Sherlock was good. He really was.
It seemed like he knew every hotel in all of Virginia, and each one's price, and each one's pros and cons. He seemed sort of like one of those stupid spokespeople on an ad for a hotel finder. He told them each one, and finally, they chose the cheapest, which was still fairly high class (for them, anyway). I mean, it wasn't five star, but it had a pool and the whole mint-under-the-pillow vibe, and it sure was a lot less grimy.
Sam and Dean knew the deal and got a room for all three of them (making sure not to let Sherlock near the counter as they didn't really trust him with people). They went straight to sleep, or at least Sam and Dean did. They didn't know if Sherlock slept, but he was awake when they were. The more Dean looked at this guy, the less normal he seemed. Barely even human.
The next day was spent entirely doing research, each of the three men on separate laptops. Sherlock was looking up lore on angels, figuring out how to trap them. Sam was also looking up lore, but on knights of Hell, and Lucifer, and what all that Mycroft said meant. Dean, however, was looking at something different. He was doing as Mycroft said. Looking up Holmes the younger.
He barely had to look at all. He searched "Sherlock Holmes" on Google (he did a google search for God's sake) and immediately found so many fan-sites he was shocked he hadn't heard of the guy. For those who love Sherlock Holmes, All Sherlock Holmes lovers, SH Fan Site. Sherlock Holmes Tumblr fan page.
Finally, after scrolling through the crap, he saw a yahoo ask question (and God did he feel like a loser of the research world). who is sherlock holmes? was the headline. He clicked on it and read the question's description.
ive been hearing a lot about this sherlock holmes guy, and i know he's some sort of crime solver or something… but who is he exactly and why does everyone think he's so cool? thanks.
He scrolled down to see the voted best answer. Sherlock is the world's only consulting detective, who takes clients who need help solving crimes, It said. He is famous for being extremely clever and, to some, very attractive and shipped with his partner John (Dean winced at the thought of that) and everyone found out about him from John's blog - .
Dean admitted he had spent a little too much time on that website. It started dull, mostly with the man trying to find excuses to post something. It looked kinda like someone was forcing him to do it. For a while, he wondered if he was even in the right place looking for the right Sherlock.
Then, they got interesting.
The first thing that gave away was an entry called A Strange Meeting.
"It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school (which Dean had to remember actually meant private school, damn backwards brits) and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable." Well, apart from the strangely likeable part, Dean knew this was their guy. He seemed just as analytical, and well, an asshole, but not quite as cold. How did he change? What the Hell happened? He kept reading.
Anyone who's ever met him would know that if Dean was anything, he wasn't a bookworm. That's why it's something of incredible significance to say that he actually kept reading of his own free will. He read one story, then he wanted to read the next. He actually felt his face get rather animated as he read cases like The Great Game and The Woman. Of course, none of this so far was helpful to the case at hand. But he was learning (the very thought of which made him confused as to whether to be proud or ashamed because he'd betrayed his stupid self).
It was fascinating, really, genuinely. He was starting to understand what Mycroft was talking about. Sherlock seemed the same, but when he was contrasted with John, they could really be dynamic. He still wanted the same information, he still cared the same amount, which was not at all, but back then, he had John to be the other side. John, who couldn't follow half of what he said, and was only there because civilian life wasn't enough, because he wanted to save people, because he wanted more. Neither of them were really healthy, he thought. It was kind of concerning when the mentally apt one out of the two was the one fresh out of the war and addicted to stress.
One of the posts was a rather major turning point. The Black-Eyed Ginger, it was called. God, Dean felt like a nerd. He even liked the titles.
It told about a 'fantastic happening', as he put it, of a girl who was friends with Mary suddenly having a change in personality. She ended up kidnapping her and calling John, telling him she would kill her if he didn't come with Sherlock. Sherlock came, but not before doing an awful lot of research, worrying John. He was totally confused when Sherlock had put a shaker of salt in his pocket. However, he was proven to be right when he poured salt across her and exorcised her then and there. Well. So much for having to adjust to the life.
The nest entries were of various other cases, with ghouls and vampires and weapons. They were somewhat different, and Dean realized it hadn't really occurred to him that different monsters were native to Britain than to America. He talked about some things he'd never even heard of.
Most of them now were cases, his and Sam's kind. Although in the middle, was a rather different one, titled One O'clock thoughts.
It was rather short, but very deep. This was what it said:
I told you about the case we had a few days ago. It went fine, and it was just a couple vampires. It's been worrying me ever since, though. The way he cut their heads right off was totally merciless. I mean, they were vampires, but it was almost like he enjoyed it! I guess I have to remember he just doesn't care. He just doesn't.
Still, the way he killed them mixed with how dangerous our job is. I could die at any time, and not to be vain, but would Sherlock be alright, I wonder? I feel like I'm the only one who ever reminds him that people are important and have feelings. I do hope he stops hunting if I die, and I know it sounds selfish, but it's true. There have been times when it actually has been more convenient to take a life than to save one, and knowing Sherlock, he'd probably take the easier choice, even if it meant killing a real, flesh and blood human.
