A/N:

Thanks you goldacharmed and Kajensen07 for the reviews!

The hunt is on.

Sam took a hesitant step forward as he sized up the fingers forming a bridge to the bookshelf. This was the first time he'd ever even considered putting himself willingly into a person's hand. He wasn't even sure if he could manage it if it was Sherlock offering, not after what they'd gone through.

Yet John was patient and careful, had helped Sam when he was hurt and listened when he needed to talk.

That was what decided Sam in the end. John was the first person to sit around and just listen to him that wasn't Dean, and Dean was one of the worst people at expressing his feelings. Sam felt he could trust John, and trust was hard to find in their lives.

His first step onto John's fingers was timid, and he stared down at the way the skin slightly sank under his weight. He wasn't heavy enough to make much of an impression against the thick skin, and it made him wonder just how much John could feel them on his hand.

Sam walked across the long fingers, staring at the palm that was spread out before him, and found his eyes trailing up John's arm, all the way to his shoulder. On Sherlock, that was where Dean had chosen as his spot. Sam had seen his older brother sitting up there as casual as can be, and now it was Sam's turn to do the same on the other human. John didn't wear a scarf like Sherlock, but Sam didn't see that as a problem once he got up there. He could hold onto the jacket collar and be more stable than what Dean had contrived.

As Sam's foot sank into the divot of John's palm, his weight shifted and he switched from a timid walk to a determined run. He didn't show any of the nerves that Dean had at the thought of being suspended so high in the air on a shoulder, and because of that it was almost effortless for him to dash over John's wrist and scale up the thick jacket fabric, his small hands finding purchase between the black threads the same way he'd used comforters to climb up onto beds. It was a more reliable option than trying to climb up with his hook sometimes.

Sam reached the top of John's arm before he knew it and his eyes went wide at the audacity of his plan. He hadn't thought this through. To hide any nerves he might still harbor, he quickly pushed the collar aside and found a place where he'd be able to sit.

"Ready when you are!" he chirped brightly, pausing to look around the room and all the way down at his bookshelf, the small opening between the books where he'd come out of looking even smaller from this point of view.

John breathed deeply and slowly, doing his best to stay relaxed as Sam slowly crossed his fingers. They were thicker than balance beams to the kid. Trying not to think of that, John watched Sam step into his hand.

Willingly- that's what really amazed John. After everything Sam and his brother went through when they were children, and again not so long ago with Sherlock, not to mention the clumsy grab John had made at his brother that morning- Sam had every right to outright refuse contact with the doctor. To fear it. The amount of trust displayed by the miniature man stepping onto his palm was baffling to John, and actually quite touching.

And then it became terrifying.

John's breath hitched and he stiffened as Sam shot up his arm in the time it took him to blink rapidly. By the time John was sure his heart hadn't stopped, Sam's little voice piped up and John bit back a flinch. He'd never heard either Winchester's voice so clearly, and certainly not the more timid brother's. Now he was right next to John's ear, tucked between his collar and his neck.

How the hell does Sherlock do this?

Swallowing hard, John carefully sidestepped out in front of the mirror to see if Sam was hidden alright. He let out a small sigh; Sam was barely noticeable, which was both a relief and stressful to John. He could only just feel Sam's slight weight on his shoulder if he concentrated a bit. The amount of control and power Sam had entrusted him with hit John all at once, making him feel bigger than ever.

It was not a feeling John was accustomed to, to say the least.

"Right," he muttered, tweaking his collar a bit before heading decisively out of the flat before he could change his mind.

As John walked down the stairs, Sam found himself shrinking down for balance and for security.

With swift steps Sam could never keep up with, John was taking him out of the only home he'd known for years. From where his adopted family lived two houses down to their current accommodations in Sherlock and John's flat, they hadn't stepped foot out into London in years.

Guess this can't be counted as stepping foot in London, Sam mused to himself, temporarily entertained by the fact that he was sitting on a human much like John and Sherlock rode cabs, only with less control.

As John opened the door of 221B and left the flat behind, Sam swiftly leaned against his neck, his hands tightening on the collar of John's coat. A cool breeze hit him, and he was glad for the warmth John put off, keeping him from shivering, but the sudden feel of a constant thud against Sam's side almost made him throw his weight in the other direction from shock.

He was feeling John's pulse.

