A/N: Current updates at .com

"Pulled up the records for Abigail Kelley and Bela Talbot," Lestrade said, fingering through the pages of the two file folders. "Looks like you American boys were right. Talbot is an alias. There's about four or five other aliases we've got on her as well. Donavan is compiling those right now."

Sam had accompanied Sherlock to the Scotland Yard office, leaving the others to discuss the next course of action while they took the case. The younger Winchester was now dressed in a fine business suit and looking far more the part than he had earlier. He held out a hand to Lestrade, indicating the folders. "Would you mind if I, ah…?"

Lestrade pushed them toward Sam with a shrug. "No, not at all. Help yourself."

"So, this… Talbot woman," Sherlock said, steepling his fingers together in his lap. "What's she wanted for?"

"Robbery, burglary, smuggling, just about everything on that end of the charts," Lestrade said. "But we've only got her tied to the one case. There's about a dozen others we suspected her on, but… nothing was ever able to be proved. Weird stuff she goes after, though," Lestrade said, scratching under his chin. "The gems were the biggest snatch we got her on. Everything else is… well, antiques, but not super-valuable stuff. There'd be a roomful of heirlooms and jewels, and she'd take the old tapestry and leave the rest. Ming vase and she'd take the little wooden carving of a dragon." Lestrade shrugged. "Weird, her MO. Almost non-existent. Y'never know what she's going to be aiming for."

"These pictures," Sam murmured, tapping the small prints at the top of the page. "When were they taken?"

"Yesterday," Lestrade said, "well, the top two were, but the one underneath it's from two days ago. She's been frequenting the place."

"The place being?" Sherlock asked.

"The Museum of London," Lestrade sighed. "Definitely looks like she's casing the place out. Has an accomplice, it looks like. Another woman, but…" He shrugged. "We haven't been able to get a clear shot of her. Hang on… may I?" He leaned over his desk and took one of the pictures from where it had been paper clipped onto the edge of the folder. "Here. The one we got that wasn't blurred to bits."

Sherlock took the photo and examined it. Sam glanced over at him, asked, "anything useful?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and slid it back over to Lestrade. "Not a thing."

"Well that's unfortunate," Lestrade sighed. "Now… if you're going to try and track this woman down, for the love of God, Sherlock, don't get involved in a chase. That's always how she gets away, alright? She runs off, and we lose her for years. We've got her this time, so… just don't let her run off." Sherlock smirked, rising from his seat. Lestrade practically jumped to his feet, rushing to cut the man off before he could reach the door. "Sherlock, I'm serious. This is a big case. Orders come from way up." He gave Sherlock a hard look. "Way… way, way up."

Sherlock stared at Lestrade a long moment, eyes narrowing as he leaned back. "High up, you don't mean…?"

Lestrade gave him an awkward shrug.

Sherlock let out a breath through his teeth. "So why send you to give me the job?"

"Because you wouldn't take it if he gave it to you," Lestrade said.

"Sorry, am I missing something here?" Sam asked.

"No," Sherlock snapped at the same moment that Lestrade said, "Yes. Maybe. It's his brother."

Sam made a face, smirked. "You have a younger brother?"

"I have no such thing."

"Older brother," Lestrade said, giving Sherlock the same look he'd been giving him for the last minute. "Government official, look, this doesn't change anything, Sherlock, it's still a case and I still need your help. So don't be like this."

"Be like what?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes.

"Be like…" Lestrade made a face, finally bursting out. "You!" he snapped. "Okay? Don't be you! Just…" He ran a hand over his face. "Look, just treat it like a case? A normal case without Mycroft's involvement. A-and don't botch it up, okay?"

Sherlock was gnawing on the inside of his cheek, mouth gone small. He smiled at Lestrade, though it was more of a grimace. "Understood," he muttered.

Lestrade looked from Sherlock to Sam then back to Sherlock. "Right. Thank you." He pointed. "Stop by Donavan's desk, she should have copies of the files on Talbot for you. Keep me posted."

Sherlock pulled a face at Lestrade's back then stalked off into the office.

Sam smirked. "I should have pegged you for a youngest sibling."

Sherlock seemed to ignore the comment, and went straight through the maze of cubicles. He rapped his knuckles on the top of the one marked "Donavan."

Donavan spun in her chair. "Freak."

"Donavan," Sherlock said, putting on his best feigned smile. "Always such a joy."

"And the Federal Agent," Sally said, standing. "Have to say, you clean up nice."

Sam blinked. "Oh, uh… thanks."

"I'm guess you're here for these." She held up two large manila envelopes.

Before she could say another word, Sherlock leaned over the cubicle wall and tugged them out of her hands. "Thank you. Shall we be on our way, Agent?"

Sam gave a laugh of surprise, watching Sherlock tuck the folders under his arm and leave toward the lift without so much as a backwards glance. "Wow, yeah… sorry about that," he said to Donavan. "He's just—"

"Oh, trust me," Donavan muttered. "I know exactly what Sherlock Holmes is. Oh, hold on a minute. One more thing. Just in." She handed him an envelope. "Two more pictures of our bird and her accomplice. Not any better, but…" She shrugged. "Maybe you boys can make something out of it."

Sam took the envelope, smiled. "Thanks Sergeant Donavan."

"Please, call me Sally," she said. She gave him a once over, smiling to herself as she took her seat again. "You have a nice day, Agent."

"Sam," he murmured.

Donavan grinned. "Agent Sam."

He smiled. "Right. I'm going to, uh…" He chuckled. "Until next time."

"Looking forward to it."

Sam walked straight out of the office toward the lift, looking for Sherlock. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, behind him, texting and speaking at the same time. "That was interesting."

"What was?"

Sherlock looked up from the text, nose wrinkled. "Were you… flirting? With Donavan?"

"Wh...? No! Wh-what makes you—what? Because she wants me to call her by her first name? No! I'm not…" He cleared his throat. "Who are you texting?"

"My brother." Sherlock's voice was more like a growl, his jaw set as he pounded out the words on the phone's keyboard with far more force than typically required.

Sam watched him for a moment then smirked, tapping one of the buttons for the elevator. He gave Sherlock a sidelong look. "So… you and your brother?"

"What of us?"

"I take it you don't get along too well."

Sherlock snorted. "Understatement."

"What exactly does he do? Lestrade said government—?"

"He is the British Government."

"Never heard of him."

"That that means he is doing his job correctly."

"So you and he don't—"

"Samuel?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's skip the bonding over familial similarities and focus on the task at hand, hmm?" Sherlock gave Sam a dry smirk then stepped into the elevator.

Sam scoffed, almost to himself. It was a good thing he'd offered to come along instead of Dean. He wasn't sure if his brother would have made it so far without having strangled the man.


Bela looked up from where she was lounging on a long, pale chaise in the sun room. Kate had just brought in a platter of finger foods when Irene walked into the room. As usual, she was busy typing away on her phone. Bela sat up, turned down the book she'd been reading and frowned. "Something wrong?"

Irene glanced at Bela then smiled. "Mm, quite the opposite. Just got a text from our employers. Well… I say our…" She draped herself onto the chaise beside Bela and held the phone for the other woman to see. "I've been told their men encountered a bit of resistance yesterday. The man in charge of the operation wants you to confirm a few faces for him."

Bela stared at the screen a moment before grabbing the phone out of Irene's hands and standing. "No." She began pacing the length of the room, staring at the picture.

Irene watched in silence for a moment, then smirked. "Bela, darling?"

"Mm?"

"You're going to ruin your nails if you keep chewing on them."

Bela glanced down at her hand, then sighed, tucking it behind her back as she skimmed through the photos from the blocked number.

Irene raised a perfect eyebrow, stretching herself long on the chaise. "Friends of yours?"

Bela chuckled and resisted the urge to turn her thumbnail between her teeth. "Hardly. I don't know how to define our relationship." She sighed. "I suppose they'd call it 'enemies.'"

Irene made a dramatic pouty expression. "Tragedy. So you know them?"

Bela glanced at Irene, held out the phone to the other woman. "Text your contact. Tell them that, yes… that is Sam Winchester. As for the other two, I don't recognize them."

"I recognize one," Irene said, tapping through the photos. "John Watson. And if he's there, you can be certain Sherlock Holmes is involved."

Bela chuckled. "Well, then you may want to amend my message. The chances of Sam Winchester journeying all the way here without his idiot brother in tow? Slim to none."

"Which just leaves the tall drink of water," Irene purred. "Not usually my field of interest, but… there's something about those tall, skinny enigma-types, isn't there?"

"If you say so," Bela said. "I prefer a little more… substance to a man."

Irene chuckled. "When you prefer a man, you mean."

Bela smiled and sat down on the chaise next to Irene, leaning to get a better view of the cellphone screen. "A little too convenient, isn't it?"

"What is?" Irene asked, already busy typing away on the phone.

"This?" Bela said. "Two of your acquaintances. Two of mine. And then our, ah… pinstriped wild card." She looked directly at Irene, waited for the other woman to look her in the eye. "What I mean to say is… it seems awfully suspicious? The opening line to a bad joke… Or a trap."

"My, my," Irene said, turning down her phone on her shoulder. "Do you not trust your employer, Miss Talbot—?"

"Do you trust yours?" Bela asked.

Irene held Bela's gaze a long moment before looking away with a sigh. "No… no, I suppose I don't. Then again, I make it a point not to trust anyone."

"Smart."

"Safe," Irene said with a sharp look at Bela. "It's what's kept me alive."

"It's a good rule to live by, then."

