Chapter Four.
Sam followed Dean and the Doctor up the stairs and into the flat. He and Dean nodded a silent greeting to everyone in turn, until he finally locked eyes with Merlin, sitting on the arm of the cushioned chair Arthur was occupying.
"Hey, Merlin," Sam greeted, hardly able to help the smile that curved his lips. For whatever reason, seeing Merlin had a calming affect on Sam, and he swore standing next to the sorcerer could lower anyone's blood pressure. It comforted him that, despite his years, Merlin looked exactly the same as he did the last time Sam saw him. In fact, if it were possible, he looked younger. Sam guessed immortality had its perks.
"Hello, Sam," was what Sam got in return, accompanied by a fond smile. However, as he looked at Sam more closely, Merlin's expression soon dropped into an incredulous look that Sam couldn't quite read.
"Alright, what are we doin' here?" Dean asked without any further pleasantries.
"Giving your expertise," Sherlock said, holding up the vial of sulfur.
Dean crossed the room, snatched it from Sherlock's hands, and turned the vial over in his palm. "Demons," he confirmed. "We got that. You found it in some government building, so the Doc says." He tossed the vial up in the air and Sherlock caught it coolly. "Tell me somethin' I don't know."
"For that, we'd be here all day," Sherlock told him, and Dean tensed defensively as he took a heated step closer again and pointed an accusatory finger.
"Alright, you know what—"
"Dean," Clara ordered with a raised brow, diffusing the situation immediately.
"Yeah, whatever," Dean said, bristling as he glared down at Sherlock, but he must have decided it wasn't worth it because he stalked away and stood next to Sam.
"So, we're really going with the demon business?" John said, pulling a face as he jotted something down in a notepad. "Alright, then."
"If we are, we have to assume they're on the same team as the demons from Lawrence," the Doctor speculated. "Sherlock, you said they were recruiting. What have you found out about the attacks on London?"
"You think that could be their end game?" Sam asked.
"Or it could be building up to something," Merlin offered ominously.
"That's a cheerful thought," said Dean.
"Right now, I have no proof the two are connected," Sherlock told the Doctor, "but the timing is suspicious. But, whoever they are, they want England fearful—right under their thumb."
"And the Prime Minister going missing is a good way to cause panic, once the news gets out," said Clara. "It doesn't have to be all planting bombs, does it?"
"Not at all," agreed the Doctor. He looked back at Sherlock. "Could you get an interview with one of the attackers?"
"Belmarsh should be holding a few," was the answer. "Shouldn't be a problem. I have a number of guards there who owe me favors."
"Will we be going with him?" Arthur asked the Doctor. "I should like to speak with these men and women myself."
"We've got something else to do," the Doctor said, spinning around to face him. "We need to retrace our steps—go back to the source."
"Avalon," Merlin guessed. "What do you plan on finding there?"
"Don't know yet. But, if Arthur found his way back from there, maybe his sister has, too—or she still might." He spun around again on his heels to face the rest of the group. "Why are we all still here? Let's get moving! Chop-chop!"
"No," Sherlock said decisively. "Not yet. I'll need someone else—other than John. But he's still coming with me." Sherlock looked to his side at John and asked, "You're coming with me?"
John blinked in perplexity. "Yes, but—"
"Good," Sherlock said, disinterested in the rest of the statement. "And I'll need Castiel."
Sam furrowed his brow at the request as Sherlock stood up from his chair and plucked his coat from the back of it.
"Uh—," Dean was stuttering, probably just as thrown as Sam was. "What for?"
"I can make as many inquiries as I please, but we're working off the assumption that these men and women were possessed during their attempts," Sherlock droned as he flung his coat over himself and slipped into it.
"Yeah, were," Dean emphasized, making Sam direct his confusion towards him. He seemed guarded and Sam wasn't sure why.
"And Castiel can confirm that," Sherlock argued. "He knows the signs."
"So do we," said Dean. "Take me or Sammy with you."
"We might need you at Avalon," the Doctor cut in.
Dean made a frustrated noise from his throat, licked his lips, and his eyes flashed to Sam's for only a moment.
"Even so," Sherlock said, "what if they're still possessed and the parasite is lying dormant? Castiel can see that—I cannot. Neither can you."
"Take the kid, then," Dean yelled, thrusting a hand in Merlin's direction.
"No—what? I can't see demons," Merlin said, pointing a finger back. "And why are you still calling me kid?"
