realize that, Mr. Winchester," John said, his voice growing immediately hard. "I'm not an idiot, you realize. I'm a doctor, for Christ's sake, so even talking about this is ridiculous. But… whatever it is, it's happening. I do realize it's not him, obviously. I was there when he… when he…" John paused and took a breath. "When he jumped, Mr. Winchester. I watched him fall, and I identified his body twice. I was on the phone with him right before he leapt." His voice cracked at the end and he gave a very tense smile. "Forgive me. It's been three years, which seems like it should be enough time…"

"You can't put a time limit on your grief, man. We get it," Dean said with heavy weight behind his words. When John looked at him, surprised by his sudden insightful statement Dean clarified. "I lost someone, too. About a year ago. It hasn't stopped sucking."

John's lips twitched into a small smile and he nodded. "It doesn't seem to get any easier."

"We've read recently that there have been mysterious deaths as well. Can you tell us about those?"

So John did, going into detail which bored Dean, but Sam logged away about the crime ring syndicate that Sherlock had been attempting to take down before his death. Sam noted that despite being revealed as a fraud, John steadfastly believed that Sherlock was not. Whatever had happened, it was directly related to a man named Moriarty who was also found dead, gunshot wound to the head, the same day Sherlock died.

"I'm not entirely sure who you are or why you're here, but I'm grateful if you have any thoughts on the matter."

Sam rubbed the bottom of his chin for a moment. His money was on vengeful spirit, if there really was one. Honestly the clues weren't really lining up on this one, and if it weren't for the deaths of the criminals, he'd think that John was just suffering a psychotic breakdown.

"What about that man who was here earlier? Henry something?"

"Knight," John said. "We met him on a case a few years ago and when he heard about Sherlock's… death… he came by and just sort of stayed."

"Are you two uh…"

"Lovers?" John asked, and smiled. "No. I'm not actually gay. My relationship with Sherlock was complicated at best. He wasn't a typical man. He was something different and… it's hard to explain."

"Trust me, we get it," Dean said, his voice fresh and raw. Too many parallels with Castiel, and Sam was desperately starting to regret this job. He'd been trying to distract his brother, not shove him into a case exactly like the pain he was trying to escape.

"So… who are you, exactly?" John asked. "What's the point of you being here?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Dean suddenly took over, leaning forward and grabbing another Jaffa cake. "Well Dr. Watson, my brother and I are what you'd call hunters. We investigate instances of paranormal activity, vengeful spirits, stuff like that, and we hunt and kill them. I'd say about ninety percent of what people report is total bullshit, but occasionally we stumble onto something very real. We think it's possible that your friend Sherlock might have returned to take revenge on those responsible for his death."

John sat there, slightly open mouthed staring at them, and then, surprising both brothers, he laughed. "You… you're joking, right? Ghost hunters? Like… like ghostbusters?"

"No, not like ghostbusters," Dean all-but snapped. "We do actual work and save actual people. I realize it might sound ridiculous to someone like you, but we're here to help."

John pursed his lips and shook his head. "It's a bit far-fetched is all I'm saying."

"You got any other ideas about what it could be?" Dean asked, his mouth now full of another cake. "We're all ears, doc."

John licked his lips almost nervously and then looked at Sam, who had been the most reasonable during this entire conversation. "Ghost hunters?"

"It's not that specific, or cut-and-dry. But in this case, yes." Sam tried to sound as straight-forward as he could, so as not to scare the doctor off. It was clear this John Watson didn't believe in ghosts.

John gave a slight laugh and shook his head. "I hope you realize how ridiculous that sounds."

"You have no idea," Dean muttered.

"Look, John, we understand what we do might be hard for some people to believe, and we accept that. We're only here to help."

"I… fine," John said, sounding defeated. "What do you need from me?"

"Do you have anything of his that was of particular importance to him?" Sam asked. "And if you have a picture we could take a look at?"

John hesitated, but eventually stood up and walked out of the room. The moment he did, Dean sat up and leaned into Sam. "That dude is on the edge, Sammy. I mean look at him. He's two shakes away from putting a gun in his mouth and blowing his brains out."

Sam flinched, but knew his brother wasn't wrong. He'd seen it a hundred times in the thousands upon thousands of ghost cases they'd taken. The image of a lost loved one haunting those the ghost had left behind. The ones mourning, aching, desperate to have their loved one back. Suicide wasn't uncommon in this business, and John Watson was nearly there.

A few moments later, John returned with a small, framed photograph. He handed it to Sam and sat back down, looking at the brothers expectantly. "Sherlock didn't hold material items in any esteem. The most precious thing he owned was his mobile phone, and that was cracked and broken at the scene so it was thrown away."