"Bela," Irene said, reaching up and gently guiding Bela's chin until they were face to face again. "You forget… no matter what these boys think they're getting into, there is one thing that they are not expecting. And that thing… is us." Irene smiled. "And we give as good as we get."

"Mm," Bela chuckled. "We give better."

"So," Irene said, sending off her message and snapping her phone shut. She leaned back on the chaise, smiling. "Tell me about these… Winchester boys."

Bela sighed. "Well… the younger one. Sam. He's dangerous. Brains and brawn in equal portions."

Irene smirked. "A rare breed. And the older brother?"

"Dean." Bela's eyes narrowed. "Dean is… well, not nearly so intelligent as his brother, however…" She held up a finger, smirking. "What he lacks in smarts, he makes up for in looks. And smarts or no… he is not to be underestimated."


The Doctor was rocking back and forth on his feet. He clicked his tongue in his cheek. "Well, color me impressed."

John rubbed a hand over his face, staring at what—up until twenty minutes ago—had been the stove. "Explain it to me again."

"Oh, come on," Dean groaned. "It was an accident, okay?"

"An accident?" John said, giving the other man a sidelong glare. "How is that an accident?"

Dean gestured, made a few desperate attempts at words, then gave up. "Look, I… I was trying to cook—"

"And you destroyed the stove top instead?" John shouted. "How in the hell did you manage to—I-I can't. I can't, I really… how does one break the stove? Really?"

"Maybe you aren't aware of this, Johnny-Boy, but I haven't exactly spent my life perfecting my home skills," Dean snapped. "I'm new to this whole 'cooking' thing—"

"You were heating a can of soup!"

"Yoo-hoo! Delivery!" A little sing-song voice and a knock came from the doorway to the flat. "Everything alright up here, lovies?"

John was the first out of the kitchen. "Yes! Yes, Missus Hudson, everything is absolutely alright, just—"

Mrs. Hudson continued as though John hadn't spoken, trying to push past him into the flat. "I brought a few things for you and Sherlock. I know you have visitors and he's never been very good at keeping the fridge stocked, so I picked up a few extra things. Then I thought I heard shouting and…" She sniffed. "Is something burning?"

The Doctor looked at Dean and smirked. "Just Dean's eyebrows."

Dean's eyes narrowed as he felt to make sure his facial hair was still intact. "Shut up." But he ducked toward the mirror to double-check.

"Missus Hudson," John said as the landlady wiggled her way into the flat, carrying the plastic bags into the kitchen. "Really, we've got it under control here, we—"

There was a shriek and she dropped the bags to the floor. "What have you done to my stove?"

John watched her fuss about the stove a moment more before he cleared his throat. "Dean broke it."

Dean turned from the mirror in the front room, arms falling to his sides with a loud clap. "Thanks."

Mrs. Hudson kept shaking her head. "I don't understand, how did he—?"

"Yeah, we don't understand either," John said, taking her by the shoulders and starting to guide her from the flat. "So, thank you for the groceries, but we've got some repair work to do—"

"Shall I call someone to look at it?" she asked.

"If you wouldn't mind, that would be—"

"No, no no, no," the Doctor said, shaking his head. "Not to worry at all. I'm rather handy, myself. I can get this taken care of in, oh… an hour or two."

Both John and Mrs. Hudson were staring at him. John's eyebrows came together. "Really?"

The Doctor nodded. "Really."

Mrs. Hudson gave a little sigh, patting John's chest. "Just make sure you boys are being careful, you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am, I understand," John said, smiling. "If we've any trouble, we'll let you know—"

"But don't just call me for any old reason, love. I'm not your housekeeper."

John smiled, let out a breathless laugh. "Yes. Alright, mum. We'll be good."

Her voice kept ringing up the stairway. "But let me know if you'll be needing supper tonight. Don't want you boys to starve because of a broken stove!"

Dean's leaned past John to ask, "can you make pie?"

A head poked around the banister. "Not your housekeeper."

John made a face at Dean, to which the elder Winchester just frowned. "What—?"

The head poked back around the banister. "Apple or peach, dear? That's all the fruit I have."

Dean's eyes lit up. "Apple! With that, uh… crunchy stuff—"

"Streusel?" John asked, frowning.

"Yeeeeah!"

John sighed. "Mrs. Hudson, you don't have t—"

"Just this once," she responded, shaking a finger at him and disappearing into her flat below.

Dean was smiling, nodding at John. John didn't return the smile, just stared at him in silent disapproval. Dean's smile vanished. "What?"

No one noticed the man in the trenchcoat that had just appeared in the middle of the room. "I come with news—"

"Damn!" John swore, putting a hand to his chest. He looked around the room, eyes gone wide, then realized the angel wouldn't have used any of the doors or windows.

Castiel stared at John. "My apologies. I did not intend to startle you."

"Is he always like that?" John asked Dean quietly. "Just… there?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Dean muttered. "Usually he shows up right behind me, so…" He sighed. "This is a welcome change." He nodded at Castiel. "Surprised you didn't call to find out where I'd be." He blinked. "How did you find out where I'd be?"

"I did not look for you," Castiel said. "I hoped you would still be with your companions. As you were not with the dark-haired one, I was hoping you'd be with the short one."

"Excuse me?" John said, folding his arms across his chest.

"Dude, don't get snappy," Dean said. "Everyone's short next to Sam."

John nodded, giving a little shrug, then suddenly frowning. "Hang on, you've been tracking us? Me?"

"Yes."

"What? Why not them?"

"Because I've got some rocking tattoos on my bones," Dean muttered. When John stared at him, Dean pressed a hand to his chest. "Angel proofing; Enochian on my ribs. He can't see me."

"Why would you want to hide from an angel?" John asked.

Dean sighed. "Because ninety-percent of angels are dicks."

"Wait, wait, hold on a moment," John said, turning to Castiel. "You can track anyone? Anyone, so long as they don't have this… angel-proofing?"

"Yes," Castiel replied.

John looked between the angel and Dean, eyes resting on Dean as he gestured. "Then why the hell are we out looking for these aliens and not just having your friend tell us where they are?"

Dean blinked. "Um… w-well, because… uh—"

"Because it doesn't work that way," Castiel said. "They are not of this sphere, therefore, they are unknown to me."

John frowned. "So… you're an angel, but… only for this planet?"

"Only for this plane," Castiel said. He looked at the floor and sighed. "It is… very complex."

Dean held up a hand. "Wait, so when you're in…" He waved his hands around. "Angel-Cerebro, you can't see the Doctor?"

"I don't understand that reference."

"Sorry," the Doctor said, popping out of the kitchen and wiping his hands on his trousers. "What's that?"

"You can see me," John said. "And you can see everyone, everything else when you're looking for us using… whatever angels use—"

Castiel nodded. "My mind's eye."

"Your mind's eye, alright," John murmured. "So you can see us… but you can't see the aliens."

"Which means you didn't know I was here," the Doctor finished, looking at Castiel.

"No," Castiel said, glancing at the man now covered in soot and smelling like burnt toast. "I did not." He looked at John. "That is why I looked for you, John Hamish Watson. If Dean was not with his brother and Sherlock Holmes, there was a good chance he was with you."

The corner of Dean's mouth pulled into a smirk. "Hamish?"

"It's a popular name," John muttered. "A good name."

"Hamish?"

The Doctor gave Dean a look. "Dean."

"But you," Castiel said turning to face the Doctor. "You are hidden from me. May I ask where you are from?"

The Doctor's expression faded a little. "Far away."

"In place and time," Castiel said. "But that is no answer."

The Doctor held Castiel's look for a long while, then folded his arms across his chest. "Gallifrey."

Castiel's head turned to the side. "It is beyond our plane, but not beyond my knowing. You have my condolences."

The Doctor inclined his head. "Thank you."

"It must have been difficult," Castiel said. "Losing so much…"

"Condolences?" Dean interrupted, looking between the two. "For what?"

"If it's all the same," the Doctor said, holding Castiel's gaze without blinking. "I'd rather not discuss it."

Castiel looked at the floor. "My apologies. I should not have brought it up."

"No, you shouldn't have," the Doctor mumbled, almost entirely to himself, then turned back to his work in the kitchen.

Dean walked toward Cas, lowering his voice to ask, "the hell was that about?"

"It doesn't matter," Castiel said. "I come with news."

"News?" John asked. "What sort of news?"

"A lead," Castiel said.

Dean frowned. "On?"

The angel held up a sheet of paper. "The spear. It was in our custody but not for long, even by human standards. It was determined that it could not be held by any sphere."

"So where is it?" Dean asked.

"Shattered," Castiel said. "Broken and scattered. But present." He handed the paper to Dean who opened and began reading it as Castiel continued. "At the end of the last 'World War,' the spear was brought here by the faction you call, 'The Allies.' The Americans offered to take it for safe keeping. We intervened." Castiel walked the length of the room, staring out the windows. "There was a fire in the warehouse they kept it in. Balthazar and his regiment took the item, and, as commanded by authorities, broke it into three pieces. One of the pieces remained in the warehouse, was discovered and later transported by the Americans to a confidential warehouse in Chicago."

"And the other pieces?" Dean asked.

"Like I said," Castiel murmured. "Scattered. Over the entire spanse of this land."

"You mean Britain?" John asked. "Were they ever found?"

"Yes," Castiel said as he turned from the window. "And that is where things become… complicated."

Dean frowned. "Complicated how?"

"Both pieces were recovered,"Castiel said. "But by different parties. Neither of them knew what they had. The first piece was found and sold to a museum here in London."

Dean frowned. "And the second?"

"In the hands of a private collector also here on this island," Castiel said. "We are working to find him as we speak."