Dean chuckled slightly at the accuracy. "Damn right," He muttered to himself. "You're a freakin' saint, John Watson." He kept reading.
Maybe this is a little morbid. I just can't sleep tonight, I don't really know why. I'd say it's because I went out for drinks with Mike, but I didn't even get that drunk. Hm. Probably just a bad night, I suppose.
We think we've got a tulpa somewhere in Wales. I'll write how it folds out as soon as we see what happens.
There, it ended. Dean thought for a moment about it. He was starting to get it. Without even trying, John was doing that... thing. What did his stupid English teacher call it? Foreshadowing? Yeah, that's it.
The next few entries were more cases (including the one about the tulpas in Wales). Fascinating, as usual, but rather unimportant to what he was looking up. The last entry, at the very top, was titled, simply John. He got a bad vibe from it when he clicked the title.
This is Sherlock. You probably noticed the title, which is what people usually say at the beginnings of these things.
In case any of you are wondering, I'm not going to the funeral, because everybody would assume I would have to give the eulogy, and you probably all recall my best man speech. As death and marriage aren't exactly all that different, I assume a eulogy in person wouldn't go much better. So I'll just say it here. If anybody has any objections, I don't care.
John wasn't an amazing hunter. Or, even before that, he wasn't very good at deduction and continued to miss everything of importance. He had flaws, of course, and he was an idiot just like everybody else, but he didn't deserve to die. But what the Hell does that even mean? Who cares what he deserved? I didn't even really deserve a friend in the first place. And, if I am a fraction of the arrogant dick I think I am, I didn't deserve to lose him before I even had a chance to prepare myself. Life isn't fair, but when has it ever been?
I've probably already screwed up this eulogy so badly it can't be saved, but all the patterns I found in the regular eulogies I watched were pointless praise to the dead. There's no point in saying these things at all, really. He can't hear me. He can't hear anything. He's a body in the morgue.
I most likely will never post on this blog again and will continue working cases as I have been. Because I don't have much else to do with my boringly long life span, I may as well use it to find as much information as I can. In the words of just about any idiot who's ever delivered a eulogy in all of human history, "it's what he would have wanted". Not that it matters.
Enjoy the funeral. I made sure it was very high quality.
Dean's eyes softened. He almost pitied the madman. He probably wouldn't have if he'd thought, but all the emotion took him by surprise. It wasn't hard to tell how broken up he was over this, how attached he was to John. From the angry swearing, to the proof of the paid-for funeral, to the momentary falter in his arrogance, to the self-awareness and the bluntness, it was hard to imagine him typing it without his eyes getting watery.
Dean checked the time in the bottom of the screen. God. It was already 4:00. He'd actually skipped lunch because he was too busy reading.
Dean repeated that to himself one more time just to make sure he wasn't demonically possessed.
He'd skipped lunch because he was too busy reading.
He shook his head and shut the computer. He needed some late lunch or early dinner. Dunch? Linner? Whatever, he wanted food.
"I'm getting some grub," He told Sam and Sherlock. They both mumbled in recognition as Dean stepped out the door. The hotel had a restaurant upstairs, and it was fairly cheap. He got a burger and finished it in about .2 seconds, and returned downstairs. There wasn't much else to do, and Sherlock and Sam weren't talking, so he did a little inane research on angels, nothing he didn't already know. By the time he got bored, he looked up to make sure Sam had his nose buried in his laptop and spent the rest of the night watching one of those stupid guilty-pleasure sitcoms. He barely even paid attention, really, but it was good to have the noise, and the movement on the screen. Otherwise he'd just about die of boredom.
Sam was already yawning at 8:00, and Dean looked up at him, recalling what had happened just hours before.
"You wanna get some sleep?" He asked him carefully.
"Dude, it's 8:00," He said casually, but he could hear the exhaustion in his own voice.
"Yeah, and you were nearly killed today," Dean reminded him. he told him again, more as a command than a question. "Get some sleep, Sammy. I could use some too."
"But what about…" Sam began, then dwindled off. Then Sam and Dean started doing that psychic thing Sherlock and Mycroft did, but probably not to the same caliber. They knew what they were saying though.
Sam's eyes flicked briefly to Sherlock, who was curled up in the corner with his laptop on his lap. Then he looked back at Dean and raised his eyebrows. Should we really both be asleep with him here?
Dean nodded slightly and looked at the ground for a moment. True. He looked back up at Sam with assurance in his eyes. I'll stay up a little longer, make sure he's not getting up to anything.
Sam shot him a glance, creasing his eyebrows. Dude, he'll know something's up.
Dean smiled softly and tapped his fingers along his computer. No he won't. I'm just doing 'research'.
Sam gave him a sort of sarcastic grimace. It's not gonna work, Then a brisk nod. But you're right, I'm exhausting. I'm gonna sleep.