"Okay—fine, but Cas can't anymore, either, alright?" Dean conceded, dropping his shoulders in a sigh. "He's human now."
"He's what?" Clara asked, shocked.
"What was he before?" John muttered simultaneously.
"How?" demanded Sherlock at the same moment.
"When the angels fell," the Doctor said. "He was part of that?"
"Kinda," Sam decided on, not giving too much detail away, before explaining further, "You know that meteor shower last year? Yeah, it wasn't a meteor shower."
"Of course, it wasn't. It was worldwide," Sherlock snipped.
"And the meteors were people," Merlin said, shaking his head. "Why did no one point that out?"
"Okay, but still," Sam said, turning to Dean with big eyes. "Dean. It's Cas. He'd be pissed if he found out we didn't let him in on this one. He should be here, don't ya think?"
Dean let out a few more unsure sounds, seemingly thinking, before swiping his hands through the air in front of him in finality. "No. No way. Let him live his apple pie life."
Across the room, Sherlock was surveying Dean with narrowed eyes. "Why don't you want him here?" he asked abruptly.
"Excuse me?" Dean snapped as Sherlock paced closer.
"Increased breathing rate—signifies a racing heart; enlarged pupils; strained tone of voice—," he reached to Dean's side and snatched his wrist, holding his hand up before Dean quickly withdrew it, "—sweaty palms. All signs of nervousness—No. Fear. You're afraid of Castiel coming here. Why?"
Sam jerked his head back in bewilderment, keeping his eyes locked on Dean's face for some sign of a crack in the mask. Dean tensed and thinned his lips, and his eyes flashed to meet Sam's again before he quickly looked away.
"Believe me, I want him here," he defended, staring Sherlock down.
"Then what's the problem?" Sherlock challenged.
Dean's jaw muscles tightened and he let out a heavy breath through his nose, but he said in frustration, "Fine. Go get 'em. Rexburg, Idaho."
"I'm on it," the Doctor said, fishing for the Tardis key again. "I'll fill him in and bring him straight to Belmarsh. The rest of you, I'll meet you at the lake. Sherlock, John—find us there once you're done with the interviews. Clara's in charge while I'm away."
Clara smirked smugly and bounced slightly as the attention of the room shifted to her.
"Why her?" Arthur asked with a crinkled nose.
The Doctor stuck his head back into the doorway of the flat and said, "Because all the rest of you do is argue."
"I've got lots of experience dealing with children—nannying, teaching," Clara told them proudly. "You lot should be easy."
Patrick Lewis looked nothing like a class A criminal, much less a terrorist. He was middle-aged with a beer belly that made his bright orange inmate uniform tight across the middle, and he had a nervous tick in his left hand, making him subconsciously attempt to lift it and run it through what little hair he had left. Unfortunately, the handcuffs retraining his wrists to the table made it impossible to do so. He wasn't yet accustomed to life in a penitentiary, and Sherlock very much doubted Patrick ever foresaw it as part of his future. Yet again, no one ever did.
"I know I did a bad thing—er, tried to, anyway," he was saying, again attempting to lift his hand before looking down at the handcuffs in frustration. "I'm just 'appy I didn't."
As Patrick shook his head in genuine regret, Sherlock looked at the man directly to his right. He looked almost exactly the same as he had on their last meeting: clean-shaven, stoic and attentive with an almost perpetual expression of mild confusion for the world around him, and all around put-together despite the dirty clothes he sported. Except, instead of a trench coat and a suit, Castiel was in a bright blue cashier's uniform, and something in his posture hinted at fatigue. He looked so—
Human.
"Yes, Mr. Lewis, we're all relieved your plans for mass murder fell through," Sherlock said, turning his gaze back on Patrick. "But premeditation is, unfortunately for you, a punishable crime."
"I know that, Mr. 'olmes," said Patrick. He looked at the security camera in the corner of the wall and leaned in closer to the center of the table. "But it wasn't premeditated. I didn't 'ave any plan to do it."
Castiel narrowed his eyes in question. "Then why do it?"
Patrick shook his head. "Wish I knew."
Sherlock folded his hands on top of the table and leaned in to meet him. "What do you remember of that day, Mr. Lewis?" he asked. "You said the rifle belonged to you—"
"Ah, no, it was my father's," Patrick interrupted innocently. "'e used to hunt deer on the weekends. Just passed to me after 'e died—kept it up in the attic. Didn't want the girls gettin' into it."
