"I ran the samples from the apartment and—"
"Whoa, whoa, wait," Dean said, holding up both hands. "What samples?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "The ones I pick-pocketed off of Lestrade. Obviously."
Sam snorted. "Wait, so… you pick pocketed your chief of police—"
"Chief Inspector, and yes," Sherlock drawled, typing away at the TARDIS console. "He was being annoying."
John's face scrunched up. "Sorry… how was he being annoying this time?"
"Calling the Winchester's fake supervisor," Sherlock said. "Did he really think I'd let just anyone tag along with me to a crime scene?"
"You have to admit, your entourage is getting bigger," the Doctor said. "May seem a little odd."
"Especially for you, Sherlock," John added.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please, you thought it was odd that I'd have a black-lacquer cow skull up on my wall with headphones on it."
John stared at Sherlock for a long moment, then began rubbing his temples with both hands. "I-I'm sorry… how does that prove that you are not, in fact, odd—?"
"Alright!" the Doctor intervened, clapping his hands together and stepping between the two. "Moving right along… before we have a domestic on our hands."
John's cheeks went pink. "We're not…" He gave up halfway through the statement and sat back in his chair.
The Doctor gestured. "Sherlock, if you would?"
Sherlock's eyes were narrowed on The Doctor, but he said nothing more about the situation. He sighed, swinging the monitor for the others to see as well. "As I said, I ran the samples through the TARDIS. Much more efficient than the lab equipment; the results were almost instantaneous. So first there is the concrete dust from the footprints in the apartment."
Sherlock pulled up the screen, zoomed in on three microscope slides. "Along with the traditional elements found in commercial concretes, there were traces of calcium chloride, calcium nitrate, and sodium nitrate. It's a newer compound, usually found in quick-drying cement. Two companies here in England use quick drying cement, two more when you include the south area of Scotland. And between the four of them, there are over fourty-eight buildings featuring such cement."
"Forty-ei—" Dean shook his head, standing. "We're going to have to look through forty-eight places?"
Sherlock was typing away. "No, fortunately. I've narrowed it down to two."
"Two?" Sam asked. "Really?"
"Really."
"How?"
"The paint."
"The paint?"
Sherlock turned from the console, looking right at Sam. "Yes, Samuel, the paint. Are you going to repeat everything I say, or may I continue?"
Sam swallowed, looking sheepish. "Right, sorry."
Sherlock went back to typing. "The paint… I found it along the baseboards in the kitchen, little flecks of white paint—"
"Yeah, they were white baseboards," John said, frowning.
"Thought about that," Sherlock said. "So I scratched off a little of the paint on the wall as well. The paints don't match. One of them is a typical household paint, the one from the baseboards, but the other? It's old commercial grade paint, old enough that it still contains traces of lead in the compound. So we're looking for a building that was built before or during the time they still put lead in paint, but has been recovered within the timeframe of any of these four companies starting to use the rapid-set cement. Take into account the traces of limestone from the dust sample, that eliminates two of the contractors, then cross-reference for buildings in the area, rule out the buildings outside a two hour driving distance—"
"Two hours?" Sam asked. When Sherlock gave him "the look," he mouthed an apology.
"The landlady said she blacked out for about five hours. Shave off an hour for the actual kidnapping and then the drop off and yes, two hours, if that. So buildings that are over two hours from the woman's apartment are rendered null, check for zoning information and building dates, and…" Sherlock opened a screen, gesturing at the monitor. "Two buildings. One on the east end of Oxford, the other just outside of Dartford, almost alongside the river. Both of them car parks."
Once again, nearly in unison, Sam and John both murmured, "Wow," and "Fantastic."
"Yeah, right, awesome," Dean said. "So now what?"
Sherlock stared at him. "Investigate both the locations, naturally. Judging from the apparent level of planning that went into this entire kidnapping, I'd be willing to wager that they aren't ready to simply pack up and leave at a moment's notice, so—"
"That's not what I mean," Dean said. "I'm talking about our game plan. How are we actually getting in there and taking these guys out?"
John frowned. "How do you mean? Like—?"
"I mean, we're not just talking about a couple of gang-bangers or some kids all hopped up on crack," Dean said, looking around at the others. "We're talking demons."
Sherlock snorted. "Demons?" he repeated.
"Yeah, demons," Dean snapped. "And don't get all smart-assey with your deductions and crap. We know what to look for, alright? Sam and I have been at this since we were kids."
"Remind me why you invited them along?" Sherlock muttered, looking at the Doctor.
The Doctor sighed. "Sherlock—"
"Because if I wanted to delve into the supernatural, I'd go shopping at the teen section of a bookstore—"
Dean lunged at Sherlock. "Oh you did not just compare us to the Twitards, you son of a bitch!"
Sam grabbed hold of Dean swinging him back behind him and holding him back until he calmed down. Sam turned toward Sherlock. "Look, I know it sounds crazy. I know. And if I hadn't seen it first hand over and over, I'd probably think we were all basket cases, too. But you gotta trust us on this." Sam swallowed, looking from person to person. "I know it sounds… impossible. And hopefully we're wrong. But for now? Please? Just… pretend that we know what we're talking about. Maybe something will happen, maybe nothing will, just…" Sam shrugged. "Let us take some precautions before we go out there and start poking things with a big stick, okay?"
John was staring at Sam, looking slightly confused. "What sort of precautions are we talking about, exactly?"
Dean sighed. "Doc? We're going to need to pay a visit to my baby."
The Doctor's eyebrows went up. "Sorry, what?"
A short trip to the Impala later (and then some time coaxing Dean back into the TARDIS), the Winchester brothers returned with four duffle bags, three milk jugs filled with holy water, and two large sacks of rock salt. The others helped them carry the things to the kitchen and set them on the table.
"What exactly is it you lot carry in these?" the Doctor asked, dumping one of the duffels onto the table. "Bricks?"
"Protection," Dean said as he tugged the zipper open on one of the bags.
John was already rifling through one of the bags. His eyes went wide. "Whoa," he murmured. "Um… you have quite the, ah… arsenal. Is all this really necessary?"
"What's wrong, Johnny-Boy?" Dean asked with a smirk. "You never seen one of these bad-boys up close and personal before?"
John gave Dean a look and a soft laugh. "Uh, actually," he said, pulling a hand gun from the bag. "I probably know more about these so-called bad-boys than you." He ejected the clip and examined it before pushing it back in and turning the gun over in his hand. "Colt Mark IV, M1911A1... uncustomized, ivory grips, with chrome plating." He gave Dean a look. "I'm a Browning man, myself."
Dean's eyebrows were raised, clearly impressed. "Wow. Johnny-boy has a dark side we don't know about."
John scoffed. "Hardly," he said, setting the gun down on the table as Sam began unloading the bags. "I served in the military."
"He was a doctor," Sherlock said leaning over the table to look over the various firearms.
"I saw enough combat, believe me," John said.
"You ever use one of these?" Sam asked, tossing John the shotgun.
He caught it, felt the weight of it in his hands before pulling it up against his shoulder. "Not exactly standard issue for a doctor, but I know my way around it. Ithaca?"
"37," Sam confirmed. "My baby."
"Very nice. Feels good. Not too heavy—"
"Wait until you—"
"That's an awful lot of guns," The Doctor said. His eyes were stern, jaw set.
Dean glanced at him then shrugged. "Yeah, well… we fight an awful lot of demons."
"Fight or kill?" the Doctor asked, not looking up from the growing arsenal displayed on the table.
Dean looked back up, setting down the gun he was examining and leaning on the table. "There a problem, Doc—?"
"Oh, yes," the Doctor said, spinning on his heels to look Dean in the eye. "Guns. I don't. like. guns."
Dean opened his mouth to speak, but Sam cut him off. "Look, I get it, I do. So… no worries. We'll take care of the firearms, and—"
"This isn't about me using them, it's about us," the Doctor said flatly. "Any of us. I've been around humans long enough to know if they are carrying a gun, it isn't because they intend to ask questions first—"
"Yeah, well neither do demons," Dean snapped. "And I hate to break it to you, Doc, these demons? They aren't going to give you the damn time of day before they shoot your ass. And I don't care how good you are. No one's bad ass enough to take a frag round to the face and walk away from it."
The Doctor held Dean's gaze a long moment, his jaw set. Very slowly, a smirk came over his expression. "Oh, Dean. Dean Winchester. You clearly don't understand how I work."