"But the piece in Chicago," Dean asked. "It's still there, right?"

Castiel sighed. "No. It is not."

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. "So these demons have it?"

"If they do, it is nothing to be concerned about," Castiel said. "Unless all three pieces are reassembled, the weapon is useless."

"So the one piece we have a lead on?" John asked. "The museum? Is it there?"

"It is," Castiel said. "But I do not know where."

"Would you know it if you saw it?" Dean asked.

Castiel nodded. "Of course."

"Great. We'll take a field trip. Grab your nice overcoat and let's go."

Castiel's eye twitched and he stepped toward Dean. "I am occupied, Dean."

Dean stared at him. "Really? Saving the world from World War Three doesn't strike you as important—"

"There will be no world to have a third war if Raphael wins," Castiel said, his tone taking on an edge. "I must return."

"Then how the hell will we know which is the right piece, Cas?" Dean snapped. "Now, I don't know if you've ever been in a museum in your life, but there's a shit load of arrow heads and metal pieces and the like. I don't think it's going to be in a nice case with a neon sign that says, "Spear of Destiny" on it."

Castiel held Dean's gaze for a long while. His jaw clenched and he stared at his feet. Finally, he looked back up. "I will return this evening. But we will need to be quick."

Dean was still staring at Castiel with the same intensity as before. Relief sagged his shoulders and he nodded. "Thanks, Cas. I mean it."

Before another word could be said, Castiel was gone.

"Sorry, hold on," John murmured, "are we breaking into the Museum of London with an angel?"

"We're also stealing," Dean added with a smirk.

John sighed. "Wonderful."

"Hey," Sam said, walking through the door with Sherlock in tow. "Got the info on Bela."

"And we got info on the spear," Dean said, nodding. "You first."

"Okay, so…" He shook his head. "It's definitely Bela. I mean, the photos are… unmistakable."

"So how the hell did she get back?" Dean asked.

"I dunno, Dean. Right now, that's not important. What is important is that we found out where Bela's been casing her next heist."

"And?" Dean asked.

"The London Museum," Sherlock said, holding a file out to Dean. "Apparently spending all her time near some recently unearthed artifacts; dated Early Judeo-Christian Rome, but found here."

Dean looked from Sam to Sherlock then back. "You gotta be kidding me."

"What?" Sam asked.

"You think it's coincidence?" John asked Dean, who was already shaking his head.

"I think if Bela's involved, the chance of it being coincidence is zero. That's our museum."

John sighed. "Sherlock, tell Missus Hudson not to worry about dinner. We're going out on the town tonight."

Sherlock walked off to do just that, Dean running to shout after him, "tell her we still want pie!"


"Dean, didn't Cas say he was going to meet us here after dark?" Sam asked as the group stepped out of the TARDIS parked in an alley a block away from the Museum.

Sherlock turned up his collar against the windchill. "Yes," he drawled, "but as I am the only member of this group who has the floor plan memorized, I thought the rest of you might want to familiarize yourselves with the place."

"At the risk of sounding like I'm speaking in Sherlock's defense, he is right," John said to Sam. "The place is massive. You ever been?"

Sam snorted. "What to this museum? This is my second time out of the country."

"But you have been to a museum before, haven't you?"

Sam shrugged. "Went to the Field Museum in Chicago on a fieldtrip as a kid, but… never really had time for museums much, y'know?"

"Really?" John asked. "So… your childhood was—"

"Hunting monsters, killing ghosts, and loading shotgun shells with rock salt?" Sam muttered. "Yeah, pretty much."

John stared at him. "And your father was okay with that?"

"Hey," Dean snapped. "Our father didn't just fine by us, okay?"

Sherlock's expression didn't change, nor did he turn his face to look at Dean. "Clearly."

"You know what?" Sam said in the same moment that Dean opened his mouth. "How about we just change the subject? Okay, because… clearly it's not a good topic. For any of us involved."

"I think that's more than fair, Sam," the Doctor chimed up, bringing up the rear of the group. He clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Don't you, Dean?"

Dean pulled out of the Doctor's reach and walked a little faster. "Let's just get to work, okay?"


"We should split up," Sam said once they were all standing in the main foyer.

The Doctor nodded. "Right. Sherlock and I will take the upper floors. Sam, you and John take the lower floors. And Dean—"

"Gift shop, café, and outer perimeter of the building. Got it."

The Doctor blinked, then looked around. "They have a little shop here? I love little shops—"

"I know right?"

"Okay, kids, let's focus," John chuckled, handing out maps to each of the group members. "So, we mark down any places that this Bela woman could use as an escape route."

"Or an entrance," Sam added.

"That is assuming she's not already here," Sherlock said, eyes flittering from face to face among the crowded throng.

"So what do we do if she is here?" Dean asked.

"Well, I'll tell you what we don't do," Sam said. "We don't go running up to her, guns blazing."

"No kidding," Dean grumbled. "How many times in the past has that worked for us?"

Sherlock smirked. "I'm going to venture a guess at zero."

"Congratulations, Sherlock," Dean said. "You're the world's greatest consulting dickwad—"

"Reign it in, boys," the Doctor mumbled.

"Look," Sam said, picking up as though they'd never lost track of the conversation. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the envelope with pictures. "Everyone take one, just in case we get split up. If anyone sees her, we call each other. So let's take five minutes now and exchange numbers, okay?"

And they did just that. Numbers were programmed into phones, watches were synced and times were discussed. At roughly five o'clock, one hour before the museum closed and half an hour before they began closing down the various exhibit halls, they would meet in the area where the items were on display, narrow down their search to—hopefully—one or two of the displays, and discuss their plans from there. They exchanged minor admonishments, mostly Sam to Dean and John to Sherlock, and then they each went their separate ways.


Dean made minimal markings on his map. The gift shop was considerably less exciting than he thought it would be, mostly due to the fact that he didn't want to buy anything. The hell if he was going to pay ten bucks for a paper weight to send home to Bobby, and when he told the cashier the very same thing, she informed him the price wasn't in American dollars. She pulled up an app on her phone, and told him the translated price.

Dean threw up in his mouth a little, and promptly left the gift shop.

He looked at the café, finding even less that he was interested in. If the coffee seemed expensive in "fake money," he didn't want to do the math to find out what it really cost. That left the perimeter check outside.

Dean wasn't going to lie. He actually liked this place. Like, a lot. Well, he could do without the "Big Brother" cameras on every corner; that was both new and unwelcome, but beyond that, it was really nice. It was like the cities back home, but it wasn't. It was strange to him. London was new and old and modern and ancient and city and industry all at the same time. Some of the brick here had to be older than any building he'd ever seen in America. It was hard to wrap his brain around, how old some of these alleys must have been. People were living in this place before anyone even thought about chucking a bunch of tea into the ocean and starting their own country. It made a man think.

It also made a man hungry.

Fortunately, he took the perimeter check at a decent pace, marking the loading bay at the back of the museum and the emergency exits, then going back to a place he'd spotted on his walk-around: London Wall Bar and Kitchen.

Dean smirked. "Don't mind if I do," he said, and walked inside.

He was seated at a table by the window overlooking the gardens. He nearly flipped the table when he saw the prices on the menu, but he decided it was time to treat himself to a little something nice. He asked if they could put bacon on this "London Wall" burger, and was grinning like an idiot when they told him yes. The waiter recommended one of their more popular ales to pair with the burger. Dean didn't bother asking a price, and just told him that would be perfect.

He leaned back in his chair, going back over the notes he'd made on his museum handout when he realized that, while the place was nearly empty, he was not alone.

There was a woman sitting by herself a few tables down from him. Dean couldn't help but stare. She was remarkably striking, dark hair, pale skin, and blood-colored lips, long fingers tangled in a string of pearls as she read a book. She was the sort of woman who looked like she'd just stepped out of a noir film, elegant and—without a doubt—trouble.

Then again, Dean liked trouble.

Her eyes, sharp and blue, flicked up from her book and for a moment, Dean couldn't move. He fumbled with the pamphlet, tried to turn it over and make it look like he'd only glanced up, rather than the truth: that he'd been staring at her for a good minute. He only succeeded in ripping the pamphlet, which made him swear and try to fix it, which made his elbow nearly spill the glass of water the waiter had poured for him all over his lap. When he had finally managed to keep himself from looking like a complete idiot, he dared a look back over at the woman. She wasn't looking at him, but her book was turned down on the table. She had a hand over her mouth. The slight shake of her shoulders made it clear she was laughing.

"Awesome," Dean mumbled to himself.

The waiter returned to inform Dean that it would be just a few minutes before his meal would be out. He asked if he wanted his drink now or with his meal. He told the waiter it didn't matter, though he wished he'd asked him to bring out the drink now. He had the feeling he was going to need it. He watched the waiter walk away, wanting to look anywhere but in the direction of the woman's table. But when he finally did look, he froze.

She was walking toward him.

She walked straight up to his table, gesturing at the chair with her handbag. "Are you expecting someone, or…?"

Dean shook his head. "N-no, no, go right ahead."

She slid into the chair, giving him a look. "American. Well now, I wasn't expecting that."

"What were you expecting?" Dean asked, smiling.

She gave a slight laugh. "Sorry, that must have sounded rude. I didn't mean it was unexpected in an unpleasant way, just… a surprise." She flashed him a winning smile, extended a hand over the table toward him. "Irene."

"Dean," he said, taking her hand. "Pleasure is mine."

"So what brings you all the way to England, Dean?" the woman asked.

"Business, actually."

"Ah," she said, smiling. "I should have guessed from the suit. What, then? Marketing? Stock trades?"

