Three

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The evening rain pattered on the windows of 221B Baker Street. Its curtains half drawn against the darkening precipitation, assorted lamps on around its recesses, the room was fascinated by the hubbub surrounding the coffee table. It was replete with Ordinance Survey maps, Sam's open notebook and the various newspaper clippings that had been teased from its pages.

"All three men lived in Waukegan," Sam was saying, pointing to the map. "We think this person was sticking to the ferry points. The apartments there were full of the kind of married couple he seems to pick." He paused. "Now these two murders in London - here." He pointed to the lines and roads on the paper. "Again, not far from the water and close together. He'll be back soon."

A beep interrupted them. Sherlock snatched up his phone from the arm of his chair. He frowned at the screen, unlocking the phone and typing a reply. Then he put it back down again.

"Are we boring you with this murder stuff?" Dean asked, overly politely.

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock has a lot of people who… ask him advice," he said. "Especially homicide detectives."

"Concentrate," Sherlock snapped, his eyes back on the map. "Why do you think he'll strike in the same area again? Wouldn't he move on to avoid detection?"

"No-one knows he's behind all the murders," Dean pointed out. "He probably thinks he's untouchable."

Sherlock's eyes went to Sam's, then back to the notebook. "How many of these… perpetrators have you had arrested, Sam?" he asked slowly.

"Uhm, none." Sam paused, unsure how to proceed.

Dean sat forwards. "What he means is, we've had to put each of them down." He studied the look John sent him across the room. "Hey, it's kill or be killed, man. It's not like you have a choice when they come at you with the sole intention of ending you."

"Right," John sighed.

"Sorry," Dean shrugged, as if that sentiment were very far removed from something he was used to. "It's just how it is."

"So how do we catch this one?" John asked pointedly.

"We stake out the street," Dean said simply. "He's going to come back sooner or later."

"Do you know what he looks like?" Sherlock asked.

"Well obviously he looks like the husband he's pretending to be," Dean said slowly.

Sherlock raised his eyes at him. "Do you really think he wanders around looking like his last, arrested victim until he can pick the next one?" he scoffed.

"Oh," Dean admitted with distinct unease.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded. "Any idea of his real face? A description, perhaps?"

Sam and Dean looked at each other, their expressions clearly running up white flags and pretending they weren't embarrassed about their surrender.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed on them. Then he sniffed and got up from his chair, going into the kitchenette.

John was left looking over the coffee table at them. "Are you sure this is all the info you have?" he asked quietly. "The more you tell him, the quicker this will be. Believe me, anything will help. Anything at all. Even if you think it's not important." The sound of drawers opening and small metal items being shoved about emanated from the kitchen behind him.

Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean. He put a hand up and scratched his head. Eventually he shrugged. Sam looked back at John. "Do you have wi-fi here?"

"Yeah."

Sam pulled his laptop from his duffle, opening it up. A small white item came sailing across the room from the kitchenette, bouncing against Sam's arm and dropped, only to have Sam juggle it inexpertly between both hands. It ended up on the carpet. "You're welcome!" came the subtitle from the smaller room.

Sam picked it up. "Oh right. Power adaptor. Thanks," he said brightly. He attached it to the power cable on his laptop, but John took the end from him and pushed it into the socket on the wall. Sam nodded his thanks and fired up the laptop, willing it to hurry. After a lot of tinkling and muttering, Sherlock appeared from the other room, going back to his chair.

"Please tell me you were getting rid of that experiment in the fridge," John said quietly.

"It's not done yet," Sherlock said tersely.

"And every time I have to open the fridge to get milk, there are maggots and rotting meat looking back at me," John accused.

"Maggots only eat dead flesh. They won't touch your food," Sherlock shot back.

"That's not the point," John hissed at him. Then he looked up slowly, finding Dean watching him. "Oh, um. This is not normal behaviour for Londoners, by the way," he said with a rueful smile.

"Yeah, no, it's fine," Dean said. "In the U.S. we keep our human hearts behind the Häagen-Dazs." He caught the way Sam failed not to smile. He blinked.

"Anyway," John said firmly, despite his whimsical smile, "what do you have for us?"

"Crime scene photos," Sam said. He lifted the laptop and turned it round. John got up and took it from him, being careful not to yank the power lead out as he sat down again. Sherlock leapt out of his chair and stood behind John's, peering at the screen.

"Where did you get these?" Sherlock demanded.

"I, uhm, kind of borrowed some site access to your metropolitan police for a little while," Sam said quietly. "It was that or wait weeks for proper clearance."

"Excellent," Sherlock grinned. "See, John? Officer thinking."