A moment later he did a fake stretch, or maybe a real one, he'd be allowed, and said. "I'm gonna go to sleep, you guys. Night."
Dean nodded as though it was the first hearing of this news. "Alright," He said. Sam walked out of the living room (yeah, the hotel had a separate living room) and into the bedroom. Dean looked up, listening, and smiled. The heavy breath from the other room told him he was already asleep.
"You're learning, you two," Sherlock's cold voice spoke up from the corner.
"What?" Dean asked, turning his head. Sherlock was still looking at his computer, still reading. It was like he was talking to himself, but he knew he was talking to him.
"That was a rather intricate link, considering your I.Q." He said. "Asking if I ought to be trusted with both of you asleep, you telling him you'll stay up a bit longer, Sam questioning how valid such a plan was, and you saying you were doing it for research. A lot of messages, really. Not exactly subtle, but still, I'm impressed."
A chill ran down Dean's spine, and his heart began racing. Was there anything he could hide from him? He wanted to say something like "How did you know that?" Or "That's not what we said!" But what he said surprised even him.
"How do I feel about Dad?" The question he blurted was unrelated, at the least, but he was able to make the link he was trying to tell himself. He'd never told anyone the absolute truth about that. If he knew this, there was no hiding, there was no privacy, and there were no secrets. If he knew this, he was the most dangerous man on Earth.
Slowly, Sherlock shut his computer and looked up at Dean, pressing his fingertips together. He looked at him silently for a good long while to the point where Dean thought maybe he didn't know and he could relax.
"Even you're not sure," He said finally. "You feel as though you hate him, or are angry towards him. One, because Sam has shown dislike towards him. Two, because you, in truth, care about him very much and strive to impress him, even though you never will." He looked down, his gaze intensifying and his voice softening. "Because he's dead."
Dean let out a shaky breath and sat up straighter in his chair. No. It was impossible. It wasn't possible. Dean could cut the head off a demon without his smile falling, but this really scared him. Sherlock was a monster, and he could have any information on a silver platter. He could do anything he pleased. Destroy friendships, give enemies leads, blackmail like you couldn't imagine… he didn't even want to consider the possibilities.
"No need to be afraid of me Dean." He said.
"Why wouldn't I be, you're a fucking psychopath!" He gasped.
"Actually, it's a high functioning sociopath," He said, a dangerously gentle smile sparking across his thin lips. Dean swallowed. He had to ask him. It was stupid, but worth it.
"Are you human?" He asked him.
"In what sense?" He asked.
"The human sense." He replied, fury in his eyes.
"In the biological sense, yes, I am entirely human." He said.
"And non-biologically?" Dean sneered, subconsciously making sure his gun was in his coat. "Who you are?"
"Well, those who don't know me would probably describe me as 'as inhuman as they got'," He said.
"And those who did know you?"
"The same, only more enthusiastically," He confessed. "You are aware that I am human, Dean, even you can figure that out. No signs of being a demon, or a vampire, or a werewolf, or anything other than human. But if you're asking if I'm normal, the answer is no. Nobody would call me that. I've half the heart and twice the mind as the average human, and it's always been that way."
"Has it?" Dean said rapidly, nearly interrupting.
Sherlock looked intently up at him, alarm and panic briefly passing over his cold blue eyes, before a wall of defense replaced it. "What?" He asked.
"Have you always been this way? Really? Nothing would have… changed you, or something?" Dean tried to hide his smirk as Sherlock bit his lip. Now he had a weakness, and he's found it.
"No, that's ridiculous." He snapped. "Sociopathy is a condition from birth, and I've been exactly the same since I was old enough to speak, ask anyone. Now I recommend you get some sleep, Dean Winchester. We've got an angel to summon in the morning." His face was its usual emotionless tone, but Dean could see the furious fire behind his eyes, burning blue. It was all true, he was sure of it now. But still, he shivered. His wave of confidence was gone, and he knew it wasn't a recommendation. He was starting to get less concerned about being killed in his sleep and more concerned about being killed if he didn't sleep, so he nodded and slipped away to the bedrooms. He shut the door behind him.
Sherlock, alone in the room, sighed and rubbed his temples, letting his eyes fall closed. He winced slightly, remembering. The person he was back then almost looked normal compared to who he was now. He swallowed. He didn't know how normal people dealt with this every day. Loss was stupid. Sadness was stupid. Emotions were all so stupid.
He curled his knees to his chest and flipped up his coat collar.
Show off. The words echoed off the walls.
"Shut up, John!" He replied angrily. But the only person who responded was his own echo off the walls. He looked away, pulling his knees closer into his chest. He was alone, he remembered. Molly and Ms. Hudson and Lestrade and Anderson were all gone. John was...
Sherlock looked away. "Just shut up…" He whispered to no one in particular. And in that room he felt so small, and it honestly felt like none of this mattered at all. He recalled he hadn't slept at all last night and felt his eyes droop. He needed to sleep at some point.
So he sat there for a long time, the darkness and seas of his own nihilism wrapped around him, and waited for sleep to come.