And not only that. Each breath John took was now a palpable sensation against Sam's side. He could feel everything down to the smallest twitch. How does Dean do this with Sherlock? Sam found himself wondering, and he put a hand on John's neck for support.

"This is something else," Sam said, his voice low as he finally tore his attention away from John and stared out at their surroundings, scanning the street for any threats.

"You're telling me," John muttered in agreement, doing his best to express his awe at the feeling of tiny shifts against his neck as little as possible. No one was supposed to know Sam was there, and John would be damned if he even inadvertently revealed him. So, though he was on high alert, eyeing every single pedestrian for signs of suspicion, his outward countenance remained calm.

With a sigh, John gathered his swirling thoughts as he kept an eye on the back of Sherlock's dark curls further down the walk. Wherever he and Dean were going, they weren't wasting any time. John worked to keep a pace quick enough to keep up with them, yet smooth enough for Sam.

"How ya holding up?" he queried, hoping this all wasn't too much.

Sam couldn't help but flinch slightly at the voice, having fallen into a daze as he watched Sherlock striding away from them, John keeping up with his quicker, shorter paces. Both humans too fast for Sam to keep up with on his own.

"I, ah… I'm fine," Sam managed for a reply, though his tone was less convincing than his hesitant words. He dared to look up at the sky, both awed and terrified at the sight of how open the world was around them. The freedom of the road in the Impala during his childhood was gone to him now. He'd adjusted to the comforting sight of dark walls and dark halls, always on the alert.

That instinct was what made him duck down whenever a trace of a tingle crept up his back, alerting him to other humans in the area. With John's eyes pointing forward, and Sam crouched close enough to his neck to be almost impossible to see anyway, the human couldn't interfere with the ability, and so far Sherlock gave no sign that he'd noticed his distant tail.

"It's so… open," Sam said. He took a deep breath of the crisp, clean London air, so different compared to the stuffy walls he called home. "People everywhere… cars, shops, so much going on…"

John stopped himself from shrugging at Sam's observations, remembering how much even the slightest movement could affect the lad. Nodding seemed too shaky as well. While John was glad that Sam was staying hidden, he wished he had some way to see him, be able to reassure the lad with his eyes.

"Well, that's London for you," he quipped under his breath. "Never really stands still."

He went quiet for a moment, not wanting to draw attention by talking to himself for too long. With Sherlock well in sight, John chanced a glance around at the street, the row of buildings and alleys they were passing. "Do you reckon there are others?" he whispered, curiosity taking hold for a moment. "Like you, I mean, out around the city."

Sam's grip tightened on John's collar as the human looked around the street. "Yeah, of course," he said reflexively, remembering his family and the others they talked to down the row. Past them, there were lines of contact with others throughout London. Certain places where it was safer to congregate, or areas that were only safe for one or two families in a home. "There's a bunch down the line, plus our family-"

Then, he remembered himself, and exactly how they'd feel if they knew he was telling a human. "Just- don't tell anyone," Sam said insistently, flushing a little. "They took us in and we owe them better than that."

John's brow shot up. "Oh, no! Sorry, yeah," he blurted, trailing off when a couple of passersby eyed him strangely. After a moment, John continued his assurance more quietly. "I won't tell. Didn't mean to pry, just curious."

Still, he couldn't help letting his eyes wander. A month ago, the thought of tiny people living hidden in London would never have occurred to him. Now he could think of little else. Every night he pondered over the questions he'd collected that day: how many were out there? Did they all live hidden in houses? What did they do for hobbies? Did they have hobbies?

John made sure to never press Sam or Dean on any of these matters, of course. They kept to themselves, and John could respect that. He had to admit, though, he was a little proud that Sam was starting to open up to him. Slowly but surely.

"I just need to make sure," Sam said softly, putting a hand against John's neck. The beat of a pulse fluttered against his fingers. "Trust doesn't come easy."

Hunkering down again, Sam paid careful attention to the feeling on the back of his neck, which grew and waned in intensity as John walked by other passerby as he followed Dean. The shock of a burn never came, and Sam took that to mean that none of the city goers knew he was there. Focusing on it was a good way to distract himself from the sheer openness of the world around them, and Sam used the collar of John's jacket and his neck as a substitute for the walls of his home, helping lower his nerves. He was safe here.

John blinked at the smallest touch against his neck, and it took him a second to work out that it must be Sam's hand. He gave the subtlest of nods.