Dean pursed his lips and laughed. "Uh, no, actually. Definitely not cut out for the, ah… Wall Street World. No, I'm actually a Federal Agent."

The woman's eyes widened. "FBI? Really?"

Dean smirked. There was something about being an agent that caught the ladies eye every time. He nodded. "Yeah. Three years now."

"Mm, and you're in the UK rather than the US," she murmured. "Am I allowed to ask why you're here?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't see any reason why not, I mean… it's not really confidential. Long story short? My partner and I? We're tracking a criminal."

"Is that right?" she murmured. "My, that sounds very… dangerous."

"Well, she is dangerous."

"You're tracking a woman?" she asked, folding her fingers together. "How exciting… what is she wanted for?"

"Theft," he said. "She's a jewel thief."

Irene gave a soft laugh, leaning back in her chair. "That's not terribly nice. Teasing me with a story that way."

"It's not a story," Dean said. "There was a heist about… six, seven years ago? A bunch of items went missing from the museum here."

"So why would America be interested?" Irene asked.

"Well, she's caused a good deal of grief for us, too," Dean said. "From the east coast to the west coast. And now, apparently, she's showed up back here. Casing up the museum." He shrugged. "We got a tip, and… here we are."

"Well," Irene said, shifting in her seat. "I'd offer to buy you a drink in exchange for what sounds like a very engaging story, but…" She gnawed a moment on her lower lip, smiling. "I don't want to… interrupt your investigation."

Dean opened and closed his mouth before leaning toward her. "Y'know. I'm off the clock right now, so…"

Her crimson lips twitched into a wicked grin. "May I buy you a whiskey, Dean?"

"You may, Irene."


"Alright, that's another one," John said as Sam finished marking down another employee's only corridor. "Onto the next one then?"

"Yeah," Sam said, folding the paper and tucking it into his front pocket. "Now, where did we leave off?"

"Yellow-eyes and your father."

"Right. So Dad made the deal. But… it came with a lot of strings attached."

"How so?"

"Well, usually in a demon deal, you get ten years before they come collecting," Sam explained, keeping his voice low as two kids rushed by, followed by a mother telling them not to run. "But Azazel wasn't negotiating. The offer was Dean lived, but Dad got taken. Right then and there."

"God," John mumbled. "Does Dean know about this?"

"Yeah," Sam murmured. "Really messed him up for a long time. Still does, I think."

"Understandably. So… did you finally track him down? This Azazel?"

Sam laughed. "Well… yeah, but… turns out he was the least of our worries. Things just got… crazier and crazier." He gave John a sidelong look, then let out a laugh, shaking his head.

John frowned up at Sam. "What?"

"Nothing, it's just… weird to be talking about it this way, like it's… I dunno… small talk."

John laughed. "Trust me, if you told me two days ago I'd be listening to someone go on about demons and monsters like it was just another Tuesday at the park, I'd have called you mad."

Sam laughed with John, shaking his head. "Yeah. Welcome to the life of Sam and Dean Winchester."

"It's a bit of a shame, isn't it?" John murmured. "Jessica, I mean. Do you ever look back at it and wonder what might have been? What would have happened if you just… took that test and… had a white picket fence life?"

"Sometimes, yeah."

"And do you ever wish it could have been that way?"

Sam thought about it a moment. His nose wrinkled up and he shook his head. "Y'know, I try to avoid the 'what if's. Especially in this business. Besides, you know what they say: if wishes were horses—"

"Beggars would ride," John finished with a sigh. "That I can completely empathize with." He gave Sam a weary smile. "No way to go but forward, right?"

Sam smirked. "Yeah… something like that."

John poked his head around the corner of another hall marked, "employee's only past this point." He looked over the area, then at Sam, nodding toward the hall. "Shall we?"


"Do you think—?"

"Mmmno."

"Right, too small."

"No, too high."

"Ah, right. How about the—"

"I wondered, but—"

"It's a bit of a stretch, innet?" The Doctor paused in the lightning fast conversation he'd been having for nearly two minutes with Sherlock Holmes to raise an eyebrow. "Mark it down?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Just to be safe."

"Riiiiiiight," the Doctor said, scratching a few notes down on his flyer. "Alright, then. Onto the next one."

And the rapid-fire conversation continued.


Dean watched Irene wipe tears away from under her eyes, still hiccoughing and giggling from the joke he'd just told. "I haven't laughed that hard in a long while."

Dean laughed. Both she and he had long since finished their lunches and were onto a second glass of whatever it was Irene had ordered the first time around. He had to admit, the woman certainly knew her scotch.

Whatever it was he was drinking, it was incredible, though perhaps a bit stronger than his usual. His head was starting to swim and the lights all seemed a bit brighter than normal. "To be honest," he said, chuckling, "neither have I."

"Well, if honesty is what we're striving for," Irene said with a flourish of her hand, just a little tipsy from the drinks, "then let me amend my statement: I have never laughed so hard in my life."

Dean chuckled, sipping at his glass. "Sounds to me like you need to get out a little more often."

"Is that so?"

"That. Or maybe you just need someone more interesting."

Irene gave him a strange look. She held his gaze a long moment before laughing and setting down her drink. "Really? Is that supposed to be a pickup line, or something?"

Dean smirked. "Maybe."

Irene's expression changed from amused to smoldering in a moment. Very slowly, she leaned over the table, voice gone to a low purr. "Then why don't we, ah… just get out of here?"

Dean felt his body heat spike as a foot ran up the back of his leg, teased the soft skin behind his knee. He took a long, slow breath, but it did little to help his swimming head. "Oh, uh, whew…" he stammered. "I-I am… flattered."

A toe curled into the divot of his knee. "Is that a yes?"

Dean nearly kicked the table, managing instead to clear his throat and shift in his seat. He tugged at his collar, suddenly too tight. The lights felt blinding and full of heat. His lungs struggled against the air, like it was thick and muggy from the heat, though the building had been cool and air conditioned when he entered. He licked his suddenly-too-dry lips, laughed nervously. "Listen, Irene… were it any other day, I'd be running toward the door with you. Really. It's just—"

"It wasn't a suggestion."

Dean stared at the woman, eyes narrowing as she slipped in and out of focus. "What?"

"You're coming with me," Irene said. "Dean Winchester."

Her voice was strange, like something from a carnival ride or those horrible funhouses at county fairs. Dean wanted to stand, to run, but his body wouldn't move. "Who the hell are you?"

"Irene Adler," she said, reaching into her handbag and pulling out a mirror. She reapplied the color on her lips, pursed them and examined herself for a moment before snapping it shut. "I didn't lie." She pointed at him, mirror in hand. "You did—"

"What the hell do you want?"

Irene smiled. "For you and your friends to stay out of our way. Now you might not be expecting anyone to meet you here, Dean, but I am." Her gaze went over his shoulder and she smiled—warmer and far more genuinely than she had the whole time they'd been talking. "And here she is now."

A familiar set of legs appeared beside his chair. He followed them up to the pinstripe pattern of a dress, up further to a neck, a face. Bela Talbot smiled down at him, every bit as flawless as he remembered. "Hello Dean."

Dean pushed himself to his feet. He barely had the strength to growl, "you devil-bitch—"

"Aw, shh-shh-shh," Irene purred as Bela shoved him back into his seat with next to no effort. She kept her hands on his shoulders, pretending to rub them as she held him in the chair. "We don't want any fuss." Irene smiled, turning her head to the side. "How are you feeling, Dean?"

Dean's jaw set. "Screw you."

"Charming, isn't he?" Bela said. He could hear the smile in her words.

"Mm," Irene said. "Any more charming and I'd skip the foreplay and go straight to the beatings. But you didn't answer my question, Dean."

Dean tried to laugh, tried to bluff his way through the conversation, but his head was spinning. Even his words were skewed and shaped wrong. "What, I'm supposed to be impressed that you roofied me?"

"Call it a service to women everywhere," Irene snapped, her smile gone animal. "What? You never expected someone might actually take the chance to put you in your place?"

Dean lunged forward, or at least tried to. He only managed to slump across the table. Irene caught his face in both her hands, shushing him and easing him back into his seat. "Oh, no no no… No need for theatrics, Dean," Irene said, stroking his face. "Just relax. We're not going to hurt you. Well… I hope we don't have to hurt you. But then, that's entirely up to your friends." Dean watched her go out of focus, watched the light absorb everything until the whole of his vision was white. It faded to gray, then to black.


"So we've narrowed it down quite a bit," Sherlock said, handing their copy of the museum layout to John. "If it's here, its in one of these three cases."

"Yeah," John said. "Sam and I were thinking the same."

"Brilliant," the Doctor said, looking from pamphlet to pamphlet. "So we've got all possible exits and entrances marked, we've got it hopefully narrowed down quite a bit, and no sign of our female friend."

"Maybe we're lucky," John murmured.

The Doctor shrugged. "Maybe, yeah, but…" He sighed. "Lucky is usually right where the ground falls out from under you."

Sam walked toward the group, shaking his head. "Right, so I've called Dean's cellphone three times. No answer."

"God, I hate it when you're right," John muttered to the Doctor. "Alright, um…" He rubbed his hands together. "Well, we're all done here. Let's go look for him. Let's split up and—"

"You know what, let's just be safe and go together?" Sam said, looking from face to face. "If this is anything, and… I'm not saying it is, but if it is? Let's not get separated more, okay?"

"Sam's right," Sherlock said. "And if this is 'anything,' then we've no time to lose."

Sam asked about Dean at the information desk ("About yea high, light hair, medium build?"). They directed the group to the gift shop—where the Doctor would have been more than content to remain until closing—who directed them to the café who informed them that the man had left the building. They walked outside, asking a few of the people on the streets if they'd seen the gentlemen when Sam stopped.