"Oh, I understand," Dean said. "I just disagree—"
"Everyone deserves a chance."
Dean ran a hand over his face with a sigh. "Okay, maybe this is hard to wrap your alien brain around. We're talking demons. The very definition of unredeemable, okay? Lying, cheating, and killing is in the job description, and they love their jobs. All of them. You give them so much as a chance, and—"
"Nevertheless," the Doctor said. "If you don't mind… I'll take the chance and this time. We do it my way, or we don't do it at all."
"Oh, really? Well—"
"Doc, look," Sam said, cutting Dean off. "We're not talking about going in there guns blazing. We're talking about going in there safe. Look," he said, grabbing one of the shotguns and popping out a shell. He broke it open and emptied the contents onto the table. "Rock salt."
The Doctor frowned as Sherlock reached forward, picking up a few grains. "Alright, I'm curious," he said. "Why rock salt?"
"One of the few things that will slow them down," Sam said.
"What are the other things?" John asked.
Sam shrugged. "Holy water. Iron. Palo Santo—"
"Which we don't have because it's fucking impossible to get your hands on in the states," Dean complained, folding his arms across his chest.
"Devil's Traps can hold them long enough for an exorcism, but—"
"Wait, wait, exorcism?" John asked, cutting him off. "Not like… like the movie, right, we're talking something different—"
"Not exactly," Sam sighed.
"Less pea soup and more mouthy asshole," Dean said with a smirk.
John sighed. "Brilliant. That sounds just… fantastic."
"Exorcism," the Doctor murmured, "so these demons, the things you hunt, they're… inside human bodies? Literally taking control of them."
"Uh, yeah," Dean said. "Kind of the standard demon hijinks I was talking about."
"But there's still a human in there!" the Doctor shouted. "A living, breathing human—!"
"Here's what you're missing out on, Doc," Dean snapped, rounding on him. "Demon takes a body for a joyride, they aren't worried about upkeep. They aren't eating, they aren't drinking. Long drops and broken bones? Not even going to phase them, okay? Regular bullets? Maybe they'll stumble. And even if you get a shot at exorcising a demon? Nine times out of ten, host isn't walking away from that. They are fried. If you don't get them out in that first little window of time? You're not going to be getting them out at all." Dean shook his head. "They might look like people, Doc… but the person inside is long gone. They're parasites, Doc. We're just here to take care of the pest problem."
The Doctor leaned back, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trenchcoat and clicked his tongue. "Yeah, well… m'sure a certain German man once thought the same thing about the Jews."
"Oh, you did not just—!"
"Gentlemen, come on," John said, reaching an arm between them. "Let's just… not get ahead of ourselves."
"Everyone deserves a chance," the Doctor said flatly.
Dean threw up both his hands. "Y'know what. Fine. Fine." He started walking in the direction of the bedrooms. "You can get in there your damn self. Have a nice tea party with them while they try to rip out your throat. No skin off my back."
Sam sighed. "Dean—"
"Oh, and another thing," Dean snapped, spinning around. "You might not be aware of this, but I spent a little time on the rack downstairs. I was a fucking prisoner of war. I know what those mothers are capable of, more than anyone else here. Maybe more than anyone on the Goddamn planet. So I'll tell you what, Doc. I don't want to hear any apologies or explanations, because you know what? I told you so." He took a deep breath, looking from face to face, holding a long stare with Sam, then back to the Doctor. "You do things your way, Doc, I'll do them mine. And if that means you don't want me here, fine. Just drop me back off at the car."
The Doctor sighed. "I never said I didn't want you here, Dean—"
"Yeah, well you sure as hell don't want my advice," Dean muttered to the floor.
"Look," Sam said. "How about Dean just hangs back for now? The four of us can go scout things out. We can split up, each of us takes a building. We'll take just the basics; holy water and spray paint." He looked at the Doctor. "No guns. If it looks hairy, we bail and come back packing heat."
"Dangerous," Sherlock murmured. "One hell of a risk."
"More like a suicide run," Dean snapped, leaning against the wall near the hallway. "You'd be stupid to go in with nothing but a flask of water and a couple of Devil's Traps—"
"So we meet somewhere in the middle," John said, his tone suddenly harsher than any had heard him use before. More authoritative. "Listen. What if we took those things you mentioned, but we also take the guns with the rock salt shells. Salt is non-lethal, but—" he added as the Doctor gave him a significant look, "—as per the Doctor's orders… no one shoots until he gives the go-ahead."
"Which I won't," the Doctor mumbled.
"But that way," John said, giving the Doctor a harsh stare, "we are prepared. Just in case."
Sam looked at Dean. "There. Compromise. Now will you come with us?"
Dean's eyes narrowed. "Fine." In the same breath, he added, "but I'm going with whoever doesn't go with the Doc."
"Glad we're all behaving like grownups," Sherlock drawled.
"Hey, screw you, Sherly—!"
"Alright, enough!" John snapped. "All of you!"
The entire room fell silent, staring at the small blonde man who was covering his face with both hands, shaking his head. "God, you're all giving me a bloody headache." He shrugged at the cupboard behind them. "Someone put a pot on."
"On it," Sam said, walking toward the cabinets.
John sighed, pulling out a chair and taking a seat at the table. "Someone get me a printout of the schematics of these carparks? We need to figure out our approach."
Sherlock's mouth twitched into a grin, but he said nothing to John, merely nudged the Doctor. "So, printing capabilities of the TARDIS…?"
The Doctor followed Sherlock away, rambling something about the output levels and the technology of the ink they used and so on and so on.
Meanwhile, Dean was back to standing at the end of the table. He stared at John as the man began muttering to himself, making mental notes and planning the coming approach. Dean cleared his throat. "So, uh… what do I do?"
John sighed. "I don't know, just… don't talk, alright? My head hurts well enough on it's own."
Dean frowned, looking at Sam who just shrugged. Dean took a seat and commenced to moping. In silence.
Irene Adler checked her mobile for the sixth time in the last five minutes. She wasn't sure what she was expecting. Certainly not another text. Her orders had been clear. And this time, following them to the letter was of utmost importance. No loose ends this round and no room for personal involvement.
"What makes you so sure I need the job?" she asked when the call first came.
"Oh, dear thing," the voice on the other line said, with a tone something like a cat lounging in the sunlight. "Ducking out in Qatar, picking up the occasional client and scrapes, hoping no one important realizes you go on ticking like a tightly-wound clock." He chuckled. "You're dying… for work."
Irene had swallowed. The way he said dying made it sound less like conversation, less like an offer. More like an order. She cleared her throat. "Guilty as charged," she whispered.
Nothing but silence on the other end.
Irene took a deep breath. Oh God. "What can I do for you today, Mr. Moriarty?" she asked, hoping he didn't hear the quiver in her false bravado, knowing he already had.
She could hear his snake-like smile on the other end of the line. "Get a pen, kitten."
Three sets of forged papers, two stolen identities, and one plane-ride later, not only was she back in London. She was back in style.
Moriarty certainly knew how to treat a girl. Even though she'd never set her eyes on the man herself, he seemed to know exactly what tickled her fancy; Closets filled with the latest fashions, the finest lingerie, and the most expensive jewelry.
And then she received the second call.
"Tell the client that won't be necessary," she said, painting her toenails. "I work better alone."
"Not your call," Moriarty said. He sounded distracted. It might have been the sound of heavy machinery in the background. That or the screaming. "Client insisted. Insurance, he called it." Judging from his tone, he was as pleased about the situation as she was.
Irene finished blowing on her nails and set to applying the second coat. "Nothing to be done about it, I suppose," she sighed. "But it shouldn't be too much trouble." She smirked. "I do enjoy giving orders."
"I trust I won't find you mixing business and pleasure…" His tone was suddenly empty. Almost void of tone. "Curiosity, kitten… as the saying goes. We learned our lesson… didn't we?"
Irene leaned back. Her mouth drew to a fine line. "All too well," she said, almost whispered. She waited, held her breath listening for his response. She waited for what felt like ages before she finally heard the other line disconnect.
And now here she was, sitting in a café, waiting to make contact with her, apparent associate. For the course of the job, at least. And that was only if she couldn't lose him at the first opportunity. Or the second. There was nothing more loathsome than a man with privilege, especially considering that privilege usually seemed to lump her and her body into the equation.