"Look, I'm a blogger, not a geeky website hacker," he protested. He looked at Sam. "No offence."

"Seriously? That's Sam's Secret Squirrel code name," Dean grunted.

"Forget it," Sam said to John. "Anyways, uhm, that's what we got. This guy is on CCTV from some place next door to the house. You see him park his car outside and go off the side, probably to the front door. Now look at the guy they arrested."

Sherlock's eyes darted from the CCTV image to the photograph taken from police files. "It's not the same man," he said.

"What? It looks like the same man to me," John said.

"Hardly. His hair's different - he's been pushing it the wrong way," Sherlock said. "There, see?" he asked, pointing.

John squinted at the photo. "That's just a parting, Sherlock. Maybe he just felt like a change."

"And it's too short."

John scoffed. "By maybe a millimetre!"

"What did he do, ring the doorbell, kill his wife, pop off for a haircut and then get back in time to be arrested?" Sherlock tutted. "And his shirt's the wrong size." His head moved from one picture to the other. "Yes. This one is… possibly a fifteen inch collar. This one's got a nick in the cotton and it's more like a fifteen and a half inch. So he's stolen this one, trying to look like the man who was later arrested." He looked up at Sam. "So, a double, then? One that can make himself look like anyone?"

John laughed, but Sam and Dean looked at their feet.

"Oh come on; it's obvious," the consulting detective said. He straightened up, folding his arms. "If he's managed to successfully look like three other men to kill, then he must possess some kind of skill the rest of the world doesn't - a skill that makes him look like anyone he chooses."

Sam wiped at his nose casually. "Yeah, I suppose he must."

"Enough, Sam," Sherlock said irritably. "We both know you already know what he is and have an idea of where to find him."

"Do you?" Dean asked, but he was looking at Sam.

"Well, yeah, I mean… Kinda," Sam shrugged.

"Well?" Dean demanded.

"Look, he's in the one area, right? He picked off two women, but he avoided these two streets, here," he said, pointing to them on the map in turn. John and Sherlock peered at it. "So I figure it's for a reason - I mean, they're just the same as the ones where he did strike, and yet his murders have been away from them - this one in particular," he said, tapping the map. "So… maybe that's where he's hiding."

"In a 'never crap where you eat' kinda way?" Dean asked. "Fair enough."

There was a long silence. John sat forward, planting the laptop on the coffee table again. He cleared his throat rather gingerly. "So… when are you going to tell us what's really going on?"

Dean wiped a hand over his forehead. "Look, man, just help us find him, and we'll be gone, ok?"

"We'll need some gear," Sam said. "We couldn't bring our stuff with us from the U.S."

"We'll need at least one gun and some silver bullets," Dean said.

Sherlock's head tilted. He looked down at John, but the ex-army officer was spluttering with surprise.

"You're serious?" John managed. "Dean - you can't own a gun in this country! Well, unless you're a farmer."

"Or a farmer's mother," Sherlock smiled.

John turned and frowned up at him. Then he looked back at Sam and Dean. "And no-one makes bullets, silver or otherwise."

"So we'll just mug a cop," Dean shrugged.

"Woah - slow down," Sam said quickly.

"Policemen don't carry guns in this country," Sherlock said. "Unless they work in an airport."

"Are you yanking my chain?" Dean gasped. "Your cops don't have guns? What do they do if they have to take someone down? Use real harsh language?" He paused. "Although, that probably wouldn't be hard, if that guy in the street earlier is anything to go by."

"John has a gun," Sherlock put in brightly. "Don't you, John? Would you like to tell the our guests how you came to hold onto it when you were discharged and invalided back to Blighty?"

"I just forgot to hand it back," John said defensively. "It happens. Sometimes."

"He's also a crack shot. I recommend he carry the gun," Sherlock went on. "I know where we can get silver bullets."

"Now just stop right there," John said firmly. "You're talking about finding a gun, and bullets, and shooting people. And you," he said to Sherlock, "are talking about people that can change their face to look like other people. Do you lot have any idea how bizarre this all sounds?" He stood up to

"Ho! Stop!" Dean called, his hand up. He looked at Sam. "I kinda like this little guy. I mean, he's like the only insane person in the room, but-"

"You mean 'sane'," Sam smiled.

"Do I?" Dean asked. His eyes flicked to the ceiling, his mouth moving slightly as he thought about something. Then he looked back at Sam. "Whatever. So far, this is coming back to me - I think."

"Yeah," Sam replied, rather uneasily. "You still think this is a real memory? Or someone trying to make us think it's a real memory?"