"What?" the Doctor asked.

Sam pointed. "There. If I know my brother, that's where he will be."


They walked up to the place marked "London Wall Bar and Kitchen," stepped up to the host's podium and asked if he'd seen the man.

"Dean, right?" the host asked with a roll of his eyes.

Sam clapped his hands together, gave a laugh. "Ha! Y-yes! Yes, exactly, so he's here?"

"Was," the host said. "He just left about ten, fifteen minutes ago." He nodded at Sam. "I'm going to guess you're the agent's partner?"

Sam blinked. "Uh… yeah, how did you—?"

"Wouldn't shut up about it," the host muttered. "Trying to impress his lady friend." He pointed a finger at Sam, leaned on the podium. "Tell you what, you better call your superior, because you're not going to find him anytime soon."

"How do you mean?" Sam asked, frowning.

"Well, he and his lady friend left here together," the host said, then lowering his voice, leaned toward Sam and whispered, "if you know what I mean."

Sam stared blankly at the man. "You gotta be kidding me."

The host shrugged. "Wish I was. Sorry."

"Pardon, but this woman," Sherlock interrupted, stepping up to stand beside Sam. "She didn't happen to look like this?" He slid the picture of Bela over the countertop toward the man.

The host picked it up, looked at it then shook his head. "Nope. This one was paler. Darker haired, too. Definitely not the same woman."

"May we see the table?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure, but they've already bused it," the host said, pointing. He looked between Sherlock and Sam. "We're not going to get in any sort of trouble, are we? Letting a US agent wander off?"

"Why?" Sherlock asked, leaning toward the host. "Have you done something to get yourselves into trouble?"

"'Course not, we just—"

"You're not going to get in any trouble, okay?" Sam said, pulling back Sherlock. "Thanks for your time, we'll just be a minute."

John and the Doctor stayed by the entrance as Sherlock and Sam walked toward the small table. As the host had said, the table had already been cleared of dishes and wiped clean. Not so much as a grain of salt was out of place. Sherlock bent to examine the floor, the chairs, but, much like the table, anything that might have been useful was gone.

Sherlock stood upright and turned to Sam. "Nothing."

"Great," Sam sighed.

"What do you think? Suspicious?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Sam said. "I wouldn't think he'd bail on a case this big, but…" His words trailed off as his phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out, checking the new text message. Naturally, it was from Dean.

Doooode, Brit chicks r HAWT. Don't wait up. ;D

Sam snapped his phone shut and looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Dean, I presume."

Sam nodded violently, his face gone red. "I'm gonna kill him, Sherlock. So help me God, I'm going to kill him."

Sherlock sighed. "Well, perhaps it would be best to wait until after this evening's scheduled events."

Sam let out a tense breath, shoving the phone back in his pocket. "Yeah." They walked back to the front of the restaurant, John and the Doctor looking inquisitive as Sam held up his phone. "He's AWOL to bag a chick."

John blinked. "Bag a chick, you don't mean—"

"Yeah, I do."

John blinked again, eyes widening. "Wh—now? Seriously?"

"Oh yeah," Sam said, barely containing his rage.

"But…" John checked his watch. "Th-the museum just closed! It's going to be dark in an hour or two! What about the plan?"

"We'll just have to take care of it without him," Sam said with a shrug. "Aaaaand once we've finished… we'll have to give him the ass-kicking of his life."

"Great," John muttered. "So what now?"

"Now?" Sam echoed. "Now, we just… wait."


Once the museum was closed and locked for the evening and all but the handful of evening crew had left for the night, the Doctor brought the TARDIS down in one of the security camera's blindspots they'd found on the second floor. They stood for a while, then, one by one, they began leaning on the wall, then sitting on the floor. Sometime later, the Doctor and Sherlock were lying flat on their backs in opposite directions beside each other while John typed away on his laptop and Sam played a game on his cellphone.

"Bored," Sherlock grumbled.

"Soooo bored," the Doctor agreed.

Sherlock sighed. "More bored than bored."

"Ugh. Bored out of my gourd in a smorgasbord with a hoard who are also booored," the Doctor muttered, draping an arm over his eyes.

Sherlock groaned. "Bored as a board carved into a sword that I wish to the lord I could kill myself with."

"Do you have to do that?" John asked, looking up. "Both of you? Really?"

"When is Castiel supposed to arrive?" the Doctor asked, lifting up his arm just enough to look at John.

"We don't know."

The Doctor and Sherlock groaned in tandem.

John looked at his watch, then at the two. "We've only been here thirty minutes! Can you two just—"

"Where is Dean?"

John jumped, almost falling over as he scrambled to his feet, staring at the angel standing too close behind him. "What in the—are you trying to scare the life out of me?"

"My apologies," Castiel said, then looked to Sam. "Dean. He isn't here."

"Yeah, no kidding," Sam muttered. "He's, ah… occupied. Elsewhere."

Castiel's eyes narrowed and his head turned to the side. "Occupied?"

"He's having intimate relationships with a female while we do the heavy lifting," Sherlock muttered, picking himself up off the floor and dusting himself off.

Castiel looked from face to face, then back to Sam. "Truly?"

"You're surprised?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Sadly, no." He sighed. "Come. Let us find the fragment and be done. I have things to attend to."


The group walked through the darkened corridors of the museum, down the stairs toward the older exhibits.

"Man," Sam said as they walked past a glass case filled with old pots and plaster-cast death masks. "And I thought parts of this place were creepy in the day. Night just makes it… yeeeeck."

"It makes me curious, tho," John said. "You told me you hunt ghosts and… those spirits that haven't passed on. Well, America, when you think about it, isn't all that old. London on the other hand… I mean, it must be teeming with spirits and ghosts and… How many hunters do you imagine are here in the Greater London area alone?"

Sam's eyebrows went up. "Wow… y'know, I never thought about it like that. Actually, we met one once. From England, a hunter. Her name was Tamara."

"Really?"

"How did she die?" Sherlock asked.

Sam turned. "Excuse me?"

"Well, taking from your tone, something rather tragic happened in those regards. Judging by your line of work, the chances of that being something non-fatal is slim to none. So… how did she die?"

"She didn't," Sam murmured. "Her husband did. We wanted to work together on a case, but…" Sam's throat worked. "Well, long story short, they got jumped by some demons. Seriously bad demons. Her husband, Isaac, died."

"What happened to Tamara?" the Doctor asked.

"I dunno," Sam said. "We… didn't really stay in touch, y'know? She had a twin sister somewhere here in England… said she was going to go home for a while, but…" He shrugged. "You don't exactly keep in touch with the guys who were there when your husband died."

Castiel stopped walking and pointed. "There."

"What?" the Doctor asked.

Castiel walked into the wing housing the artifacts. Some of the displays had been covered in long black sheets and others had the lights turned off. This case, however, was still lit. The angel walked directly up to the case, pressing both hands and his forehead against the glass with an audible 'thunk'. He tapped on the glass, pointing. "There. That is the second fragment."

The others gathered around the case.

"The metal one?" Sam asked.

"Yes."

"Perfect," John said. "Well, tempered glass and alarms aside, how do we go about getting into it?"

"I could reroute the alarm," Sam offered. "It would take a couple of minutes, but—"

As he spoke, Castiel was rolling up his sleeve. Without so much as a word, he stuck his arm into the case. His hand passed without resistance through the glass. With remarkable ease, he reached right down and picked up a long shard of metal.

"Or we could do that," the Doctor said.

Castiel pulled it from the case and held it up in front of his eyes, examining it a moment. He rolled down the sleeve of his jacket. "This is most certainly the fragment we are searching for."

A light, one-person applause came from a few steps away. A female voice, sweet and sneering, called over to them. "Someone give the dog a bone."

They all turned to see a woman with hair the color of dark caramel standing in front of one of the covered displays. "Tell him what he's won, Sam," she beamed, pulling the heavy velvet cover off of the display. The glass had been painted with a large red circle and sigils, still wet and shimmering. Her wrist was bound with a damp handkerchief.

Sam realized only too late. "No!"

The woman slammed a hand into the blood-drawn sigil. There was a flash of light, Castiel's screams. They all covered their faces, stunned by the sudden assault on their eyes. When their vision finally cleared, Castiel was gone.

Sam was the first to recover, stepping toward the woman. "You bitch—"

"Good to see you, too, Sam," Bela said, holding up her revolver and pointing it right at Sam's face. Her gaze flicked over the others. "Hands behind your heads. All of you." Turning her attention back to Sam, she said, "now if you don't mind, I'll pass on the hugs and kisses and take my welcome home gift, thanks."

"You mean this?" the Doctor asked stooping to retrieve the fragment.

"Ah," Bela said, pulling out a second gun from the holster on her leg and aiming it at the Doctor. "I wouldn't touch that, if I were you."

The Doctor frowned. "Why? Are you going to shoot me?"

"No," Bela said, the smile never leaving her face. The gun moved from the Doctor, now pointing at Sherlock and John, the other still trained on Sam. "Them, however…"

The Doctor's jaw tensed.

Bela smirked. "Are you faster than me? Timelord?" She chuckled at his expression. "That's right. We know what you are. You come here all wide-eyes and good intentions. Have you even told your friends what really happened to your p—"

"Stop it," the Doctor snapped.

She smiled, but didn't say another word. Her gaze found Sam's. "You know why I'm here."

"Yeah, I know," Sam said. "I'm a little fuzzy on the how."