She sighed and fiddled with the edge of a napkin, looking bored as she kept constant watch for this man. There was a fat gentlemen in a suit—thank God he was being escorted to the other side of the café—then another man, under-dressed for the establishment and clearly aware of it, but he walked past her table and slid into a seat across from a woman who was too young to be his wife. He kept his hands under the table as he tugged off his wedding band, pocketed it. Irene gave a little snort, rolled her eyes and went back to playing with her napkin. Men.
She glanced up and froze where she sat. In the same instant, she readjusted herself, masking her body language, but unable to take her eyes off the woman. She was young, but no more than five or so years younger than Irene, herself. She had rich, caramel colored hair, styled in loose curls to frame her heart-shaped face and blue eyes. The grey, cocktail dress wrapped around her body, leaving little from the waist up to the imagination, and swirling down to her knees; just enough leg to keep a girl's interest.
Irene couldn't help but smile and chuckle to herself as she looked the other woman over. The things she would like to do with someone so fit…
And then the unthinkable…
The woman looked directly at Irene and started walking toward her.
Irene didn't move, simply inclined her head and stared back. There was no point in backing down now. She'd clearly been caught. She leaned back in her chair, uncrossed her legs and smoothed out her skirt. She ran through seven possible apologies and three ways to invite the woman back to her apartment, opened her mouth to speak, when things became significantly more interesting.
The woman extended a hand to her, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. A flash of too-white teeth and she spoke. "Irene Adler, I presume."
Irene felt her face reacting without her permission and quickly reigned in her surprise. "You presume correctly," she said, shaking the other woman's hand and then gesturing to the chair across from her. "You'll have to excuse me. I wasn't expecting—"
"A woman?" the other woman said, still smug and smiling.
Irene couldn't help but smile. "Ironic, isn't it?" she said as she watched her companion slip into her seat. "I spend all afternoon bracing myself to deal with a slab of meat, and…" Irene chuckled. "Well, let's just say I'm very glad to make your acquaintance. I don't think I caught your name."
"Bela Talbot," she said, tucking one ankle behind the other.
"And…" Irene glanced down at her cell phone again, then back at Bela. "What exactly is your specialty, Bela?"
"I procure rare items for a select clientele," she said. Her expression changed, but the smile stayed on. "Or, rather… I used to. Currently I am working exclusively with one client."
"A Mister Crowley, I believe I was told," Irene said. She hesitated a moment before adding, "you don't sound particularly pleased with the situation."
Bela glanced up through dark lashes. "No, that's…" She cleared her throat. "Mister Crowley presented me with a… rare opportunity. I may not be entirely content with the terms of my…" She said the next word softly, almost hesitant to speak it aloud. "Contract, but…" She forced a smile. "I could be much worse off than working for Anthony J. Crowley… believe me."
Irene decided not to press the issue and changed the subject. "Well, moving right along, then… I suppose you've been briefed as to the object which Mr. Crowley wants us to procure."
"Not in gritty detail, but yes," Bela said. "I know of it."
Irene nodded, beginning to type notes onto her phone. "And the British Museum?" Irene asked. "How familiar are you with the layout?"
"Not very, I'm afraid," Bela admitted. "I haven't been there since I was a little girl." At Irene's glance, she added, "And I've spent much of my time overseas. Americans seem to be more… greedy, as a whole."
Irene smirked and looked back at her phone. "Really? I must be in the wrong country. Well, I have some mark-ups and the like back at my flat." Her eyes flicked up. "Unless it's too soon to ask you back to my place."
Bela smirked. She unrolled her napkin, setting the silverware off to one side and then smoothing the cloth over her lap. "How about you buy me lunch first… then we'll talk."
Irene smiled. In one tap, she closed her phone, set it on the corner of the table. "Agreed."
Sometime later, John called the group to order in the kitchen. There were two large pages pinned to the empty wall of the kitchen and John was busy briefing them all on the upcoming "mission."
"You sure he was a doctor?" Sam murmured to Sherlock.
Sherlock just smiled.
"Now, as for who is going where," John continued, turning t face the others. "I thought it would be best to split up the Winchesters. That way each group has someone who has, in fact, dealt with demons before."
Sam and Dean looked at each other, but said nothing.
"Now, Dean stated earlier," John continued, "that he preferred not to go with the Doctor, which is fine. That puts Sam with the Doctor. However, considering that the Doctor will not be carrying any weaponry of any sort on his person, I thought it best that I accompany him and Sam. Provide additional support. That means Dean and Sherlock will be scouting the other location tog—"
"I have to go with him?" Dean suddenly barked.
Sherlock sighed. "The feeling is mutual."
John gave them both a look. "Listen, you both know your way around a gun, and you're both more than resourceful enough, alright? Besides, remember… this isn't an infiltration attempt, it's just scouting. If it looks like there's demons of any sort there, then we report back to the TARDIS. We'll decide what to do from there. So no heroics, and no doing anything rash and stupid. I mean it, Sherlock."
Sherlock snorted. "When have I ever done anything rash and stupid?"
John just sighed, but didn't press the issue. "Right, well. So long as everyone understands what we're doing, let's get to it."
The Doctor smiled. "Allons-y!"
Dean and Sherlock both stepped out of the TARDIS and onto the gravel. Both watched as the TARDIS vanished in front of them with the sound both were becoming so very accustomed to. Dean took a deep breath, tucking his handgun into the back of his pants. "Okay, so this car park?"
"One block from here," Sherlock said, pointing. "There. See?"
"Yeah, I see," Dean said, shouldering the duffle bag. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulder. "Hey, hey, whoa," he said. "Before we even get close to this place, I need to know you're going to follow my lead."
"So long as your lead is sensible," Sherlock said.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Sherlock drawled, "that from here I can spot two police cars and caution tape. Something's going on here. And we need to get inside."
"I thought we were just supposed to scout," Dean murmured. "That was the plan, right?"
"Tell me something, Dean," Sherlock said, checking the gun he'd concealed in the inner pocket of his coat, pulling back the slide and putting a round in the chamber. "How many times in your career have you actually known a plan to go as it was meant to? Let alone how many times you've actually followed the plan itself."
Dean's lips pursed. "What are you suggesting?"
Sherlock shrugged and put the gun back into his coat. "Not a thing, just… scouting."
Dean couldn't help but smile. "You know, in hindsight, it might not have been the best idea… the two of us going in together."
"A bit not, yeah," Sherlock agreed.
Dean gave a snort, and all at once, the two dissolved into soft laughter. "Okay, Sherly. Let's do this."
The Doctor parked the TARDIS, then moved it when John pointed out how foolish the blue box looked parked on a meter, finally ending up parked somewhere behind a small construction site just beyond the carpark.
"Looks abandoned," John said.
"All the more reason to be on our guard," Sam murmured.
"Yes well," the Doctor said, looking back at the TARDIS one last time. "Let's not be too jumpy, shall we?"
"What are we to expect?" John asked as they started toward the concrete building. "If there are demons, I mean?"
Sam began fumbling in the duffle bag that rested on his hip. "Well, first off…" He produced two plastic water bottles, tossing one to the Doctor—who caught it with one hand—and the other to John, who fumbled a moment before looking at it properly.
"Water bottle?" John asked.
"Holy water," Sam said. "It's like acid to demons. Oh, wait," he said as the Doctor gave him a look, "what I mean is… it doesn't actually burn them or melt their skin, it just… y'know… stings the demon. Look… there's no sure fire way to know what's human and what's demon unless you test it. So just…" He pantomimed dribbling water by accident. "If they're demons… run like hell. If they're fine, they'll just think you're awkward and weird."
"Right, because I don't get that enough," John mumbled. He nodded at Sam. "I'll take the east side of the building. You take the west. Doctor, you're with me. Let's make this quick."
"John," the Doctor scolded teasingly. "You almost sound like you don't trust Sherlock to stay out of trouble."
"That's because I don't trust him to stay out of trouble," John sighed.
"Hold up a tick."
"Something wrong, Officer?" Sherlock asked, both he and Dean stopping in front of the two police officers.
"I'm afraid we can't let you in here," the police man said. "The place is off-limits right now. Condemned."
"Which is exactly why we're here," Sherlock said, reaching into his pocket and producing a badge. "Inspector Doyle from Health and Safety. This is my assistant, Mr. Conan. We came to examine the gas mains."
The Officer looked at Dean, then back at Sherlock and the badge. "Sorry, Sir, but we weren't told to expect anyone."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do you really want to call my superior? I promise you, he will be incensed. Moreso if these gas lines aren't properly dealt with in the next , oh…" He checked his watch. "Three hours. Tell me, do you want to explain why it is three city blocks erupted due to your apparent negligence? No? Then I'll be thanking you to stand aside and let us through."