The brothers looked at the photo. They recognized Sherlock from the articles they'd studied. He was an incredibly striking man, very tall, sharp features and piercing blue eyes. His hair was curly, floppy, hanging at his ears almost unkempt. In the picture, he was standing next to another man they didn't recognize. The second man was slightly shorter than Sherlock, thinning dishwater blonde hair, features pinched and sour.

"Who's this?" Sam asked, tapping the second man.

"Ah, that would be Mycroft, Sherlock's elder brother," John said with very little inflection to his voice.

Sam frowned as Dean muttered, "Dude, what's up with the names here?"

Sam rolled his eyes and set the photo down on the table. "Any chance we could talk to his brother?"

John smiled a little, a sort of bitter mirth, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Likely not. First being if you told him you were investigating the ghost of his brother, he'd laugh in your face and then have you deported. Second being that he's pretty much the British Government itself and near impossible to get a hold of unless he needs something from you." John paused and wiped a trembling hand down his face. "Besides, I doubt he has much to do with this. Mycroft divorced himself from this entire situation the moment he heard his brother was dead."

"So there's not any chance this Mycroft," Dean said, struggling with the name a bit, "would be dabbling in oh… say black magic? To try and quell the grief of losing his sibling?"

John barked a laugh, startling both brothers, and shook his head. "Mycroft? Ah, no, I'm afraid if anyone would be dabbling in black magic, it would not be him. Besides, there was very little love lost between the brothers when Sherlock died. They weren't very…"

But Sam understood where John was going with that, so he quickly changed the subject. "Well thank you, Dr. Watson. We really appreciate your time and information." That was the signal, and Dean quickly stuffed his pockets with the last of the Jaffa cakes before standing up.

John frowned at the gesture, but was obviously too low to care much about stolen cakes, and instead walked the brothers to the front door. "So… so what now? What do you do now? I mean, not that I believe you but, how do you get rid of a ghost?"

The brothers exchanged glances. They didn't really want to tell this grieving doctor that they would have to burn the bones of his dead lover. It wasn't something people wanted to think about or hear. Not when they were in pain like this.

"We're going to encourage it to move on," Sam finally said, earning a snort from Dean, but he ignored it. "Listen, if you see him again, call us, okay? Here's the number of our hotel, and here's my cell." Sam scribbled the numbers on the back of a receipt and handed it to John.

"And what if he tries to kill me?" John asked suddenly, his eyes blank and lips trembling.

Sam gave a sigh and knowing he was probably overstepping his boundaries, he reached out and squeezed the doctor's shoulder. "Salt. Salt and iron repel ghosts. I know it sounds ridiculous, but trust us on this, okay? If you see him and he comes at you, make yourself a circle of salt and then call us."

John looked at Sam's hand on his shoulder and then gave a small, humorless laugh. "You know I don't believe a word of this, right? I've seen some strange things in my day but this…"

Sam gave him a smile and then the boys were gone and John Watson had disappeared back into his flat. They got only a few steps before Dean hesitated and stopped his brother. "Look man, I'm not sure I'm comfortable leaving him like this."

"Like what?" Sam asked with a frown.

"All… all fucked up and suicidal," Dean insisted.

"Dean, we can't be sure he was actually suicidal."

Dean rolled his eyes and leaned against the low wall of the building. "Don't be stupid, Sammy. You were in that apartment right along with me. You saw it. They were running low on food, he was wearing clothes that were days old. He stopped giving a shit weeks ago, and believe me man, I've been there. Okay? For weeks, every time I thought of Cas I just kept…" but Dean couldn't go on, and frankly, Sam didn't want him to. He didn't want to hear how Dean contemplated putting a gun in his mouth and ending it.

"Okay so what do you want us to do? We need to figure out if there really is a ghost, and even if there is, we can't just force this guy to go on living. If he's going to kill himself, there isn't much we can do to stop him." Sam hated saying all of this, but it was all true. They didn't know this John Watson, and Sam couldn't be sure how close to death the man really was.

Dean, however, shook his head. "Sam, what's the point of even being here if we're not going to bother helping that guy?" The statement was very un-Dean-like and that fact alone concerned Sam. Tomorrow would be the one-year anniversary that Heaven was shut down and Cas was gone, and Sam wanted to do anything but remind Dean about his loss.

Before Sam could respond to Dean, however, the elder Winchester elbowed Sam and nodded across the street. "Look, there's the roommate."

"Yeah, what was his name? Henry something?"