"The boss pulled some strings," Bela said. "I'm damn good at what I do, well… did. So I earned a "get out of jail free" card, got on the fast track to promotion and here I am. New…" She blinked, eyes solid black. Another blink and they returned to normal. "And improved."

"A demon," Sam snapped. "Just when I thought you couldn't get any more low-class."

"Sticks and stones, Sam," Bela sing-songed. "Now…" She nodded at the fragment. "Why don't you kick that on over to me?"

Sam's jaw set. "No."

"Then let me clarify." Bela cocked the hammer of the revolver back. "I'm not asking just as a favor."

"And I'm not saying no just because you're a bitch."

Bela's jaw went tight a moment, then she began to laugh. "Alright. Fine. Then allow me to present my counter-offer."

From the dark end of the room, a pair of soft-stepping heels could be heard. A woman appeared, bundled in a peacoat and holding a cellphone.

This time it was Sherlock who spoke out of turn. "Irene?"

She smiled. "Hello again, Sherlock Holmes," she said. "Long time no see." She looked down at her phone. "You don't return my text messages."

"I blocked your number," Sherlock replied in the same casual tone. "Safety issues."

Irene's lips twitched into a smile. "For you or for me?"

John stared at the woman. "She's alive? And you knew?" John looked between the two women. "Wait, she isn't—"

"I'm not as well-connected as Miss Talbot, if that's what you're wondering, Doctor Watson," she said, tapping away at her cellphone as she stood beside Bela. "However, we are currently employed by… gentlemen of a similar mind—"

"Do you have any idea what you're getting yourself into?" Sam snapped.

Irene smiled. "For the price I was offered, I chose not to ask." Her smile bore teeth and she looked at the Winchester boy. "You must be Sam." She looked down at her phone. "Tell me, Sam. Do you love your brother?"

Sam felt a sickly cold shiver go through him, resting in a damp heap in his stomach. A dozen thoughts raced through his mind, but only two words left his mouth. "Where's Dean?"

Irene smiled. "Safe. For the moment." She waved her phone at him. "I have a picture, if you'd like." She walked to Sam, holding her phone up in front of her.

Sam's eye twitched, barely concealing his rage. The photo was of Dean, strapped up to what looked like thick wooden post of a dock. The water was up to his waist and he looked to be unconscious.

Irene turned the phone back to herself. "Now, you know how this ends, Sam. If you don't—"

"Please," Sherlock sneered. "Dean's in no danger; there's only one of three places he could be."

"Sherlock," Irene said. "You never cease to impress. But we did plan ahead." She smiled. "Do you really think you can you check all three places within the next…" She looked at her watch. "Twenty minutes?" She gave a sheepish shrug. "I mean, tide's coming in. Oh, and of course, there's the sniper. For extra measure. And he won't be called off until we give him the go-ahead—"

"You don't have to do this," the Doctor said. "Neither of you. You both could just walk away."

Bela let out a sudden bark of laughter. "Really? Has that ever worked for you, Timelord? Ever?"

"Clock's ticking, gentlemen," Irene said. "You give us the fragment, let us go and once we're in our cab, I text you the location of your darling big brother. Or…" Irene bit her lower lip and chuckled. "Well, the other option involves a good deal more death."

"Give them what they want, Sam," John said, his voice level. "We'll get it back later."

"So confident," Irene said, smiling at Sherlock. "Brave. I can see why you keep him around."

Sam put his foot on the metal shard. "Take it, you black-eyed bitch," he snapped, kicking it toward Bela.

Bela returned the gun to her holster and bent to pick it up with her free hand. She lifted it to her lips, giving it a kiss before returning it to her pocket. "Thank you, Sam," she said as she and Irene backed up towards the doorway. "You'll be hearing from us shortly."

"Oh, and before I forget," Irene said, reaching into her handbag and sliding something on the floor toward Sam. It slowed and knocked against his foot; Dean's phone. She smiled. "Tell him I enjoyed our date."

"I don't want to hear anyone moving until we're long gone," Bela said, stilling pointing her gun at the group. "So much as a hint that you boys are trying to follow us and you won't get so much as a street name. Consider that before anyone does anything foolish."

"This isn't over," Sam snapped.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "We'll be seeing you again shortly."

Irene chuckled. "Don't flatter yourselves, darlings."

Their shadows vanished, then the sound of footsteps, then the sound of anything at all. John dropped his arms to his sides, shaking his head. "Stupid. So stupid, just…" He gestured at the blood sigil. "What the hell is that? What happened to Cas?"

"It banishes angels," Sam muttered. "Blood seal, it… look, Cas is fine, it'll just take him a while before he can get back to us."

"Any chance he can pop down and snatch up Dean?" the Doctor asked.

"He can't find him, remember?" Sam muttered, running a hand over his chest. "The Enochian. Dean's hidden." Sam then turned and looked at Sherlock who was casually examining the place where Castiel had been standing just minutes before. Sam frowned. "You know, for someone who didn't want to believe in any of this and just saw and angel get toasted before meeting their first demon, you're surprisingly calm."

Sherlock gave him a look and an indignant shrug. "What good would it do me to panic, now?"

"Right, because no one panicked over the hound of Baskerville," John drawled.

Sherlock mouth turned to a pout, but before he could say anything, Dean's phone started buzzing. Sam bent to pick it up, opening the message. "We've got an address."

The Doctor took off at a brisk run. "Let's go."


Sam was the first out of the TARDIS, rushing down the rocky edge of the shore. The water was rising fast. Much faster than they'd expected. It'd taken too long to get to the TARDIS and, in Sam's opinion, too long to get to the address Bela had given them. Water was already covering the posts of some of the smaller docks around them, the rowboats bobbing in threat of the soon-to-be storm.

Sam looked from dock to dock, cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed. "Dean?"

Nothing.

He screamed again, trying to make his voice carry over the wind. "Dean?"

"Doctor!" John said, pointing to the dock nearest them. "You check there, we'll take this next one!"

The Doctor nodded and took off running. He shone his screwdriver, now a bright beam of blue light, under the first dock, called out Dean's name. When no one answered, the Doctor shrugged off his trench coat and suit jacket and stepped into the frigid, rapidly rising waters.

Sam and the others ran to the next dock. John had already pulled his phone out, shining the built in LED flashlight at the darkness that was the shoreline.

"You're sure this is the right place?" Sam asked, unable to conceal his panic.

"Yeah," John said. "Exactly the right place, it—"

"Then where the hell is Dean?" Sam shouted, rounding on John. "Why isn't he here? We—"

Sherlock grabbed Sam's shoulder, putting himself between the two. "Sam, I know this is difficult, but you have to remain calm, or we…" He suddenly stopped speaking, looking around. "What was that?"

"What was—?"

Sherlock nearly tore John's head off, waving his arms around for silence. His eyes were wide and frantic as he suddenly went still. No one moved for a long while. No one so much as breathed.

Sherlock turned to Sam. "That!" he shouted. "Did you hear that?"

Sam began shaking his head when it came again; the sound of coughing and sputtering. A voice, distant and weak shouting.

"Sam?"

Sam shoved past Sherlock and John. "Dean!"

"Doctor!" Sherlock called as John took off, already at Sam's heels. "Over here! This way, hurry!"

More coughing, louder as Sam rushed into the frigid water. The voice was shaking from the cold, weak and desperate. "Sammy?"

"I'm coming, Dean, just hang on!"

Sam's legs pushed through the water, hardly noticing how cold it was. He slipped on a stone, losing his footing a moment. John caught his arm, pulling him upright as they both waded into the underbelly of the old wooden dock. John flashed the light of his phone at the posts, Sam's eyes flicking from place to place with increasing desperation. John shouted, holding his light on the man handcuffed to one of the wooden posts. "There! Sam, he's there—!"

"Dean!" Sam shouted. "Dean, I'm coming!"

Dean looked in their direction with tired, frightened eyes. He was soaked in salt water, teeth chattering and skin far paler than it should have been. His lips had turned a deep blue-lavender and he was having trouble keeping his head above the rising tide. "S-Sammy?"

"Just hold on!" Sam gasped, pushing out into the water. "I'm right here, Dean, don't…" He looked back at John just long enough to shout, "keep that light on him! I'm coming Dean!"

There were footsteps on the boardwalk above, voices. "John!" Sherlock shouted down through the wooden planks. "How far to Dean?"

John didn't hesitate, shouting back, "three and a quarter meters!"

Sam struggled to keep his balance against the waves, coming in harder than before. A sudden wave took him by surprise and washed him off his feet. He broken the surface, only greeted by darkness and the sound of Dean coughing. The light was gone. He looked back at John, who had also been knocked off his feet. There was a light in the water for a moment, but before John could grab it, it went out.

Sam swore under his breath, kept swimming toward the dark shadow and the fading sound of breathing. His hands closed on the wooden post, feeling until his fingers found the metal links. Another wave struck, sending water into Sam's nose and throat. He broke the surface, gasping and sputtering. Dean's breathing was growing weaker. "S-Sammy?" he coughed.

"I'm right here, Dean," Sam said, struggling with the cuffs. "I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere, you hear me? You just hang on, and—"

A bright blue light suddenly appeared above them and the Doctor's head popped out over the lip of the dock. "Sam!"

"The cuffs!" Sam shouted at the Doctor. "They handcuffed him, I can't—"

"Take it!" the Doctor shouted, holding out the strange metal device he'd used when they first met.

Sam stared at it. "What?"

"Point it at the cuffs and push the button!" the Doctor shouted. "Don't lose it, Sam!"

Sam reached up, standing on his tip-toes. "I-I can't reach it!"