The officer was moving before Sherlock had even finished his sentence. "Right, of course… don't want any trouble at all, just—what the hell?" The officer looked down at his shoes and pants, now drenched with the water Dean had spilled all over them.
Sherlock grabbed Dean and shoved him toward the carpark. "You'll forgive my assistant. Terribly clumsy. I'm always asking for a replacement, but budgets cuts and the like, you understand."
"Sure, fine, whatever, just…" The Officer gestured for them to just go.
"You both have a splendid afternoon," Sherlock said, giving a broad smile over his shoulder. The moment he turned around, the smile vanished. "Idiots."
Dean waiting until they were out of earshot, then asked, "where the hell'd you get that badge?"
"I didn't," Sherlock said, holding up the leather casing. "Psychic paper. Shows them whatever I want them to see."
Dean stared. "Isn't that the Doctor's?" His eyes went wide. "Holy sh—did you steal that from the Doctor?"
"He was being annoying," Sherlock said.
"Yeah, well…" Dean laughed. "Remind me never to get on your nerves."
"Too late for that," Sherlock said. "Unfortunately, there was nothing interesting on you at the time."
Dean blinked. "I don't know if I should be angry or impressed."
"So the officer," Sherlock said, staring straight forward. "I'm guessing his reaction to that splash of holy water means he checks out."
"Yeah, but I didn't get to check out the partner," Dean said. "Call me paranoid, but I'm going to be watching that one like a hawk."
"You'll do nothing of the sort," Sherlock said.
"Why not?"
"Please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "If you're trying to be subtle and look like you're supposed to be somewhere, the last thing to do is to keep looking at people like you're suspicious."
"No shit, Sherlock," Dean snapped. "I'm not talking like, walking backwards and stare at him and make threatening gestures. I'm just saying he pops up in the building while we're searching, I'm going to play it safe and douse his ass with holy water." He gave Sherlock a sidelong glance. "You don't really think I'm that stupid, do you?"
Sherlock returned the glance with his own, a single eyebrow raised. "Are you asking my honest opinion, or is this rhetorical?"
"Shut up."
"How's it look on your side?" John asked.
"Totally clear," Sam sighed. "Not so much as a footprint."
"Nothing on our end either," John murmured, looking around the empty parking garage. "Don't think anyone's actually parked here in ages." He did a double-take over his shoulder. "What do you think, Doctor? Head back to the TARDIS? Regroup?" When the man didn't respond, John repeated, "Doctor?"
"Awfully tidy, this place," the Doctor murmured, walking along the wall that lined the middle of the structure.
"Yeah," Sam said with a little laugh, "well, it is abandoned."
"Nnno," the Doctor said, kicking at the wall with his foot. "No, abandoned places, that's where you find loads of glass bottles and garbage and rubbish just dumped there. Weeds should be all over the perimeter, did you notice? Not a one. That seem a bit strange to you?"
John and Sam exchanged a look. "But, um… we've already checked the place," John said flatly. "Perimeter, upper floors, the whole lot—"
"Not quite, I mean…" The Doctor shrugged, shoving aside a large sheet of plywood. "Most of it, but…" He pulled out his sonic screwdriver, pointed it at the steel girders that held up the mortar of the wall. There was a heavy clunk and the wall snapped back and slid to one side to reveal a long set of stairs leading downwards into the underground. The Doctor looked up at Sam and John, smiling like a fool. "Look'et that! More to go check! That's brilliant, that is." He started toward the stairway. "You coming along?"
"You sure that's a good idea?" Sam asked. "Maybe we should go back? Get Dean and Sherlock, before—"
"Oi!"
They all turned to see a police officer walking toward them, flashlight in hand.
"Oh, bollocks," John mumbled, making sure his jacket was pulled over the firearm in the waistband of his trousers.
"This here's private property!" the guard shouted. Walking toward Sam and John. "You're not allowed to be here!"
"Look, I'm just here because my neighbor's kid went missing," Sam said, motioning to John.
"Yeah," John said, picking up right where Sam left off. "He and the lads from school sometimes come around here, kick around a football and the like. We haven't seen him since he said he was staying at one of his friend's houses last night. So his mum and I rounded up a couple of the lads from the complex, and—"
The security guard was shaking his head. "Well, I'm going to have to ask you to leave—"
"Mind if we check the basement first?" the Doctor asked, jabbing his thumb at the stairs.
"Actually yeah, I do mind," the man snapped. "Now, you lot are going to come with me right now, or I—"
John had during the entire conversation, been sipping on his bottle of water, choosing that moment as the proper moment to accidentally fumble his bottle and splash it all over the officer. Before he could so much as mutter an apology, he was staring at something that should have been impossible.
The officer's eyes had gone black. Solid black. No white, no color, just dead, polished black. He was stumbling back, screaming. The water hissed as it made contact with his skin, curling up like thick tendrils of smoke into the air as the man clawed at his face. John nearly dropped the bottle onto the ground when Sam grabbed it, shaking the rest of the bottle at the man and shoving John toward the Doctor.
"RUN! GO, GO!"
Instinct took over. Years of military training and discipline and he was running, straight back toward the Doctor who was ushering them both towards the doorway. Sam's long legs carried him faster and he ducked into the stairwell just before John, the Doctor directly behind them.
John looked back only once to see the officer struggling to his feet, skin still smoking and his screams echoing in the carpark, overlapping until the overtones turned the sound to a monotone rumble. The Doctor shoved John out of the way, running to a panel on the wall and pointing his sonic screwdriver at it. "Come on, come on…"
The officer was on his feet again. There was a gun in his hands. A bullet ricocheted off the stairwell wall, sending both Sam and John to take cover.
"Jesus!" John gasped.
Sam was breathing hard, dropping the bag to the ground and pulling out his shotgun. "Doctor!"
"Hang on! Hang on!" he shouted. "Almost got it!"
The officer was running now. Another shot, this time nailing the wall on the far end of the room.
"Doctor!" Sam roared.
"Almost…" The panel sparked. "GOT IT!"
The door gave the same clunk, sliding shut with a heavy thud.
John swore again, pressing both hands to his face as he collapsed against the wall, sliding to a heap on the floor.
The Doctor tossed the screwdriver into the air, watching it spin then letting it fall back into his hand, smiling. "Nothing to it." He gestured at the shotgun. "You can put that away now."
John peered out between his fingers, still shaking his head. As Sam stepped toward him, he glanced up at the tall man. "That was… h-he was a—"
"Demon," Sam murmured. "Yeah." He offered a hand to John, who stared at the ground a minute before taking Sam's hand and letting him pull him to his feet. "We need to get back to the TARDIS."
"Riiiight," the Doctor mumbled. "I, uh… may have sealed the entrance."
"You may have?" Sam repeated.
"I'm not getting a signal down here," John said, mobile phone in hand as he held it up to the ceiling. He walked a circle around the room. "Guys, I'm not getting a signal—"
Sam stared at the Doctor. "Alright, fantastic," he grumbled. "So… what do we do n—"
"The only thing we can do, at this point," the Doctor said. "We keep going."
"Keep g…" Sam pointed at the door on the far end of the room. "There could be a whole mess of demons down there—"
"Kind of exciting, isn't it?" the Doctor grinned.
Sam blinked. "Uh, not really, no."
"Little exciting," John whispered in a slightly hysteric tone, but it didn't sound like he'd intended to voice the thought aloud.
"Right, maybe you guys aren't understanding the situation," Sam said, keeping his voice level.
"Nnno," the Doctor said. "No, understanding, just…" He pointed at the now-locked doorway. "No other options."
Sam let out a long sigh. He turned to John. "Anything?"
"Not a damn thing," John muttered, shoving the phone back in his pocket.
Sam looked back at the Doctor. "You do know anything could be down there waiting for us?"
"Oh yes," the Doctor beamed.
Sam ran both hands over his face. "Fine. Fine, we'll just… you first."
"Brilliant," the Doctor said, and all but ran toward the door.
John and Sam exchanged a look.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," John muttered.
Sam nodded, almost to himself. "You and me both," he said.
Sherlock turned at the sound of footsteps. "Did you find anything?"
"Bupkis," Dean said, shining the flashlight around the parking garage. "And I checked twice."
"I as well," Sherlock said.