Dean shrugged. "You think those two are getting it on?"

Sam shook his head as he watched the overly-timid man duck into the coffee shop across the street. "No. You heard what the doctor said. He's not gay, he just sort of had a thing… you know… with Sherlock."

Dean rubbed his hand through his hair and gave a sigh. "Yeah, and I get it. Do you think maybe this kid's seen something?"

"Might as well check," Sam agreed. "The more information we have, the better. Especially if we're going to dig up bones and burn them."

The brothers checked for traffic and then darted across the street. They could see Henry at the counter ordering a coffee, so instead of going in, they waited outside, trying to look casual and unobtrusive. Henry didn't take long, and the moment he stepped out, Sam and Dean approached him, one brother on either side.

"Mind if we have a word?" Sam asked.

Henry looked from one brother to the other, his lips twitching with his frayed nerves, and he gave a shrug. "Sh-sure," he stuttered. "Um… what about?"

"Sherlock," Dean said. He eased Henry into a short alley and the three of them stopped.

"What about him?" Henry asked, looking as nervous as he felt.

"Well, your friend up there, Dr. Watson," Dean said, nodding toward the door of 221B, "thinks he's seeing him everywhere. You ever see him? Or you know, notice anything strange? Temperature differences, things going missing or moved?"

Henry frowned and took a step back from the brothers. "Look, I'm not sure I want to—"

Sam put his hands out in a surrender. "Look, Henry, we just want to help, okay? That's all we're here for. We don't charge a fee or anything, we're not trying to take advantage of the doctor. This is what we do, and we just want to make sure that Dr. Watson is safe."

Henry's face was still now, stoic and still a little hesitant but he didn't look nearly so afraid. "Alright well…" he hesitated, but only for a moment. "I've never seen him. Sherlock. At least, not after he you know… died. I um… I have noticed things, though. Not temperature changes but… but sometimes things will go missing. You know, like papers and envelopes and stuff. A few things that used to belong to Sherlock, like old lab equipment from the kitchen. Glass phials, a microscope. Things John noticed but never said anything about. At first I thought he was moving on… throwing things away? But… but then he started commenting when stuff would go missing. And I swear, sometimes it feels like there's been someone in the flat after we've been out. I can't explain it."

"Well we can," Dean said. "We're pretty sure that this Sherlock guy didn't move on after he died. Committing suicide is some serious shit, even for the most put-together soul."

"What are you talking about?" Henry asked.

"We're talking about a haunting," Sam said slowly. "A vengeful spirit. I realize it sounds crazy but…"

"I believe you," Henry said quickly. "I mean, I'm sure John thinks you're mad but… but I believe you."

Both brothers, though skeptical still, shared a relieved glance with each other. "Is there any information you can give us? Anything that might draw the spirit of Sherlock out into the open?" Sam knew they could summon him but he wanted to avoid rituals if at all possible.

Henry shrugged and gave his head a shake. "No… no nothing I can think of. If I do I… I can come find you?"

Sam fished out another crumpled receipt and wrote down the phone numbers. "We're probably going to scout out the cemetery tonight and see if we find anything."

Henry's lips twitched and then he said, "Not sure if it matters, but… but tomorrow is the anniversary that Sherlock you know… jumped."

Back at the hotel, Sam was pacing and Dean was lounging on the bed, drinking. They hadn't said much to each other for a while, both reeling at the coincidence of Sherlock's death and the day Castiel went back to Heaven for good. Sam was royally pissed off, honestly, because the whole point of this was to avoid anything to do with Cas, and every step they took was just taking Dean further and further into his downward spiral.

"It doesn't mean anything," Sam muttered, mostly to himself, forgetting just for a second that Dean was sitting there.

"Oh bullshit, Sammy. When has a coincidence in our lives ever meant nothing? Give me a break, man."

Sam's face pinked a little and he turned to Dean with a sigh. "Look, I realize that this is a tough day for you, okay. I do. But…"

"But nothing. You know what, tomorrow's going to suck, whether I'm holed up in my room drinking myself into a stupor or whether I'm sitting in some shitty motel in fucking London investigating the death of a man someone was cruel enough to name Sherlock. It doesn't goddamn matter, Sam. It's going to suck. But you know what, have some faith in me, okay? I'm not that doctor guy. I'm not ten steps away from putting a bullet in my brain. Not yet, and you know, if Cas doesn't pull shit like this Sherlock dude and make random-ass appearances, maybe I never will be. I'm fucking sad, and I'm dealing with it, but look at me now, I'm sharing my feelings while getting drunk, and I'm still here. And… and fine."