"Sherlock," the Doctor shouted over his shoulders. "Grab my ankles!" A moment later, the Doctor's torso was over the edge of the boardwalk, stretching as long as he could toward Sam.

Sam's hand barely found the tool, gripping around it just as another wave rushed around them. His feet went out from under him, but his hands held on the wooden post. He managed to drag himself upright enough to point the device at the cuffs. He hadn't noticed Dean had stopped coughing, nor that he wasn't moving. The only thing Sam cared about was getting those damn cuffs off.

The device made the strangest noise as he pointed it at the cuffs. It made his teeth and ears itch and sent chills all over his body. It took only a few seconds, but it felt like hours. The cuffs popped open as if it were nothing and Dean slid into the water. Sam grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, dragging his to the surface and pulling one of Dean's arms over his shoulder. With whatever strength he had left, he began dragging his brother through the rising water towards shore.

The others were waiting for him, there to catch him as he all-but collapsed on the stony shore, coughing hard. Sherlock and the Doctor pulled Dean out of the water, John checking Sam until Sherlock spoke.

"John. John, he's not breathing."

"What?" Sam coughed, eyes gone wide.

"Everyone just take a step back," John said, turning his attention to Dean.

Sam was shaking his head. "N-no. No, no no, Dean—"

"Sam," Sherlock said, stepping in front of the man, "it's okay."

"Dean?" Sam said, his voice rising in panic. "Is he—?"

John began chest compressions, pounding his arms into Dean's chest and counting under his breath.

"Sam," Sherlock repeated, voice level.

"N-no, No!" he shouted, trying to shove past Sherlock. He stopped, stunned at the sudden pain in his face.

Sherlock shook the sting out of his hand, then reached up and grabbed a handful of Sam's soaked shirt. "Sam, listen to me. You need to let John do this."

Sam shook his head. "He's my brother."

"And John's a doctor," Sherlock said, voice hard. "I trust him with my life. Trust him with your brother's."

Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth, eyes going glassy. He nodded, sniffled hard.

"It's going to be alright," Sherlock said, setting a hand on Sam's shoulder and not letting go.

Sam watched as John breathed air into his brother's lungs, pounded Dean's chest. He repeated the process over and over. A minute ticked by with no success.

Sam shook his head over and over. "Not like this," he whispered. "Come on, Dean, not like this…"

John kept pumping Dean's chest, muttering to himself. "Twenty-six… twenty-seven… twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty…" He repeated the rescue breathing, went back to the pumps. His arms were getting sore. "Twenty-nine… come on you stubborn…" He leaned down for another rescue breath when Dean's whole body suddenly lurched. He vomited up water, head turning to the side as he coughed and spasmed.

"Dean!" Sam gasped, shoving past Sherlock and falling to his knees by his brother's side. "Dean, oh my God."

"Don't try to talk," John told Dean. "Don't worry. You're safe now."

"Sam?" Dean asked, eyes struggling to focus.

"Shh," Sam said, grabbing Dean's hand. "Dean, I'm right here, man. Just hang on. We're going to get you in the TARDIS, okay? Don't talk, just…"

John stood up, ringing the water out of his sweater as he stared at the two brothers.

"Good work, Doctor Watson," Sherlock said quietly.

John nodded, still breathless. "Yeah," he panted. "Well… sometimes you get lucky."

Sam smirked. "Humility doesn't suit you."

"Skill's not on my side this time," John murmured. He looked at the Doctor. "That was too close a call. Far too close."

The Doctor frowned, looking around the shore. His eyes rested on Sam and Dean and he nodded. "Come on, let's get him to the TARDIS."


"I'm here to see Crowley. Is he here, presently?"

"Who's asking?"

Aziraphale sighed, pressing the button on the intercom again. "You know perfectly well. He's expecting me."

For a long while, nothing happened. Finally, just as Aziraphale reached to ring the bell a second time, the door buzzed. He pulled it open, stepping into what was once a foyer. Now it was covered in decay and falling to pieces. Aziraphale would never understand demons and their penchant for all things crude and unseemly. Of course, Crowley had never shown such a horrible lack of taste and style, but that was neither here nor there.

There were three demons sitting around a folding table playing cards. Not a one of them looked up at him as the one with dark hair pointed. "He's upstairs. Second door on the right."

Aziraphale looked at the broken staircase and sighed. "You couldn't be bothered to tidy up?"

The demon looked up, eyes turned to slick black circles. "You couldn't be bothered to keep your mouth shut?"

"Boys."

The three demons all rose from their seats to look to where Crowley was standing at the top of the staircase. He was wiping tomato paste off his hands onto the white apron tied around his waist. It was out of place considering he still wore the black suit, sans coat and tie. It was even more out of place when one considered the apron was bordered with lace. He raised an eyebrow at the demons. "Is that anyway to treat our guest?"

The demon swallowed. "Sir… I didn't mean—"

Crowley snapped his fingers. The demon instantly became a pile of meat and gore, splattering over his two gamemates and the table. Without so much as another word, Crowley looked to Aziraphale, smiling. "Come on up, Azzie," he said. "I'm just finishing dinner."

Aziraphale was upstairs in the blink of an eye, walking toward the room Crowley had walked into. Unlike the rest of the building, the room was in perfect order. It was strange to step through the threshold and go from a place that should have, rightly, been condemned, to a lavish apartment.

Music was playing from the other room, and a table for two had been set in front of the fireplace. Aziraphale was taking it all in when he caught sight of the demon in the doorway. He was balancing a bowl, stirring it briskly with a wire whisk. He nodded. "Take a seat, I'm just finishing up the dessert." He pointed at the angel with the whisk, dribbling chocolate onto the floor. "You. Wouldn't believe. The day I've had." And with that, he turned back toward the kitchen.

Aziraphale unwound the scarf from his neck and hung it on the coatrack near the front room. "Crowley," he said, raising his voice enough to be heard over the music in the other room. "Crowley, we have things to discuss."

"Of course we do," Crowley shouted from the other room.

Aziraphale began walking towards the kitchen. "Don't Stop Me Now," was blaring from a small radio, Crowley humming along, whisking in time. "Urgent matters, Crowley."

"Yes," he said, not looking up. "I'm well aware. But first, dinner."

Aziraphale's throat worked. "It isn't going to help, you know."

"Nonsense," Crowley said. "You love chocolate. And…" Crowley smirked. "I made your favorite."

"Dinner or dessert?"

"Both."

Aziraphale gave him a sidelong look. "You… are terrible."

"Call it a hobby," Crowley smirked. He poured the chocolate mousse into cups, set the bowl in the sink and then carried the mousse to the fridge. He closed it with his hip, still singing to himself as he walked up to Aziraphale, a thick curl of chocolate on his thumb. "Try it."

"Crowley."

"Oh, come on. Don't be a fuddy-duddy, try it!"

Aziraphale did as he was told. The mousse was dark and thick, the flavor evolving as it rolled over his tongue. "My goodness," he murmured, pressing a hand to his mouth.

"Imported beans from Madagascar," Crowley said, untying the apron. "You can taste the grapefruit and smoke in the chocolate. Delicious, innet? Now." He twirled the apron then snapped it at Aziraphale. "Go sit down. Dinner will be out momentarily, and…" He held up a finger. "No business at the dinner table. Or else."

"Or else what?"

"Or else there will be no dessert."

Aziraphale's eyes widened. "You're a terrible being."

Crowley snorted, ran a hand from shoulder to thigh. "King of Hell. Now, get going."


One dinner, two bottles of wine, two bowls of chocolate mousse, and half a bottle of Glencraig later, both the angel and the demon were still sitting at the small table, laughing as Aziraphale struggled to pour them each another glass.

"I swear to God, if you spill so much as a drop on this tablecloth—"

"Please," Aziraphale said. "M'not that drunk." He began smiling as he slid Crowley's glass to him. "So, Scottish? Really?"

"That's what I told them, yeah."

Aziraphale began giggling. "A-and Hell? They think that—"

"Call it witness protection," Crowley chuckled. "Besides, no one needs to know my real age."

"But telling them you're, what… that little Fergus fellow who sold his soul for…" Aziraphale might have flushed if his cheeks weren't already rosy from the drink.

"For a better bargaining rod with the ladies?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale began laughing. "Crude!"

"Fact!" Crowley said. "And, you know what? They believed it. Everyone of them. Besides, with Lilith and Aleister gone, there's no one around with proof I'm not, now is there?"

"And didn't you feel… I don't know…" Aziraphale shrugged. "Ridiculous? I mean, you couldn't pick a better candidate to feign yourself a human-identity on?"

"See, that just shows how much you're paying attention," Crowley said, pointing a finger at Aziraphale with some difficulty. "It's sentimental value. Naturally. The little bastard grew up alongside the distillery."

Aziraphale pointed at his glass. "Wh—for Glencraig? Really? 'at's brilliant!"

Crowley beamed. "Eh, I thought so." He sighed. "Shame, tho. McLeod had turned out to be one hell of a crossroads demon. Could talk the ladies into any sort of deal. Impressive really."

"So, why'sit a shame?" Aziraphale asked, frowning.

"Well, because he got torched a few months back," Crowley said. "Didn't Cassie tell you the details on our little project?"

Aziraphale sobered a little and snorted. "Honestly, I think I may be the only one he did tell the details to."

"So you heard Bobby Singer dug up McLeod's bones? Was gonna torch them?"

"You're kidding."

"No. Wish I was. I mean…" He lifted a hand in the air. "You spend three hundred years perfecting a false identity and then some redneck in a cabin comes along and poof. Gone. Years of lying and working and—"

"Perhaps you should have given back his soul the first time he asked," Aziraphale said, waggling a finger.