"Think we got the short end of the stick here?"
Sherlock looked around the garage, the long shadows and dark halls of cement. "I worry that is the case, but…"
Dean frowned. "But what?"
Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance. "I can't shake that sensation that we are not alone here."
Dean smirked. "You getting jumpy, Sherly?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And that, Dean Winchester, is why no one confides in you." Before Dean could respond, Sherlock was walking toward where they had come in. "Well, nothing to be done here. We'd best be back to the rendezvous spot."
The time for a snappy comeback had come and gone, so Dean just shuffled along after Sherlock. He might have poked fun at the detective, but he could feel it, too. That lurking like something was watching them, waiting for something. It was like he could feel a stare burrowing into the back of his head; feel something reaching for his throat with strong, cold hands. It was right behind him, nearly there now. Reaching. Fingers turned to sharp claws, moving to tear out his pulse, and—
Dean spun around, flashing the light at the empty nothing of the carpark. Only dust and silence stood behind him, an old candy wrapper flapping loudly, caught in the wind.
"Dean?"
He turned. "Yeah?"
Sherlock was staring at him. "I said, are you coming?"
Dean rubbed absently at his throat, glancing back one last time at the carpark. "Yeah… yeah, I'm coming." He followed Sherlock out of the carpark, only looking back once to shake his head and laugh. "You Brits have a seriously messed up sense of design."
"How so?"
"You don't think angels are a little much for a parking garage?"
"What angels?"
Dean turned, pointing. "The ones right…" He stared. Where there had just been a statue of an angel at the front and center of the carpark façade, now there was nothing. Dean's eyebrows went up. "Huh."
"What?"
Dean stared a moment longer then turned away with a shrug. "Must have been seeing things."
"Now who's the jumpy one?" Sherlock snerked.
"Cute," Dean muttered, smacking Sherlock's shoulder with his flashlight. "Look, let's just get back to the rendezvous. If we've got nothing on this end… I don't want to know what Sammy and the others are running into."
"Clear."
John sidestepped into the hallway behind Sam, gun in hand. He gestured toward the far wall of the corridor, and Sam nodded, pressing his back against the wall that bordered the other room and sliding until he was nearly to the doorway. John sidestepped again toward the doorway, gun raised as he entered the room. His gaze swept from corner-to-corner, up to the ceiling, then to the floor. He checked behind him, then murmured, "clear." Sam stepped up beside him, shotgun in his hands, the Doctor behind the two of them. John looked at Sam. "This is weird, don't you think?"
"We get jumped at the get-go, and then a big heaping pile of nothing?" Sam said. "Yeah. More than weird. More like a trap." Sam let out a sigh, lowering his shotgun. "Doctor, really?"
The Doctor had picked up a cell phone off of a table and had put on a pair of glasses to examine it. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver and pointed it at the mobile. All at once, the images and messages began to play rapidly on the screen. The Doctor stared at it unblinking, then held it up. "This is hers. The alien we're looking for, this is her phone."
"How can you tell?" John asked.
The Doctor held it up. "It's only been on for about two weeks, a few messages, pictures, a voicemail from an employer—"
"Is this one of the big players?" Sam asked. "One of the ones we're looking for."
The Doctor shook his head. "Dunno. Don't think so, I'm afraid. This doesn't seem to be the work of someone looking to cash in or further their plan. No, this seems more like she was trying to fit in."
"What? Assimilate?" John asked. "Just… become a human and pretend everything's just bonny?"
"Weeell, I wouldn't say that," the Doctor said, putting the mobile in his jacket pocket. "It's not easy being a human, let alone pretending to be one. There's a huge world that's really, awfully small, and then there's the corporate ladder—no one wants to be climbing on that set of monkey bars—and of course, all these emotions! And social taboos and—"
"I thought we were hunting dangerous criminals," Sam said.
The Doctor glanced up, pulling his glasses off. "First off, we're not hunting anyone. We're looking for them. Second off…" The Doctor shrugged. "Should be dangerous. Likely are, but…" He shook his head. "Justice isn't always just. How many times have you humans seen someone to the prisons who turned out to be innocent?" The Doctor smirked. "Humans certainly don't have a monopoly on corruption, Sam Winchester."
"You think she's still here?" John asked as the Doctor continued poking around at the various items on the table. "Maybe we're not finding anything because they've already moved on."
"And leave all this neat stuff behind?" the Doctor said, shaking the mobile phone at John. "No. No, whoever these demons are, they're a clever lot. Too clever to leave behind evidence. At least evidence like th… hello, what have we here?" Using his sonic screwdriver, the Doctor picked up a necklace. It was the same as the one Sam had seen him take from the other alien.
Sam's jaw dropped. "Oh! Oh, it's that thingy!"
"Yeah," the Doctor said, looking around the small room. "It is the thingy. But where's its owner?"
"If they took that necklace off her, they're bound to know she's not human," John said. "By now, they've probably figured out she must be alien."
The Doctor pushed his lower jaw forward with a sigh. "Oh, I think they knew in advance," he mumbled. "This is awfully clever. All of this. What do you think, Sam?"
"Beats me," said Sam. "What demons would want with an alien is beyond me."
John pulled a face, shrugging. "Maybe they're curious."
"I thought that," Sam said as he nodded. "But if it was just that, then… why all the precaution? Why the planned hit on the alien in her apartment?" He sighed. "I dunno… it's just really weirding me out. Whatever it is, you know it can't be good."
John nodded to himself. "Right… well… whatever the situation is, the plan stays the same. We find the fugitive, get them back to the Justicarn, and…" John stared behind him and Sam at the now-empty room. He frowned. "Doctor?" In the same moment, he was across the room, leaning into the hallway they'd come from. "Doctor?"
"You gotta be kidding me," Sam muttered, under his breath, then shouted, "Doc!" The word echoed down the halls they had yet to explore, the rooms beyond. "Dammit."
John was shaking his head as he pulled the gun from his trousers again. "Turn your back for two seconds…"
"It's like baby-sitting," Sam grumbled.
"No," John muttered, cocking the pistol. "It's like being with Sherlock."
The Doctor had wandered down several different hallways now. It was very impressive; the place was a virtual maze of tunnels and rooms, but that didn't mean it was impossible to tell which paths were the one's typically taken, especially using the doojammerwhamickcron he'd nearly forgotten was in his pocket. He gave it a smack of his hand when the insides began whizzing around and flashing red. Another smack and it gave a happy ping and went back to working like normal.
The Doctor did a double take before turning straight around, then back down another corridor. He shoved through a large pair of metal doors, striding straight into the massive industrial room. The dim florescent lights flickering down through the storage shelving made everything look ill. A red warning light near what looked to be a cargo truck loading bay was making the black puddles of runoff water look like blood.
"So, you found you way through the labyrinth. Though I have to say…"
The Doctor turned. A man stood on the upper catwalk, gnawing an olive he'd fished out of his martini with a toothpick. He was dressed in a well-cut black suit, cleanly shaven, and looking rather bemused. "I don't like trespassers."
The Doctor shrugged. "No, no… don't mind me. I'm just here to take a look around the place. It's very nice in that… menacing sort of way, if you like that sort of thing—sorry, where are my manners? Hello, I'm the Doctor!"
The man's eyebrows went up. "Is that so?"
"And you are?"
"Charmed, naturally," the man said, staring at his drink. "And very busy, so… if you don't mind?" He gestured. "The door is that way. I'm sure you can show yourself… and your, ah… guests, off the premise. Before things get nasty."
The Doctor clicked his tongue in his cheek. "Afraid I'm here for a bit more than the tour."
"Is that so?" the man said. "Well, considering my schedule, you'll have to make an appointment with my secretary."
"I think you'll want to hear me out," the Doctor said, any mirth in his tone gone.
The man smirked, taking one last swallow of his drink and setting the glass down on the metal girder of the catwalk. He smirked. "Actually, I'm absolutely certain I don't care, and even more certain that I've got more important places to be. Now, you want to reschedule your gloom and doom speech and threaten me…" He gestured at the man with a clipboard on the other end of the walkway. "Have Horace there take a note." He gave the Doctor a mock-salute. "Until next time, well…" He chuckled. "I say next time, but…" He smirked. "Let's hope for your sake we don't run into each other again, Doctor."