"Jury's still out," Dean grunted. "We'll just have to watch real careful." He opened his mouth but then his head jerked back and he squirmed, putting a hand to his left eye.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

Dean let go of his face. He looked up, confused. "Felt like water in my eye. Again."

Sam looked up. "Do you think this place is leaking or something?"

Dean shrugged, looking at his hand. "There's nothing there."

Sam raised his hand. "Whatever. Roll it, please!"

look at Sherlock. "And where the hell would you know where to get silver bullets, anyway?" John demanded.

"Same place as a couple of fake passports, actually," Sherlock mused, his eyes on the far wall in thought.

"Well that was easy," Dean said. He got to his feet. "When do we move on this?"

"Wait," John urged. "Do you actually think we're going to just-"

"Oh John," Sherlock heaved with a sigh. "Yes, we believe them. Yes, we're going to help them. No, that girl is not going to call you back but yes, you will finally get to talk to that other girl from the library - probably Thursday."

John threw his hands in the air, stalking off toward the window in a way that Dean recognised all to easily as a way to avoid eye contact with someone who knew you entirely too well.

"Okie dokie," he said quietly.

John turned and appraised him. "I think you two should get some sleep first," he said, eyeing the way Dean had to put his hand on the backrest of the sofa as he yawned. "It's getting late in the day, anyway. We can take a look at what's around that area of the map tomorrow."

"What?" Sam blurted. "How about you two take me there now? Dean can crash somewhere, get some sleep-"

"I'm ok, Sam," Dean said irritably.

"You've been awake for about twenty-four hours," Sam shot back. "We can't do much for a while."

"We can find out where the freaky asshole's hiding out," Dean said angrily.

"Alright! Stop!" John cried, his hands spread. "Take it easy. You're both tired and all Dean's had is a Speedy pasty. We know a few places not far from here where you can stay tonight. Cheap, friendly - they won't ask too many questions. While you're there, maybe Sherlock and I can go and organise some passports and bullets." He paused. "Which is the craziest thing I've ever said."

"I have days like that all the time," Dean grunted.

"Coo-ee! Hello!" came a cheery voice. Someone knocked on the open door and then Mrs Hudson was poking her head round the edge. "Sorry to interrupt fellas, but the downstairs room's still empty. Don't forget, it's been painted since that awful business with the shoes. I could put a heater in it. It'd be rude to throw you out onto the street in this filthy weather. And I have more of that coffee."

"I like her," Dean beamed. "She said 'coffee'."

Sam's eyes felt their boots skidding on some huge incline, and that was it; they were off. They hared down and around his eye sockets as fast as they could, completing the three-hundred-and-sixty degree journey in record time. He drew in a breath and just knew it was streaming out of him in some huge huff. "Fine," he said, his shoulders sagging. He looked at Sherlock, then John. "Is that ok with you?"

"Fine," John said, waving his hands in surrender. "As long as you don't mind."

"Mind?" Dean said with a grin, bending and swinging his duffle up onto his shoulder. "Coffee, heat, and a bed. All that's missin' is a few strippers. Buy hey, can't have everything."

Mrs Hudson put a hand over her mouth, but there was something coquettishly fun about her little surprised gasp. "Well you won't find strippers round here, young man," she said as sternly as she could manage, turning to the door.

Sam pounded a fist into Dean's arm. He shrugged at him in pure lack of damns to give. Sam huffed and pushed him in front of him. As Dean followed Mrs Hudson down the stairs, Sam looked back at his research and laptop on the table. "You probably want to look at that some more," he said reluctantly.

"Excellent," Sherlock said, apparently well pleased. Sam nodded.

"Make sure Mrs Hudson isn't forcing food on your brother," John said.

"It wouldn't be forcing," Sam said with a smile. He picked up his duffle but then paused. "Uhm… Thanks. For all this." And then he disappeared down the stairs.

John waited until the sound of boots had faded. Then he went to the door and closed it silently. "Nutters, the pair of them," he sighed.

But Sherlock was grinning. Suddenly he let out a huge bark of a laugh, twirling on the spot, his hands clenched in victory. "Brilliant!"

"Have I missed something?" John asked.

"Everything! As usual!" Sherlock cried in excitement, stalking over the top of John's chair in front of him as if hiking over a patch of thistles. His feet dropped to the carpet on the other side and he grabbed John by the arms. "Finally! A new case! We've never had anything like this before!"

"We've never had a pair of American loonies in the basement, either."

"Oh come on, John! Where's your sense of fun!" Sherlock laughed, shaking his arms.