Crowley snorted. "Please. M'have a reputation to think of."

"I heard you gave him his soul back anyway," Aziraphale said.

Crowley sighed. "Well, considering he had me cornered the way he did…" He snorted. "So… the Winchesters, Castiel's little pets, they flew all the way out to Scotland to dig up McLeod's bones. Was gonna burn 'em if I didn't give Singer his soul back, so…" He shrugged. "I played along. Acted all scared and then went to collect the real McLeod's things." He finished off his glass with a sigh. "It was that or let them know who and what I really was." He pointed at Aziraphale. "And a gentlemen never tells his true age." A sigh. "Besides, the bones came in useful for the, ah… later deception."

"Castiel told me about that," Aziraphale murmured. "You were entirely certain you couldn't go get the Winchester boy's soul from the cage?"

Crowley laughed, pouring himself another glass. "Please. M'old, but not that old." He pointed at Aziraphale with the bottle. "You think you'd done any better? I'mean, we're about the same age."

"True," Aziraphale said, holding out his glass. "But really, the whole affair was very risky business." His eyes widened. "Business! Crowley, we're supposed to be talking business."

Crowley groaned, slumping back in his chair. "Azzie."

"No, we need tuh sober up. Right now."

"I hate this bit."

"Do it."

Both the demon and the angel shut their eyes. In a single rapid—albeit not entirely painless—second, the alcohol left their systems. Aziraphale reached up a hand to his temple as Crowley swore aloud.

"Goddamnit!" Crowley shouted. "Why does that always hurt?"

"Why don't we ever learn our lesson?" Aziraphale moaned, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses. "But, no! Crowley," he said, looking directly at the demon. "We, we need to talk. I mean it."

"Cas sent you, didn't he?" Crowley drawled, leaning back in his chair.

"It doesn't matter."

"So he did."

"You, Crowley, are supposed to be laying low," Aziraphale said. "Castiel's orders."

"And I am!" Crowley snapped. "What are the odds of my being tracked by Godstiel's favorite all the way out here?"

"That's not why he's upset, Crowley."

"What," Crowley drawled, picking up his glass. "They were out of trench coats at Burlington? Or did Dean Winchester break up with him?"

"Rude."

"Fact."

"What concerns Castiel is… well, it's more than a rumor." Aziraphale folded his manicured hands in his lap with a sigh. "Crowley, we've heard that… you're trying to gather all the pieces of the spear."

"What spear?"

"You know what spear."

Crowley held Aziraphale's gaze for a long while then sighed. "Yes, okay? Yes, I'm looking for the pieces of the spear, but with good reason, so before Cas comes down here in all his monotone glory, just hear me out." He leaned across the table. "There are beings here."

Aziraphale frowned. "Are you still drunk?"

"No, Azzie, listen! There are beings here. Beings not from this world. Not from our sphere, plane, whatever you want to call it. They are here and they are… so. valuable."

Aziraphale's expression changed from confusion to concern. His mouth opened, suddenly dry as he struggled to speak. "You're trying to harvest their souls—"

"Think of the exchange rate!" Crowley gasped. "With power like that, we might not even need purgatory!"

"It's risky," Aziraphale murmured. "Very risky. And the other spheres? They won't take kindly to it—"

"Please, it's not like I'm looking to go after worlds," Crowley said rolling his eyes. "Just… picking off the stragglers. It's like the chips at the bottom of the fast food bag. No one misses them. Not really." At the look on Aziraphale's face, Crowley smirked at him. "It's just business, darling. That's all."

"I don't like it."

"Well, bully for you, ducky. You don't have to."

Aziraphale winced. He swallowed and picked up his glass, staring at the dark, amber liquid inside of it. "What happened, Crowley?"

Crowley's jaw worked. "What?"

"To you," Aziraphale murmured. "What happened to you? You weren't like this before, it…" He swallowed. "Crowley, I don't like it."

"You don't get it, do you?" Crowley snapped. "You know, I don't know how things are up in heaven whenever one of these stupid Apocalypses roll around, but it's no Sunday picnic downstairs. I worked my ass off to stop that last apocalypse thirty years ago, and you know what? I got a bloody promotion! A huge promotion. The next apocalypse rolls around, and guess what? I go from Crossroads Demon to King of Bloody Hell! But you know what kills me? There will be another apocalypse coming. And another after that, and another and another and another, and I'm fucking sick of it!" he roared, slamming a hand down on the table. "Aren't you? Another war always looming on the horizon, all the flash and drama and nothing ever changing? Think about it. The only thing that doesn't change is Death. And Azzie, I'm sure he's sick of playing along by now.

"But Cas and me? We're on to stop it for good. Think about it. The new God, the new Devil, and together we make a new age. No more apocalypses, no more "Angelic Family Deathmatches" on Sunday evenings… just…" Crowley shrugged. "Humans doing their human things with us watching under—well, in your case, over—them. And us? Your people, my people? Get this, we just do our nine-to-fives and call it a day. That's it. You guys get some of the souls, we get the others, organized, orderly… no more apocalypse, and—" He said, holding up a finger in Aziraphale's face. "Don't give me that, 'things will be better when we win,' lecture. I've heard it before, and trust me… you don't buy your own bullshit."

Aziraphale's jaw worked. "Crowley, I don't like what you're becoming."

Crowley leaned back in his chair. "Well… considering I'm not becoming anything I wasn't already… too damn bad."

Aziraphale set down his glass and rose from the table. "You know, I think that will be all for today."

Crowley groaned. "Azzie—"

"I'll show myself out—"

"Aziraphale!" Crowley said, standing and reaching out toward the angel. There was a flap of wings and he was gone. "You stupid feathery arse!" he shouted at the ceiling.

There was no response.


Sam was on his feet the moment John entered the main console area of the TARDIS. "How is he?"

"He's fine, Sam," John said, "really. He just needs to rest, that's all. We're lucky we got to him when we did."

"Luck has nothing to do with it," the Doctor muttered, rubbing his mouth. "Lucky would mean this never happened—luck is being able to do simple things without people getting hurt."

Silence hung heavy over the group for a long while. Sam was the first to break it. "It's not your fault, you know."

The Doctor looked up. "Mm?"

Sam shrugged. "You just… it sounded like you thought it was your fault."

The Doctor stared at Sam a long moment, then looked at the floor. "Just… thinking about someone else. Several someone elses."

"You didn't force us to be here, Doctor," Sherlock said. "Nor did we allow ourselves to be dragged along. If we remain it is because we choose to."

"Besides," John added, "You're mad if you honestly think we're going to let you go it alone. Especially after seeing all we've seen."

Sam was already nodding. "Doc, don't get me wrong. Just because it's hard doesn't mean I want out."

The Doctor looked from face to face, back to Sam. "I don't like people getting hurt under my watch. And it happens more than I'd like to admit—"

"That's not your fault," John interrupted.

"You didn't nearly get Dean killed, okay?" Sam said, something changing in his eyes. "That's on Bela."

"And Irene," Sherlock murmured. "Who should not, under any circumstances, be involved in this." He pulled out his cellphone. "Excuse me," he murmured, and disappeared down the stairs to the underside of the TARDIS console.

The Doctor shook his head. "It doesn't matter. If you're with me on this you're going to be targeted. All of you. The people you love."

Sam smirked. "Yeah, well… considering that's just a normal day for me and Dean, I'm not too worried."

John nodded. "Not a chance Sherlock and I are walking out. Especially not after this."

The Doctor looked so much older than they'd ever seen him before. There were years in every inch of his smile and every wrinkle around the corner of his eyes. "Humans," he chuckled. "I don't know if you're all brave or suicidal."

Sam made a face. "We can't be both?"

The Doctor chuckled. "Weell—"

Sherlock walked up the steps, cellphone in hand. "Lestrade again."

John sighed. "What does he need?"

"Missing persons report, just been filed," Sherlock murmured. "Woman's fiancé has gone missing."

Sam frowned. "What did you tell him?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders in perfect unison. "I told him I'd look into it. Sounded promising."

"Promising as in related to our case?" Sam asked.

"Honestly," Sherlock said, busy texting, "no… it sounds unrelated. The woman seems to have suffered a mental break, however. Keeps asking to see a doctor. Lestrade ask that I recommend you."

John held up a hand. "H-hang on, how does that sound promising?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, you are a doctor, John."

"Right," the Doctor sighed, bouncing to his feet. "I could use a little distraction for the moment. At least until we find another lead." He began flipping switches on the TARDIS console, stopping at the typewriter to ask, "where are we heading, Sherlock?"

"A video store on the West End," Sherlock said. "I've the address right here. The woman and her fiancé own it. Little place called 'Sparrow and Nightingale's.'"

Sam chuckled. "Cute."

"'Sparrow and Nightingale's,'" the Doctor murmured. "'Sparrow and Nightingale's' why does that ring a bell…?"

"Haven't the slightest," Sherlock said.

The Doctor kept murmuring the name of the shop over and over as he set the coordinates. He grabbed a lever to pull it when he gasped. He spun around to face Sherlock. "Girl? Girl's fiancé went missing?"

"Yes."

"No," the Doctor murmured. "No, nonono, no, no no…" He shook his head. "No! She was supposed to be safe—"

"Whoa, Doc, breathe," Sam said, jumping to his feet. "What's wrong?"

"Sparrow!" he shouted. "We need to get there, right now!"

"Doctor, I don't understand," John said. "Sparrow?"

The Doctor flipped the lever. "Sally Sparrow."

(TO BE CONTINUED)