The Doctor's jaw set, but he said nothing as the black-suited man disappeared somewhere into the darkness of the room. In the same moment, the man who had been on the catwalk was standing right before the Doctor, checking off items from a list on his clipboard before removing his glasses, letting them dangle from the beaded chain. "The Doctor, was it?" he asked, offering his hand. "Horace. I keep our, ah… organization… organized."
"And what organization is that?" the Doctor asked, releasing the handshake.
"Hell," Horace said with a little smirk. "But you already know that, don't you?"
"Yeeeah." The Doctor cleared his throat. "I'm guessing you know why I'm here."
"Yes," Horace said, checking his clipboard. "Something to do with the… lizard-girl? Or at least that's our best guess."
"Where is she?" The Doctor's voice took on an icy quality. His eyes had gone dangerously narrow, and his hands, both in his pockets, were clenched to fists.
Horace sighed, checking his watch. "Right now?" He looked back up at the Doctor, his expression a blank. "She's on her way to somewhere much more secure than this place."
The Doctor stepped forward. "I'm only going to ask one more time—"
"Is that a threat, Doctor?" Horace asked, his tone short. "Because I have to tell you… our organization doesn't respond well to threats."
"Your organization is in violation of the Shadow Proclamation—"
Horace made a face, flipping through the pages of notes, putting his glasses back on. "Yes, that's what she kept saying—"
"—and if you don't comply, well…" The Doctor gave the barest of smiles. "Let's just say I hope you comply."
Horace smiled, making a mark with his pen. "Noted." He pointed. "The exit's to the left, behind the oil drums as my superior indicated earlier." He turned and started away. "Enjoy the rest of your day, Doct—"
"You misunderstand me, Mister Horace," the Doctor said, standing his ground. "I'm not leaving without the prisoner—"
"No," Horace said, turning on the spot. "No, I think you misunderstand us… Doctor." He pulled the glasses off his face, eyes narrowing. "We're letting you go as a courtesy."
"Why?" the Doctor snapped.
Horace chuckled. "Because it's no good killing you now. Not without all our pieces on the board."
Silence hung in the air between them, the only sound was the occasional drip of water from a leak on the other side of the storage shelving.
Horace gave a little smirk and glanced down at his clipboard. "Remarkable, aren't they? Humans. You usually travel with one, don't you?"
"I don't think that's any of your business—"
"Information is my business," Horace snapped. "And as soon as we caught sight of that blue box, we had our best people doing research." He turned over a page. "You've had quite a few companions over the last few years. Some of them even still here in this dimension. It would be a shame, wouldn't it? If something were to happen to Donna Noble? Or her family—?"
"You so much as touch them, and I'll—"
"You'll what?" Horace snapped, dropping the pages back. "Come after us? Make us pay? That hardly sounds like you."
"You'd be awfully surprised the kinds of things I'm capable of."
"Likewise," Horace said flatly. "But I'll tell you something, Doctor… my people don't give warnings. And we don't give second chances." He inclined his head. "Good night, Doctor." He started away. He was nearly halfway to the other set of doors when he stopped, turned. "Remarkable thing, the human soul. Wouldn't you agree, Doctor?"
The Doctor said nothing.
"Brilliant, fearless, vibrant," Horace continued. "Very unique. Very valuable—"
"You are harvesting human souls," the Doctor said.
"Unfortunately, the market is determined by supply and demand," Horace said with a shrug. "And at the moment, we have a surplus of human souls. However…" Horace smirked. "These new souls? These things that have just… suddenly appeared on our world? Worth considerably more than the going rate of a human soul—"
"Tell me," the Doctor said. "Your boss… wouldn't happened to be named Crowley, would he?"
Horace smirked. "I can neither confirm or deny that," he said, eyes narrowing slightly. "But I have to ask… how do you know that name?"
"Friend of a friend of a friend," the Doctor said, his tone lighter, but his expression still deadly.
"Well, inform your friend that this friend of a friend's information is dated."
"Is that right?" the Doctor murmured. "You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it."
"Demons aren't known for their forgiveness," Horace chuckled. "Now, if you'll excuse me… I have a 5:15 in China. You can see yourself out, and ah…" He gave the Doctor the barest of smiles. "Don't let us catch you on company property again. If we do, well… one of our creative team might have to come up with a little something for you."
"Doctor!"
The Doctor looked back at the bodiless voice shouting for him, then back at Horace. The demon merely smiled and without so much as another word, stepped into a shadow and was gone.
"Doctor!"
The Doctor's jaw relaxed for the first time since he'd stepped into the room, but he didn't feel any more at ease. He turned just in time to see John and Sam rushing toward him, guns drawn and eyes alert. John was the first one to speak.
"Are you alright?" he asked. "You're not hurt or—"
"We heard you talking to someone," Sam said. "Are they here, or—?"
"They were," the Doctor mumbled. "But they're long gone. Packed up and moved out."
Sam swore under his breath.
"How long did we miss them by?" John asked.
"Not sure," the Doctor said. "But I know one thing for certain. You were right, Sam."
John frowned, looking between the two. "Right about what?"
The Doctor sighed. "Whatever it is going on here… it's definitely about the souls."
Sam stared at the Doctor for a long moment, not saying anything. Finally, he nodded. "Come on. Let's get back to the others. The sooner we do, the sooner we can get some answers."
"Answers?" John asked with a bitter laugh. "Any chance of answers just loaded up a truck and left."
"Not quite," Sam said. "We…" Sam sighed. "Well, Dean has someone who might be able to shed some light on the situation."
The Doctor retrieved Sherlock and Dean from the empty carpark and, upon Sherlock's insistence that he needed to see the place that they'd tracked the demons to, brought them to the loading bay around back of the old abandoned warehouse. John tried to explain to a still skeptical Sherlock just what it was like to set one's eyes on a demon, but Sherlock decided their energy would be better spent looking around the loading bay for clues. In the meantime, the Doctor and Sam tried to sweet talk Dean.
"Nuh-uh, out of the question," Dean snapped. "No way, not a chance in or out of hell."
Sam sighed. "Dean—"
"So we run into a handful of demons, so what?" Dean snapped. "It's not like we need Cas to come down here and deal with it!"
"It's bigger than that, Dean," Sam said.
Dean folded his arms across his chest. "Really? Because it sounds to me like we've got little or nothing to back up that theory. All we've got here is a couple of demons thinking they're good to call the shots and wanting to nom on a couple of souls to get some extra juice."
Sam shrugged. "Or we've got Crowley."
"What? No!" Dean turned to the Doctor. "Doc, you said you talked to them. Anyone of them say they worked for a Crowley? Or call himself Crowley?"
The Doctor sighed. "No, but—"
"See?" Dean said, looking at Sam. "So if we do this, if we call down Cas, it's not going to be over some guy he torched months ago."
"Fine by me," Sam said, holding up his hands. "Look, Dean, all I'm saying is that these demons have something… some sort of a way to harvest souls, even if they aren't human. If the angels have any idea what that something is… could give us the edge we need."
Dean gave his brother a long look, eyes narrowing. "You're gonna make me call him, aren't you?"
Sam nodded. "Oh yeah."
"Sorry," John said, walking up to the group. "Who are we calling?"
"The angel of Thursday," the Doctor said. "Sherlock!" he called. "Gather up. Time for evening prayers."
"Sorry, time for what?" Sherlock called from the other end of the room.
"We're phoning a friend," Dean explained as Sherlock trotted over to them. "A little backup from upstairs."
Sherlock stared at him. "You're joking."
Dean held his gaze. "Does it look like I'm joking?"
Sherlock looked from Dean, to John, to John's hand, outstretched to take Sherlock's. John's other hand was in the Doctor's, the Doctor's other hand in Dean's, so on and so on until Sam's hand was extended to Sherlock.
Sherlock let out a long sigh, grabbing John and Sam's hands with far more force than necessary. "This is ridiculous."
"Y'know, Doc," Dean mumbled, "we don't have to hold hands to pray."
The Doctor frowned. "Really? Isn't this how humans usually pray?"
Sam chuckled. "Not in our family."
"Yeah," Dean said, though he'd yet to let go of the hands he held to. "Usually it's a little something like this." Dean cleared his throat and bowed his head. "Hey, Cas. We, ah… need some imput from you and yours on a little demon problem, so if you could just shake your feathery tail feathers and get your ass down here, it would be much appreciated."
For a long while, no one moved. After a minute or so of silence, John opened his eyes. "Um… was something supposed to happen, or—?"
"Do you really talk to angels like that?" the Doctor asked, only one eye opened.