John managed to extricate himself from the other man's grip, standing back. "Sense of fun? Sherlock, they're talking about shooting someone with silver bullets who can make himself look like any man in London! What the hell are we supposed to be tracking, some kind of werewolf?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said, going to find his shoes by his chair. "Werewolves can't change their human appearance."

John's eyes rolled and he went into the kitchenette. "Well before we go anywhere for fake passports or silver bullets or whatever, I'm getting a bloody good cup of tea."

"You worry too much," Sherlock called across. "If they really do turn out to be 'nutters', we'll just have Lestrade arrest-"

"Pause it!" Dean called, his hand in the air. "One, they don't trust us any more than we trust them, and two, they think we're crazy."

"How is that different from any other gig we've done?" Sam smiled.

"We couldn't have seen them talking about us like that - so whose memory is this?"

"No idea, man," Sam muttered. He sat back.

Dean lifted his hand. "Roll it!" he called. The film flickered and appeared to run out, before it jerked to a stop. It made a few shlepping noises before suddenly a new reel started up and showed

"Are you sure you'll be alright in here?" Mrs Hudson was asking. She hovered in the doorway, watching Sam throw the blankets and pillows down on the camp bed by the wall.

"Absolutely," Dean said over his shoulder, already flapping blankets over the camp bed on the opposite side of the room. "We're used to roughing it; this is luxury."

"Oh. Well. Just bang on my door if you need anything. Coffee, breakfast, anything at all," she said.

"We will. Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Sam said, turning and looking at her. She smiled and waved her fingers at him. Then she left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Sam turned and flopped down onto the bed. Dean was standing by his, pulling off his heavy shirt. He flipped his t-shirt up his right side to reveal a long length of black cotton-effect material.

"Is that what I think it is?" Sam asked.

Dean looked up even as he picked gingerly at the tape securing the item directly to him. "No, it's not a Barbie," he said, ripping the tape free. "Son of a-." He grunted a few epithets as he managed to get the black item from his skin. He unwrapped it carefully, taking the six-inch knife from its heavy overcoat.

"What is that stuff?" Sam asked.

Dean grinned, putting the knife on the bed before sitting next to it. He wrapped the black material up carefully. "Bobby said it'd get anything through an x-ray scanner. Guess he was right."

"Where'd he get it?" Sam blinked.

"Dude, do we really want to know?" he said. "And it's not like we can ask him right now, is it?" He turned to his duffle, throwing the material inside. He slid the knife under his pillow and then unlaced and shucked his boots. His socked feet swung up onto the bed, his hands went behind his head, and he collapsed back in complete and utter relaxation. The single standard lamp in the corner of the room sent gentle shadows across the space between them.

"Dean?" Sam asked quietly.

"Hmm."

"Do you think we can actually trust these people?"

"Hmm."

Sam looked at him, finding his eyes to be closed. He smiled slightly. "This reminds me of that camping trip Dad took us on, remember?"

"Hmm."

"I was like six or something. You were ten, I suppose. Our tent got washed away by the rain. We ended up in the spare room of some ranger guy."

"It was the river, not the rain," Dean muttered. "And it was the park ranger hut. Nice place."

Sam rubbed his temple, scrunching his face up in thought. "Oh yeah." He paused. "Anyways. If these two really can help us, then we can sort this out real fast - and then get home."

"Never thought I'd miss a rude cab driver," Dean agreed. Sam ran his hands through his hair, turning things over in his mind. "If they try to pin this thing on us when we come clean and tell 'em it's a shapeshifter, we might have to do the job and make a run for it," Dean added.

"They've kind of got us, though," Sam said, troubled. "I mean, we need their help with the passports and stuff."

"Then we play nice till we get them. Then it's London in the rear-view," he yawned. "Well - of a - uhm - airplane."

"I hear you." He paused. "Where do we start tomorrow?"

"Morgue would be good. There are two dead bodies to check. Then… His hunting grounds. -Not at the place you told them about, on the map," Dean snorted, his eyes still closed.

"Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"C'mon, Sammy - that was your decoy. I've seen you do that to cops like a hundred times. When we get the silver bullets and that friendly dude's gun… we send them to the decoy and we go find this 'shifter and put a stop to his wife-slashing ways," Dean muttered.

Sam chewed on his lip. "We could use them. They don't know what's really going on."

"And that's why we go it alone, Sam. Nice, helpful people are the first ones to get eaten by the kinds of things we hunt, you know that."

Sam shrugged, his face one of agreement. "Do you want me to wake you when-"

He looked over.

Dean was asleep.

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Thanks for your reviews, people! I seriously do a victory dance if I get one. Nice to know someone out there likes it. :)