"I understand," he murmured, putting his attention back on Sherlock. Apparently right on time, as the detective made a sharp turn and crossed the main road. John picked up the speed a little so he wouldn't lose sight of him for too long.

"Do you have any idea where you're going?" Sherlock griped as Dean directed him across the street. Knowing every road and back-alley in London was only so much help when Sherlock was being led by a tiny man on his shoulder who hadn't set foot outside in over a decade.

Dean rolled his eyes. "No," he said pointedly. "The only times I've been outside in London, I've either been on your shoulder or in a cage."

The pull at his neck slowly changed direction as they walked along, and Dean was beginning to get a feel for following it so swiftly. "You wanted to see if you can find what I track, and that's what I'm doing." He straightened. "But I think we're getting close."

Closing his eyes to concentrate, Dean tried to ignore everything else past the puzzling tingle. "It's like it's moving, but I think we're moving around it, and it's staying in place." He jabbed an arm directly towards where the feeling originated from. "Hook that left comin' up."

Sherlock sighed, but obediently made the turn Dean requested. He wasn't accustomed to doing anything obediently.

The detective's eyes darted around the street, giving the ground a fair amount of focus, on high alert for Dean's mystery quarry. It had honestly surprised Sherlock that he was drawn to something so far from the flat. The descriptions he'd given heavily suggested a more isolated, much smaller radius. Apparently the elder Winchester had held himself back, and was leaping at the opportunity to branch out.

"Is it getting stronger? Does it feel closer?" muttered Sherlock, wanting to gain an intimate understanding of Dean's knack.

"It's hard to explain…" Dean said, trailing off as he tried to find a way to put a feeling into words. "It's more… refined than it was. Like we're following a pin, instead of a beach ball." He rubbed his forehead. That wasn't quite right. "Like the closer we get, the more accurate a read I can get on its location."

The location of what still nagged at him. He could always feel other things buzzing in the back of his mind, but with no way to search for them he'd steadfastly ignored them until it was nigh unnoticeable. "Can't wait to see what we win," Dean muttered. "All these years and I can finally go figure out what's been pulling me."

Sherlock hummed, mentally jotting down these new details. The confirmation of Dean having exhibited stronger tugs from outside the flat all along brought a knowing smirk to his lips before he sobered up and glanced around again.

He'd reached a busier street, lined with shops of all kinds. Sherlock ignored them, paying more attention to the people on all sides of him. His eyes were colder than usual now that he had a passenger to protect. The air of I am not to be trifled with was amplified around him, and peopled naturally gave him a bit of space as he strode past various shops.

With so many unknown humans around, Dean arranged the scarf around him so he was completely hidden from sight, keeping his mind focused on their rapidly approaching destination more than their current location. Sherlock was the one in charge of this ride, so he didn't have to worry about letting his eyes drift closed. They'd keep going, regardless.

Then, without warning, the feeling went from in front of them, to beside them, to behind them, and Dean stiffened, his eyes flashing open.

"That's it!" he hissed excitedly, repeatedly jabbing Sherlock in the side of his neck with a finger. "That shop you just passed!"

Flinching at the sudden pricks from Dean's frantic pokes, Sherlock walked backwards until he stood parallel to the shop entrance.

His brow arched as he sized up the place, and his lips parted in confusion. A glance on the street revealed a parking garage, reaffirming that this was indeed what Dean had indicated.

Sherlock had gone into this endeavor with minimal presumptions, but the last thing he ever expected to be led to was a bakery.

On the other hand, though Dean had no expectations for where they were going, only a driving curiosity for his chance to finally find out what pulled at him from distant points in the city, was not surprised to see the bakery before them as he pushed the blue folds of the scarf out of his way.

The full force of the aroma of the bakery hit Dean, and he was pulled back into his past. He could see a piece of pie held out for him. Warm, gooey apple chunks dripped with a sheen of sugar and cinnamon. Crust flaked off as a fork bit into it.

How 'bout some pie?

Dean was practically bouncing in place as he caught sight of the spread of pastries in the bakery, his eyes drawn to a line of warm, steaming pies. "Dude, they have pie! "

Sherlock lowered his gaze from the sign above the shop to frown at the pastries lining the window across from him. "I see that," he murmured, clarity starting to breach the perplexed fog that had ground Sherlock's thought process to a halt.