Dean frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Just…" The Doctor shrugged. "Seems a little, I dunno… rude."
Dean looked from John to the Doctor. "Wh… No! No, Cas is a friend, okay? It's not like I need to go dropping the "thee's" and "thou's" to get his attention, okay?"
"Yes, because acting like a complete arse clearly attracted this angel's attention," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes, dropping John and the Doctor's hands to fold his arms across his chest. "Now if we're done playing with the verbal Ouija board and pretending fairies exist, I've an investigation to follow up on." And with that, Sherlock turned on the spot and started back toward the loading bay.
"Yeah? Well screw you, too, Sherly!" Dean snapped.
"Dean," Sam said, giving his brother a look.
John looked worriedly from face to face. "You really think this is going to work? Getting in touch with your angel friend?"
Dean sighed. "God, I hope so," he murmured, closing his eyes and bowing his head again. "Cas…" His tone had changed this time, softer. Almost desperate. "Come on, buddy. Sam and I really stepped in it this time and we need a little backup. There's some seriously bad demons down here working some serious business. Something to do with souls, so if you could get your feathery ass down here, it'd be much appreciat—"
"What about the souls?"
Dean jumped nearly a foot, spinning around with a fist raised in defense. He stopped himself halfway through the gesture, making a face at the man now standing directly behind him. He wasn't as tall as Dean, nor as built, but the way he held himself made him seem larger than he stood. And, of course, the trench coat helped. He looked to be roughly the same age as Sam and Dean, but there was an oldness in his eyes. Also an innocence; something wide-eyed and confused in his expression, even as Dean looked ready to take a swing at him.
"Son of a bitch," Dean swore under his breath, dropping his hands to his side. "Cas, you gotta stop that."
The man standing close enough to Dean to make the entire group feel uncomfortable merely turned his head to the side and frowned. "Stop what?"
Dean shook his head. "Y'know… never mind, just…" He nodded. "It's good to see you, Cas. It's been a while."
Castiel shouldered past Dean, nodding at Sam as he looked around the warehouse. "I have been busy." He turned back to the Winchesters. "You said there were demons."
"Yeah," Sam said. "They just left."
"But not without giving us some info," Dean said. "Info we're hoping you could shed a little light on."
"This is the angel?" John murmured. "A real honest-to-God angel? Really?"
"You don't sound impressed," Sam said as Castiel turned and looked at John.
John took a step back as Castiel stepped toward him, head turned to the side and examining John's eyes. John cleared his throat. "Sorry, I was just expecting more sound and fury and less… um…"
"I do not recognize these men," Castiel said, turning to examine the Doctor. "Are they hunters as well?"
"Not exactly," the Doctor said, holding out a hand and smiling. "I'm the Doctor."
Castiel stared at the hand held out to him. "A doctor of what?"
The Doctor made a face, thinking quite hard for a long moment. "Ummm… fun."
"He's a time traveler," Sam said.
"And a space traveler," Dean added. "Yeah, I know, right? Trust me when I say you wouldn't believe the kind of weekend we've had so far."
"Which is kind of why we asked you here," Sam said.
Castiel stared at the two Winchester brothers a long while. "Tell me everything."
"So what do you think, Cas?"
Castiel was pacing, rubbing a hand over his mouth before turning back to the Doctor. "Did the demon have a name?"
"Horace," the Doctor said. "He called himself Horace."
"Name ring any bells?" Sam asked.
"Unfortunately," Castiel muttered. "If you buy into the theory that for each angel there is a demon counterpart, this Horace is to Hell what Balthazar is to Heaven."
"Oh, fantastic," Dean said, throwing his hands up. "So… we're dealing with an asshole, smart-ass who would sell his mom down river on a whim and make jokes about it for the rest of the month."
"You misunderstand me," Castiel said. "These counterparts, they are not identical. Where Balthazar is irreverent and fails to take anything seriously, Horace is the very definition of business."
"Sounds like the guy I talked to, yeah," the Doctor mumbled.
"Awesome, so…" Dean shrugged. "We're dealing with the Wall Street version of hell. Fantastic."
"But the souls," Castiel said. "He actually told you they were harvesting them?"
The Doctor nodded then stopped. "Well… I asked and he merely confirmed."
Castiel was shaking his head. "That is not possible. These… aliens as you call them. They are not souls designated to our Heaven and Hell. Killing them will merely send their soul back to their own places of afterlife."
"Sam seems to think there's a way," the Doctor said, gesturing at the younger Winchester.
Castiel turned his eyes on Sam, but said nothing.
Sam blinked. "Right, um… I was reading about them. There's not a word for them as a whole, but… they basically absorb souls. They're like… I don't know, vessel substitutes or extensions, I guess. Whoever is holding the object takes on the power of the souls this thing absorbs—"
"I know what you speak of, and it's not possible," Castiel said. "There are not many, there is only one."
"So what is it?" John asked.
Castiel shook his head. "It is not of import—"
"Well," Dean said, "considering that it's our only lead right now, Cas, you know what, it probably is."
Castiel gave Dean a hard look, shaking his head. "This item… It has been broken for many centuries and the pieces scattered. We have made certain that no one will be able to put it back together."
"Cas," Sam said, his voice soft. "You know what it is, right?"
"Yes."
"So tell us. Just hypothetically."
Castiel held Sam's gaze as long as he could manage. It was no more than a few seconds before he turned his eyes to the ground.
"Cas," Dean said. "Come on, man. It's not like anything you say is actually going to freak us out, alright?"
"I highly doubt that," Castiel said, turning his gaze to Dean.
John frowned at the angel. "Really, and why is that?"
Castiel took a deep breath. "Because if you are correct, there is only one object to have ever existed to hold that power."
"And what is that?" the Doctor asked.
Castiel looked from face to face, eyes resting on the Doctor. "The Spear of Destiny."
"Sorry, just… run that by me one more time," John said. "It's the actual Spear of Destiny? Like, the Spear of Destiny?"
"That's not possible," Sherlock said flatly.
Castiel's gaze turned on Sherlock. "I assure you, it is very possible. And likely what we are dealing with."
Dean ran a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. "Son of a bitch."
"Sorry, hang on," the Doctor said, giving a little wave. "Sorry, I'm… not nearly as familiar. Spear of Destiny?"
"It's an artifact," Sam said quietly. "The spear that was used to pierce the side of Christ."
"But it's just a legend, isn't it?" Dean asked, stepping closer to Castiel. "I-I mean… there's like twenty different places that claim to have the spear. The Vatican, Poland, Vienna, a-and hell! Even Hitler was rumored to have it—"
"And if he did, it's underwater along with the U-534," Sam finished.
Castiel shook his head. "No, we recovered it at the end of the last World War—"
"Just a moment," Sherlock said, holding up a hand. "You mean to say Hitler actually had this relic? And that's what supposedly gave him his power?"
Castiel's clear gaze turned on the detective and he nodded. "Yes."
Sherlock gave a weak laugh, then looked at the others in the room. When it was clear everyone else was taking the situation far more seriously than he was, he sighed. "Oh, you must be joking, I can't be the only one here refusing to put such stock in foolish nonsense."
"Yeah, well, you're also the only one here who hasn't had face time with a demon," John muttered to his shoes, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear.
"Oh please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Next thing you know, you'll be telling me the hollow out near Baskerville had a rabid hellhound on the loose."
Sam's eyebrows went up and John shook his head, waving Sam off. "N-no, no, not…" He blinked. "Wait, are hellhounds real?"
"Just about everything you've ever heard of that goes bump in the night is real," Dean muttered. "But the good news is that we're pretty much schooled on how to get it to stop going bump. And on that note," he said, turning back to Castiel. "How do we stop this whole mess?"
Castiel's eyes narrowed. "I don't understand."
"The spear? How to we pull the plug on its magic juice?"
Castiel shook his head. "That is not possible."
Sam folded his arms across his chest. "What do you mean it's not possible?"
"It is a heavenly artifact," Castiel explained. "it perpetuates its own energy."
"Fan-fucking-tastic," Dean grumbled. "If it's such a bitch, why the hell'd you guys let it out of your sight?"
"It was not intentional," Castiel said. His tone didn't change, but something in the way he'd said the words showed his frustration. "We believed we had removed it from the realm entirely."
"Your boy Balthazar hawking items on the black market again?" Dean asked.
Castiel's irritation with Dean only became more apparent. "No. Balthazar may be foolish at times… but he isn't so foolish as to sell something so dangerous."