And Sam knew that while Dean wasn't fine, he was there, and maybe he should have a little more faith in his brother. Maybe, after everything they'd been through, Dean had found, somewhere, a will to live.

"Okay," Sam said with a nod. "Okay. Fair enough. I'll stop worrying."

Sam wasn't going to actually stop worrying, but he pulled back enough to let Dean take the lead when they decided to head out to the cemetery to investigate the gravesite of Sherlock Holmes. They managed to get a hold of Fiona and Andrew and grab and EMF reader, and as they crept through the creepily foggy cemetery, it stayed silent as the grave.

"Weird," Dean said as they circled the grave and the surrounding area. "Not a blip. We usually get something in a cemetery."

Sam frowned as he scanned the area, but had to agree with Dean, this was probably a bust. "Well, I guess we can try a summoning spell," he said.

"Might work better tomorrow on the anniversary, though," Dean suggested. "Let's check out where the dude jumped in the morning, and if we don't turn up anything there, let's do a routine salt'n'burn and then go from there."

Sam shrugged, not able to think of a better plan, and they decided to head out. As they were walking back to the rental car, a movement made Sam turn. It was small and subtle, but it gave him the chills. Still, the EMF was on and totally dead, so he had to assume it was just nerves getting to him.

They went back to the hotel where Sam jumped on the laptop and Dean drank himself to sleep. He didn't blame his brother, of course, but it didn't stop the worry that some day his brother really would end up like that poor doctor who had just given up on life.

An hour later, just as Sam was starting to feel tired, his cell phone rang, startling him. He glanced at Dean, who didn't budge, and then picked up without checking who might be on the line. "Yeah?"

"Uh is this one of the uh… Winchesters?" Sam recognized the hesitant, shaking voice of Henry on the other line.

"Yeah. Henry?"

"I um… I'm sorry if I woke you, but I wanted to know if you could meet me? I'm worried about Dr. Watson and um…"

"Yeah no problem. I'm right around the corner." Sam gave him the hotel info, and five minutes later, Henry was standing at the door. Sam let him in and when Henry cast a worried look at the unconscious Dean, Sam waved the concern away. "He's going to sleep through any and everything, don't worry."

Henry nodded and sat, taking the offered glass of whiskey that Sam poured for the both of them, and said, "Thanks."

"So is Dr. Watson okay?" Sam asked as he sat across from the younger man. "You sounded really upset."

"I don't know," Henry confessed. "Ever since he started seeing Sherlock everywhere he's just… he's been a mess. I mean, he's stopped eating, he barely sleeps, he doesn't talk to me anymore. He sort of just sits around and stares at the wall and I'm afraid…" he hesitated, looking up with watery eyes. "I'm afraid he's dying."

Sam's heart twisted for the poor kid who obviously cared about this John Watson. "You love him, don't you?"

Henry looked startled and then shook his head. "It's not like that. I mean, Dr. Watson isn't… you know. Even though I am. And really, he just helped me out of a very terrible situation and I thought the least I could do was return the favor. But now it just feels like no matter what I do, he's getting worse and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

Sam reached out instinctively, closing his hand around Henry's wrist in an attempt to calm him. The empathy he felt for Henry was near overwhelming, as he'd been suffering the same emotions on and off for a year with Dean. Watching his brother flounder, helpless to do anything about it, feeling like sometimes he was just sitting there watching his brother die.

"If we're lucky, we'll get the ghost of Sherlock to move on, and John can finally get on with his life."

Henry gave a nod but sighed and didn't pull away from Sam's hand. "Yes. I suppose my fear is that he just has nothing left to move on to."

The following morning, Sam was up early and to his surprise, so was Dean. They were a little sluggish from the time difference, but after a cup of coffee and a bite to eat, they made their way to the street just in front of St. Bart's hospital where it was reported that Sherlock Holmes plunged to his death.

Sam stood back, staring up at the roof, at the ambulance entrance on the side. There were people walking back and forth, all over. A bus came and went, and cars zoomed by. "Plenty of witnesses," Sam said as Dean carefully walked around the area with the EMF reader. It was still silent, and the boys made sure to double check the maintenance of it to make sure it was in working order. It was.

"Well, we're not really questioning if this dude died, right?" Dean asked as he shook his head and tucked the device into his coat pocket.

"No," Sam said slowly. "It's just… this feels different, you know? Like nothing's really adding up. Sure the evidence is all there with the sightings and people dying. Plus, last night I swore I saw something at the cemetery, but nothing's adding up to this being supernatural. I just…" he trailed off and shrugged. "I don't know, Dean. Something just seems off."