Of course something as simple as pie would be sought out by Dean, if given the chance. Sherlock often ignored the fact that he and his brother used to be human (mostly because a large portion of his principles had to do with relying on scientific fact, not magic). Hence, he forgot that Dean, in his youth, could easily have developed a fondness for the treat. A treat that had been denied him for over a decade as he lived separated from the human world.

And now that it was in his sights, the tiny man was simply buzzing with an animated energy that Sherlock hadn't seen in him yet. The detective supposed he couldn't deny him.

Pressing his lips together with a determination one didn't usually exhibit walking into a pastry shop, Sherlock entered.

John hesitated when he saw Sherlock stop and backtrack, looking around in confusion. He continued to approach slowly, trying to find a way to get a look at the kind of shop Sherlock was going into. He had to chuckle when he saw the baked goods in the window.

"What the hell…" he mused, grinning at the ridiculousness of the entire situation.

Sam leaned forward, cautiously peering past John's collar so he could see what was going on, and ready to duck back under cover in a moment's notice of the burn of someone's eyes fell on him.

He lit up at the sight of the bakery, recognizing the pleasant smells and familiar, if oversized interior. America or England, a bakery was a bakery, and now Sam knew exactly what was calling Dean's name all these years.

Pie.

Distantly, Sam wondered if he should have known that of all things in the world, a slice of pie would call his brother's name enough to feel it across a city. It was Dean's favorite food, more than burgers and french fries, and had been for as long as Sam could remember.

"I can't believe it," Sam said, unable to choke down a laugh. "He actually managed to find pie. In London."

"Ah, he would, wouldn't he?" breathed John, shaking his head as he followed Sherlock inside.

The detective stood staring at the menu hanging from the ceiling above the cash register. "What kind?" he asked in a hushed whisper to Dean, ignoring the bell that sounded when John came in. His priority was keeping his passenger hidden and choosing the correct flavor of pie.

Dean's eyes were round as he scanned the counters, jumping from pie to gooey pie. After years of nothing, he suddenly had a feast laid before him, and someone asking him which one to get.

He didn't even need to see them to know where the one he wanted was. It still called to him, a siren song inside his head while his knack flared with their proximity to his goal. He pointed.

"That one. The apple pie." Simple, elegant, delicious. There was nothing like a slice of warm apple pie.

Sherlock nodded and approached the register, putting in the order. It was between breakfast and lunch, the perfect lull to ensure Dean would get his pie as soon as possible.

While he waited, the detective glanced around the shop and found John hovering near the door with a smirk. Sherlock blinked, surprised that his flatmate had followed him all that way without tipping him off. Either John was much stealthier than he gave him credit for, or Sherlock had inadvertently put all of his focus on Dean the whole way there.

Either way, Sherlock made a note to be more mindful in the future.

He shot John a questioning look, wondering if he'd left Sam alone in the flat. Picking up on his meaning, the doctor's smile softened and he gave the smallest tilt of his head toward one shoulder. Sherlock's eyes dropped to John's collar, but they didn't linger there for long. If he stared, it would draw attention to the younger Winchester. Best to avoid that, especially since John's coat offered a less shelter for Sam than Sherlock's did for Dean.

The tingle that ran up Sam's neck at Sherlock's glance had the youngest of the group ducking down, wary of being spotted. He had no way to separate out a friendly glance from Sherlock from anyone else's look and knew it was best to play it safe in such a vulnerable position.

With John's head movement and the loss of the tingle against his neck, Sam couldn't help but lean out slightly so he could peer around the room and see what was happening. There was no sign of Dean on the tall detective, but with the blue scarf all wrapped up, that meant nothing. Sam grinned at the sight of the pie the bakery attendant grasped, recognizing the apple without a problem. He might not be as big a fan as Dean, but there was no denying the appeal of a warm dessert.

John resisted the urge to look to the side to check on Sam after his flinch, reminding himself that he wouldn't be able to see the lad anyway. He seemed to have relaxed a bit after that, so John did as well. Carefully pocketing his hands, he waited while Sherlock accepted his fresh slice of pie and curtly thanked the man who served it.

"John," greeted Sherlock, stepping out and holding the door open for his flatmate.

John lifted an eyebrow at the little plastic box Sherlock held. "Successful hunt, then?" he asked on his way out.

"Objectively, yes." With that, the pair started back toward Baker Street in matching stride.

A/N:

So, how many people saw that coming? Sherlock sure didn't!

Next: January 16th, 2019 at 9pm

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Neon beta'd the story for us, she was a huge help!