"So how is it here, then?" John asked. "I-I mean, I'm going to guess that it would be rather difficult for demons to sneak into heaven and… I dunno, break into an ivory vault."
"It should be impossible."
"And yet here we are," Sherlock drawled, rolling his eyes again.
Sam sighed. "Look, Cas… we need to know what the situation on this spear is. Any info you could get us would be appreciated."
Castiel nodded. "I… will speak with a few angels. Perhaps one of them knows something of import."
Dean clapped a hand on the angel's shoulder. "Thanks, Cas." He hesitated a moment, kept his hand on Castiel's shoulder and murmured, "come back quick, okay? If this thing is for real, then… we might be in over our heads." He shrugged. "It would be nice to have your help."
Castiel held Dean's gaze a long moment, looked at the hand on his shoulder, then back to Dean. Something in his eyes softened, and he nodded. "Of course. I will do whatever I am able."
"Thanks."
And before any of the group could so much as blink, Castiel was gone.
It was Sherlock's turn to look startled as he stared at the empty space. He looked at the floor, at the ceiling, the windows that lined the walls. His gaze found John's, who was smirking and looking quite proud. "Yeah, I know, right?"
"But that's—"
"You can have your meltdown when we get back to the TARDIS," Dean sighed. He turned to look at the group, face drawn. "But for right now, I have to say… we're in trouble."
"What do you mean?" Sam asked.
Dean lifted his arms. "If you didn't notice, we're kind of at a dead end here, Sammy—"
An overly cheery electronic version of Vivaldi's Spring started echoing in the empty warehouse and John swore. "Sorry, sorry, let me just…" He frowned at the screen and excused himself. "Hello? …really?" John stepped away from the group and continued speaking.
"Sherlock probably picked something up from the loading bay," Sam said as if they hadn't been interrupted.
Sherlock sighed. "Yes and no. They were entirely more thorough at covering their tracks this time round. We'll be lucky to find a trail at all, I'm afraid."
"And it's not like these demons are going to be in any hurry to run into us again," Dean said. "Dammit."
John walked back toward the group, tapping his cellphone on his open palm. "I've got something. Lestrade called."
"How is that something?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, not something related, but at least something to bide our time until we hear back from Castiel."
"What, like a case?" Dean asked.
"Yes, apparently," John said. "He sent me the details. I guess the girl was in her teens when her parents were killed in a car accident. The brake line had been cut. There was no way to link her to it, but there had been some suspicion that she, ah… helped them along."
"Charming girl," the Doctor muttered.
"Oh, it gets better," John chuckled. "She used the family money to finance trips all over the world, buying aliases and the like. A few years back, she was caught on film when she snatched up some gems and fled the country. They've been looking for her for years. Looks like she's back." John frowned. "Hold on, he's sending a picture." Sam and the Doctor both perched on John's shoulders, waiting for the picture to download.
"This broad got a name?" Dean asked.
"Abigail. Abigail Kelley," John said.
Sherlock blinked. "Daughter of Edward and Laura Kelley? The Kelley's?"
"That's the one, yeah," John muttered. His phone pinged and the picture came up. "There she is."
Sam went white. "No way."
"What?" Dean asked.
Sam was still shaking his head. "That's not… it can't…"
"What, Sam?"
Sam snatched the phone out of John's hands ("Oi! Be careful with that!") and walked over to Dean, thrusting the screen in his brother's face.
Dean stared a long moment before reaching up to grab the phone. "Holy shit."
Sam was nodding. "Yeah."
"Friend of yours?" the Doctor asked.
Dean shook his head. "Not even close."
"Sorry, how do you know her?" John asked.
"She worked stateside for her little scams," Sam said. "You could say her business runs right alongside our line of work."
"Yeah, but in the opposite direction," Dean snapped. "Bitch is a lying thief. And there's no way that can be her."
"Why not?" the Doctor asked.
Dean gave him a look before tossing John his phone. "Because Bela Talbot died. Four years ago."
Sherlock's mouth twitched into a grin. "Call Lestrade, John. Tell him we'll take the case. And tell him the Federal Agents will be returning as well."
"What are you so smiley about?" Dean asked as Sherlock turned up his collar.
He smirked at the other man. "Because, Dean Winchester, the game is afoot."
Horace looked up from his clipboard, frowning. The room, which had until that moment smelled like nothing, now smelled like soap and brimstone. He turned to see two men standing just behind him, one wearing a trenchcoat and looking remarkably pensive for someone so unkempt; the other in a green and blue sweater vest, pushing a pair of half-moon spectacles back up his nose. Horace gave them a weary smile, eyes flashing solid black. "I thought I smelled righteousness."
"We want a name," Castiel said.
Horace made a face and looked back at his clipboard. "Well, I've plenty of names. I'm going to need a little more than that."
"Someone ordered the interference with the new life forms," Castiel said, eyes narrowing as he took a step forward. "They're using them to harvest souls—"
"Now who could have told you that?" Horace asked, pulling his glasses off. His eyes searched Castiel's for a long while, then he chuckled. "Oh, of course… the pets. Don't tell me you're expanding your collection to include their new friends—?"
"Castiel," the other angel murmured, grabbing at the elbow of the man's trenchcoat as he tried to step forward. The angel's clear blue gaze found Horace's. "A name, Horace. We'd just like to know where the orders are coming from. If it's from the t…" He blinked. "Oh dear, would it be considered the top, or the bottom? The very bottom? How is your chain of command organized?"
Horace rolled his eyes. "It comes from an authority."
"Which authority?" Castiel asked.
Horace smirked, almost cat-like. "Mister Fahrenheit."
Castiel shook his head. "There is no such demon with that name—"
"It's a reference to a Queen song," the other angel murmured, still gripping Castiel's arm. "It's him."
"Tell him we want to talk to him," Castiel said.
Horace didn't so much as glance down at his notes as he chuckled. "I'm afraid that's not possible. He's booked until the end of the week."
"Tell him I want to talk to him," the other angel said, his voice gone soft.
Horace sneered. "Business before pleasure is the boss's new rule. And that even applies for his favorite feathered whore—"
Horace's body hit the wall with a crunch, plaster and the ribs of his vessel cracking from the impact. Castiel tightened his outstretched hand to a fist and Horace coughed. A mouthful of blood began dribbling down his chin.
"Castiel!" the other angel gasped. "Let him go!"
Castiel looked back at the angel, his face still drawn in tight, angry lines. He held his brother's gaze as long as he dared before releasing his closed fist.
Horace took in a long wheeze, falling to his hands and knees and coughing up more blood. He looked up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I should peel the flesh off your cheekbones, you ill-bred—"
"Just tell Crowley we dropped by, will you?" the angel murmured, already putting an arm around his brother's shoulders and dragging him away from the other angel. They were no more than a few steps out of earshot when he continued, "you didn't need to do that."
"He did not need to call you such things," Castiel said.
The other angel gave him a sad smile. He shrugged and looked at his shoes. "Thank you, but… it is not necessary for you to feel that way."
"Do you think he will get in touch with you?" Castiel asked.
The angel shrugged. "It's hard to say. Ten years ago, I'd have said yes. Twenty years ago, he'd already have his car outside, waiting to pick me up. But now…?" He swallowed. "Castiel, he's not the same Crowley I once knew."
"He's a demon."
The other angel was still smiling, a distant sadness in his eyes. "He was a friend. More than a friend." He sighed. "I do worry for him." When his brother didn't say anything, he added, "are my feelings of concern any different from your worries for the Winchester brothers? For Dean?"
Castiel let out a deep breath. "No… no, I suppose they are not." They stopped at the doubledoors near the outside of the warehouse. "You will tell me if he contacts you?"
"Of course," the angel said, wrapping a scarf several times around his neck.
"Find out what he's planning, then report back to me," Castiel said. "He's playing awfully… what's that turn of phrase?"
"Fast and loose," the angel murmured, a ghost of a smile lighting up the sadness on his face. "Yes, that is quite like him." He nodded. "Take care of yourself. And do your best to keep your friends out of the line of fire?" He made a face. "We're all playing at a rather dangerous game. We've been lucky enough to keep out casualties thus far."
"There will be no casualties," Castiel murmured.
"This is war, Castiel," the angel said. "There's bound to be casualties. Just make certain they aren't those you can for most." He sighed, giving a final nod. "Be safe, Cas."
"You as well, Aziraphale."
And in that same moment, the two angels were gone.