"I feel ya, man," Dean said quietly. "But it is what it is. We haven't really gotten any surefire evidence that we're up against a ghost. We might just have to burn the bones, tell this Watson guy that the ghost has moved on and hope that he gets his shit together before he does something really stupid."

Sam nodded, but he wasn't sold on that idea. "I'd like to dig around a little more. That Henry kid came by last night and he seemed really worried about the doctor. I don't want to just pull a half-assed job and then walk away hoping for the best. I think I'm going to see if I can get Henry alone and try and get more information out of him. I mean, maybe we're not dealing with a ghost. This John guy doesn't really seem to be the type, but maybe someone else was freaked out by his death enough to reanimate him?"

"Ground around the grave seemed fine," Dean said with a frown, but Sam could tell his brother's interest was piqued. If it was a zombie situation, the EMF would be quiet, and if the body was somewhere else other than the gravesite, the ground would be fine. "I guess it's worth a shot, though. Maybe while you're schmoozing his roomie, I can try and pull the good doctor back from the edge of the cliff."

Sam nodded, and found Dean's suggestion different, but it made sense. He knew his brother, knew how he worked. He knew that if Dean could save someone else, that the sacrifice might feel worth it. If someone else could back away from the edge and move on from losing someone they loved that much, as much as Dean had loved Castiel, maybe he could get over it, too. In time.

They headed back to Baker Street and instead of showing up unannounced, Sam called Henry and asked him out. Henry seemed hesitant, but agreed and eventually, Dean was let inside to talk to John, and Sam took Henry out to lunch.

"Hope you don't mind me staying while the boys go out for some grub," Dean said, wandering around the too-clean flat, glancing at all the things in their place, just so, and taking note of the dust surrounding them. John liked things neat, but he didn't dust. Not anymore.

"It's… odd, but fine. I assume you didn't turn anything up last night," John said from his spot on the chair.

"Not a damn thing," Dean said. He wanted to do something, anything, to help the doctor, but he didn't know what. It was tough, trying to save a man from his grief while he was drowning in his own. He wasn't fine, everyone knew it. Sammy knew it, and even with all of his talk that he was here, present, alive, he didn't feel like it. He didn't really feel anything, aside from moments of overwhelming despair. In those moments, when he tried to fathom eternity without ever seeing Cas again, and those were the moments when he was close to ending it all.

"Would you like some tea?"

Dean turned and smiled at John. "Nah, but you got any more of those cake things? Those were amazing. We don't have stuff like that in the states."

John returned from the kitchen with a plate of cakes, and when he saw Dean sitting in the seat the Winchester had helped himself to, he flinched. The flinch was not lost on the other man, and Dean immediately leapt to his feet as though the chair had caught fire.

"I'm sorry, man," Dean said, holding up a hand.

John blushed bright red and shook his head. "No… no don't be. It's fine, I just…"

Dean sat on the sofa instead. "Hey man, I get it. That was his seat. No worries, okay?"

John's eyes went watery and red, and he looked up at the ceiling with a sigh. "You'd think after all this time it wouldn't hurt to see someone else in that chair, you know? And for a while I was fine. I was just fine. But now… I just…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "I'm not a weak man, Mr. Winchester. I'm really not. I don't need the love of another person to sustain me from day to day. But what happened, how it happened, it was just so… so wrong. There was so much more he could have done. So much more he should have done, and his death was so…"

"Meaningless," Dean said absently. When John looked at him, a bit startled, Dean gave a bitter laugh. "Been there. I'm there right now, in fact. Year ago today, which Sam doesn't find nearly as ironic or coincidental as I do." He shook his head, knowing he was probably using the word ironic wrong, but he didn't really care that much. "Either way, it's not getting any better. Some days it's a little easier to get out of bed, take a shower, put one foot in front of the other. Some days… aren't. And those moments, those moments when you start thinking of something you should do, something that they could have done with you, something that would have mattered, and you know they're never going to be there for any of those moments again…" Dean's voice broke and he cleared his throat. "It's tough, is all I'm saying."

A small tear leaked from John's eye, but it was the most emotion he was really showing right then. "And when they tell you to live, you just want to hurt them, as badly as you're hurting, then ask them to tell you again life is worth continuing."

Dean shook his head and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look, I know we don't know each other, and once Sammy and I finish this case, I'll probably never see you again. But I gotta know that there is something more than this unending emptiness. It can't just be this, otherwise, what's the point. What was the point of everything we did to stop those bastards…" Dean stopped, realizing that he was giving away information that wasn't necessary or that John would actually accept. "My point is, I did a lot of good. He and I did a lot of good together, and I have to know that it gets better."

"Mine was an unusual sort," John said after a moment. "Didn't believe in an afterlife, so it's a bit ironic that he might be a… what did you call it earlier?"

"Vengeful spirit," Dean said as he reached for a cake. He took a bite and smiled. They really were an amazing little treat and he made a note to take some home. If killing zombies on the xbox didn't give him a reason to live, these cakes might.

"Yes, vengeful spirit. The vengeful part I could see," John said with a slight laugh. "He didn't take kindly to those who betrayed him."

Dean gave a little nod. "I hear that. Mine was a little more than awkward. His name was Cas, by the way. He… never quite got what it was like to you know, be part of normal society. Fumbled around, never goddamn understood any pop culture reference. Tried to figure out twitter once, that was hilarious. But he was a good guy. Always trying to do the right thing."

"Aren't we all, Mr. Winchester?"

And the truth was, yeah, they were. That was why they were there. That was why Dean, despite the fact that he still wasn't sure he wanted to live himself, wanted to save John from the end of a bullet. It was why they were going to burn Sherlock's bones and try and make sure that whatever of him was left had moved on. So John Watson could. They were just trying to do the right thing.

"So this Molly Hooper," Sam said over a bite of his sandwich. "You say she was madly in love with Sherlock?"

Henry nodded, staring at Sam with wide eyes behind his thin-rimmed glasses. "Madly. Like the British sort of mad, meaning insane."

Sam took a deep breath in thought. "So do you think she'd ever dabble in dark magic? Attempt to… I don't know… say raise the dead?"

Henry choked on his drink a little, wiping his mouth quickly with his napkin, clearly embarrassed. "Raise the dead? Like… like a vampire or something?"

"More like a zombie," Sam said, trying to ease the poor, nervous kid into the information. "It's not like in the movies, either. I know it sounds insane, but zombie rituals do exist. Usually the person comes back a sort of… shade… of their former selves. They can be commanded by the person who raised them, but they're hard to control."

"You've seen things like this before?" Henry asked, his voice squeaking a little.

"Unfortunately," Sam said. "Like I told you before, hunting ghosts and what not, that's my job. Me and my brother's. We've seen things I couldn't begin to explain to you, and honestly, if it's not a ghost, my guess is he's been brought back by someone for some purpose."

Henry licked his lips nervously and gave a small shrug. "I suppose if anyone was hysterical over Sherlock enough to try something like… like that, it would be Molly. But… but I just don't see her as the black magic type. She's very… sciency, not so much into spiritual stuff."

"Do you guys see her much?"

Henry shook his head. "When I first moved in, she'd pop by a few times. Even flirted a bit with me, but backed off the moment I told her I didn't swing her way. Very polite, bit timid. John was the one who explained her never-ending crush on Sherlock, and honestly it was in her eyes. Something shifty, you know, like she's not all there, not telling you the whole story. I grew up around people like that. Mr. Winchester, and believe me, there's something off about her."

"Please call me Sam," he said with a small smile. There was something about this kid that Sam liked. Something sort of fresh and kind, like he'd take you at your word and simply be okay with it. It was different. Nice.

"Right yes. Sam. Sorry," Henry stuttered.

Sam sighed a little, and then asked, "Is there any way you could take me to meet this Molly Hooper?"

They showed up first at St. Bart's morgue, but when she wasn't there, Henry led the way to her modest flat just a few blocks away. They pounded on the door for several moments before she answered, and Sam was a bit surprised to see what she looked like.

She was a bit frail looking, pale, her voice mousy, but he saw what Henry meant about the eyes. She looked nervous, and that was the first warning bell that rang in Sam's head. She let them in, of course, as Sam noticed that the Londoners were all much more polite than the strangers he met in the US on cases, and she even offered them tea which they both refused.

"Listen, we're here to discuss the matter of Dr. Watson," Sam said. He had no intention of actually giving her real information, and hoped his sharp glance at Henry conveyed that. "My brother, who's with him now, and I have been called in at the behest of Mr. Knight here. He's on an unofficial suicide watch, and we understand that you know Dr. Watson fairly well?"

Molly looked genuinely alarmed by this news, her hand flying up to her mouth, and she shook her head. "He hasn't tried anything, has he?"

"No, no, not at all. That's why we're here. We're hoping to prevent an incident."

Molly shifted in her seat, glanced over at a door down the end of a hall, and then said, "I'm not sure what sort of help I can give you, Mr… Winchester, was it?"

He nodded. "Sam."

"I'm afraid I was a close colleague with Sherlock… I'm sure you've heard of him?" When Sam nodded, she continued, "And I've been by to check on Dr. Watson a few times, but nothing more social than that. What… what can I do?" Sam noticed her glance at the door again.

"You know what, I think I will take that tea," he said with a soft smile. "Henry? Tea?"

"I um… s-sure," Henry said with a frown.

"Mind pop into the er…" he struggled with the word they used, "loo?"

"Just down there, first door," Molly said, and though she seemed a bit flustered, she got up and went through the door to her kitchen.

"Keep her distracted. I think I've found something," Sam said to Henry, who looked petrified, but Sam didn't have time to coach him. With steps as silent as he could make them, he crept down the hall and went to the door Molly had been staring at. He turned the knob, and to his surprise, it opened.

From first glance, it looked like a regular room. Just a simple bed, dresser, and a few boxes in the corner. As he peered into the closet, though, something caught his eye. It was a box and poking out of the top was what looked like a microscope and behind it, a bunch of glass phials. Didn't Henry mention something about things going missing? Lab equipment and stuff like that, Sam thought.

Still, Molly worked in a lab, so it wasn't completely unreasonable to assume they were hers. Sam turned and that was when he saw it. Hanging behind the door was a long, black coat. Wool, and on top of that a purple scarf. Sherlock had been wearing that exact thing in the photograph John had shown the Winchesters.

Then Sam noticed that the bed was rumpled, like it had been recently slept in. Underneath it, a pair of men's black shoes. On the dresser a glass of water, half-drunk. Sam walked out and closed the door. Molly was up to something, Sam was sure of it.

He was back, seated beside Henry before Molly returned. He smiled at her, his most charming smile and she instantly blushed. "I brought out a few tins," she said, indicating the small boxes of loose leaf teas. Sam chose the jasmine and put the infuser into his cup.

"So Molly, you live alone?"

Henry jolted at the impolite question, but Molly didn't seem bothered. "Ah yes, just me. My mum used to live with me but she and her sister moved south, London was getting a bit cold for her."

Sam nodded and smiled again. "Must get lonely."

"I work a lot," she said and now started to look uncomfortable.

"Ah," he said and nodded. He could see in the opposite direction a door open to Molly's modestly sized bedroom. A large bed with flowered sheets and covered in stuffed animals. "You collect?" he nodded toward the room.

Molly blushed and said, "Oh it's just… it's nothing."

Sam reached out and touched her hand, smiling at her. "Don't be embarrassed. I think it's sweet."

They continued small talk, Molly falling instantly for Sam's charms, and he got her phone number. She promised to call him if she noticed anything off about John, and then walked them to the door.

A silence fell between Sam and Henry as they hit the streets, and it was only after they turned the corner did Henry ask, "Were you honestly chatting her up?"

Sam frowned. "Was I what?"

"Flirting," he clarified. "Getting her number and all that?"

Henry looked completely put out and Sam gave a small laugh, shaking his head. "No, not exactly. She kept looking over at a door, and when she was in the kitchen, I went in and saw a few things that tipped me off. I think Molly might be dabbling into some dark magic, and I think she's the reason our friend John has been seeing his dead lover all over the city."

They met Dean back at the hotel. Dean walked in the room, frowning that Henry was still with Sam, but didn't really draw attention to it. He threw his coat on the back of a chair and sighed. "So you dig anything up?"

"I think so," Sam said. "Henry pointed me in the direction of a woman, Molly Hooper, who I guess had spent her entire life in love with Sherlock. She apparently took all sorts of verbal abuse from him over the years, still maintaining this sick crush on him. My guess is, when he kicked the bucket, she decided to bring him back and get revenge."

"Like a love-slave? Like that one chick… the professor's daughter?" Dean asked as he grabbed a beer. He cracked it and took a long drink.

"Angela, and yeah," Sam said with a nod. "She said she lives alone but she has a room that had that coat Sherlock was wearing in his picture, and the purple scarf. The room was obviously being used. But… it was empty."

"So you think he got away like the last chick?"

Sam nodded and glanced over at Henry who was following the conversation with wide eyes. "Yeah. I think so."

"Well we'd better be sure on this one, Sam. Zombies are no laughing matter, and I don't really feel like going on a wild goose chase, if you know what I mean. You notice any of the typical signs? Dead plants, occult books, anything like that?"

Sam shook his head and sat down on the bed near Henry. "No. I didn't notice any plants in her house at all, and I didn't get enough time to snoop around to see if she kept anything for a resurrection ritual."

"She… she had an orchid. In her front window. I-it wasn't dead though. It was blooming," Henry cut in timidly.

Dean turned to him sharply, making the kid jump a little. "It was completely alive?"

Henry gave a nervous nod. "Yeah. It had a pretty long bloom on it, nothing unusual."

Dean rubbed his face tiredly and flopped down on the second bed. "You realize we're getting a bunch of conflicting information on this case, and we've gotten a big fat nowhere so far. This was supposed to be a salt'n'burn Sammy, not a possible-ghost-possible-zombie-possible-I don't know what the hell this is case."

"I know," Sam said, feeling frustrated himself. "Look, tonight we'll head back to the cemetery and dig up the body. No body, we've got a zombie and we tail Molly until this Sherlock guy pops up. If there's a body, we burn the bones, hang out for a few days, and when we're sure the ghost is gone, we'll call it a win and go home. Fair?"

Dean shrugged. There wasn't much he could do to argue with that. It was simple logic, simple protocol. Digging up a body in the middle of the night in a foreign grave yard wasn't something either brother was looking forward to, but they'd done it before with Crowley.

"You're… you're going to dig up a grave?" Henry asked, breaking the silence between the brothers. "Jesus Christ."

Dean smirked and Sam smiled softly as he reached over to pat Henry's hand. "Typical day for a Winchester, trust me. We're just lucky no one's died yet."

It was completely freezing when they got to the cemetery later that night. They hadn't expected it, and hadn't dressed for it, and they were both cursing and complaining by the time they reached Sherlock's headstone.

Henry, who had flirted with the idea of following the boys to the cemetery, decided to stay back and keep an eye on John instead. Sam didn't blame him. Walking into the Winchester's world wasn't easy, and Henry was timid enough already.

"So this Henry kid," Dean said as he dug his first shovelful of soil, "you like him, or what?"

Sam smiled and gave a shrug. "I don't know. He's kind of cute, don't you think?"

"Ah Sammy, you know I don't swing that way. If it's got a dick, it had better have wings, you know what I mean?" Dean replied.

Sam rolled his eyes, knowing the humor was a defense mechanism, but at least Dean was acting like himself for the moment. "Well I think he's cute. Pretty pointless to pursue anything with him considering we're going to be heading home in a few days, though."

"How long has it been since you got laid?" Dean asked.

Sam clenched his jaw and didn't answer until they were a few feet down. "Considering everything I sleep with ends up dead, I sort of stopped trying to get laid."

"Well with Hell all closed off, I think you might be safe to give it a try," Dean said with a wink. "Make sure everything still works."

Sam didn't respond. They dug and dug until finally, what felt like hours later, they hit something. It was hard, a newer coffin so it didn't fall apart under the weight of their shovels. Sam stood back as Dean hit the seal and they heard it give way with a hiss.

Sam had the salt ready, Dean had the stake, and after a second, the lid popped open. Neither Winchester was surprised to see nothing was there. Nothing at all. The coffin had never contained a body, and the only stain on the white satin was the few clumps of dirt that fell in from the end of Dean's shovel.

"So… zombie," Dean said with a resigned sigh.

"Looks like it," Sam replied. "It would make sense. She works in the morgue, she'd have access to the body the entire time."

They hauled themselves out of the grave and both looked at the pile of dirt that would need to be replaced. "I need a drink," Dean groaned.

"I need a new job," Sam replied.

They began to fill the hole again, but as they did, Sam saw something out of the corner of his eye that made him stop. It was a strange movement through the trees. He turned and stared, and then he caught it. A flash of pale face and dark clothes and he knew it had to be Sherlock.

"Dean," he hissed, and pointed.

The figure began to run then, but as tired as both brothers were, they were still very fast. They'd had enough of this case, the both of them, and it only took a minute for them to catch up with the man. Dean grabbed his arm, tossing him to the ground, and he fumbled for the stake.

The moment he was delayed, a long leg shot up, kicking Dean in the elbow, and the stake went flying. "Mother fucker!" Dean cursed.

Sam dove for the piece of wood, shouting, "Silver will slow it down!"

The zombie had Dean by his shirt front, and Dean fumbled for his silver knife. He slashed at the creature, but where he expected a sizzle and a cry, the creature just kept walking him backwards until he was pressed up against a tree.

"Why, in the name of all that is holy, are you digging up my grave?"

Dean glanced over at Sam with wide eyes. Whatever this thing was, this man, he wasn't dead. At all. He was very alive, very bleeding from the knife wound, and from the look in his eyes, he was very, very pissed off.