"Quite," Sherlock said, wanting to get back to matters. "But do you remember retrieving the rifle? The drive towards city hall—what was it like? If you can't remember making a conscious decision to attack, what can you remember?"
He expected Patrick to say he remembered nothing. After all, most demon possessions were like a blackout for the host. It was very unlikely that Patrick was awake during the events and, if he were, he would have pleaded an entirely different case and been sent to an asylum instead of a prison.
So Sherlock was slightly taken aback when Patrick looked at him in perplexity and said, "I remember all of it—clear as day. And I never said I didn't make the decision to do it. I did. Just got the idea in my 'ead and couldn't stop thinking about it, really." Patrick shook his head in regret once more. "You know what I was doing that morning? Making my daughters breakfast before school—bacon and eggs. Put them on the bus and then fetched dad's old rifle, got in my car, and didn't stop driving until I reached city hall. I remember every second, Mr. 'olmes, just don't remember my reason. Just seemed like a good idea at the time."
Sherlock wrinkled his brow in contemplation and turned his head away from Patrick and back to Castiel, who met his gaze with an unreadable expression that told Sherlock he, too, didn't know what to make of the story.
The Tardis couldn't materialize on the Isle of Avalon, but the Doctor had locked away in the ship an old, battered canoe, supposedly from a trip to the Amazon—or the Nile. Dean wasn't sure. The Doctor spoke so quickly sometimes that it was difficult to keep up. Nonetheless, Merlin and Arthur ran up the hill to retrieve Excalibur before the group paddled across the lake to the opposite banks and trudged up towards the tower, now half its height and crumbled to ruins since their last visit. They descended down the dark steps with flaming torches in hand.
"Where'd all the treasure go?" Dean thought aloud when they reached the antechamber inside the tower. That room had been filled with gold, ancient books, and silks from all over the world. However, it now housed thick layers of dust and cobwebs.
"Bandits, probably. I'm sure there hasn't been anything here for ages," the Doctor said, running his hand over the alter in the room and causing the dust to swirl. In the darkness, someone coughed. "That was a parallel world, remember?"
"Yeah, wish I didn't," Dean grumbled.
"Shame," said Clara, who was inspecting the shelves that once held various jewels and metals. "You looked good in a crown, Dean."
Dean smirked slightly, but he couldn't fully enjoy the compliment, because the Doctor found the lock in the wall. Arthur slid his sword into it and the wall moved aside, revealing the stairwell into the tomb.
"Never thought I'd have to see this again," Merlin muttered as the Doctor picked up a torch from the wall, brushed the webs off, and touched it to the flame Arthur was holding.
"Never thought I'd see this at all," Arthur countered, and Dean noticed his expression was set and tense in the half-light. "It isn't every day a person visits their own grave."
"Oh, I don't know," Clara said, moving passed the group to start down the stairs. She pointed a thumb at the Doctor as she passed him. "He's done it."
As they descended the steps, Dean heard a soft, familiar grunt of pain from behind him. He looked over his shoulder to find Sam, still at the top of the steps, pinching the bridge of his nose and rattling his head.
"Sammy?" Dean asked, feeling his stomach drop in worry. "You alright?"
"Uh—yeah," Sam said, shaking his head one more time and lowering his hand. "Just have a headache coming on, I guess."
"You sure?"
Sam snorted. "Yeah, Dean. Pretty sure," he said lightly, and he looked behind Dean at the fading glow of the torches as the others descended. "Come on. We better catch up."
He bounced passed Dean towards the others, and Dean turned back around to watch him but lingered for a moment longer. He didn't like any of this. It was only a matter of time until Zeke took over and told Dean that either Cas left or he did. He didn't know how he could justify benching Cas on this one. Every excuse he came up with seemed lame, and half of him considered telling the Doctor the truth to at least have someone on his side.
Maybe the Doctor would get angry, but Clara at least would understand. Dean was sure of that.
But, for now, it was better to keep that secret to himself. After all, Cas was still in London, miles away from Sam or Zeke, and Dean would just have to wait this one out.
He followed Sam downwards and met up with the others at the bottom of the staircase. Once there, he took a sweeping look around the room. It looked exactly as it did in the parallel universe, down to the wooden throne on the other end of the circle. Arthur had already gone up to it and run his palms along the back tenderly.
"We don't have room for it, Arthur," Merlin was telling him, his voice bouncing off the walls.
"We could get rid of that horrible moth-ridden thing next to the sofa," Arthur argued. "Honestly, Merlin. It's falling apart."
"Yeah, so will this if we try to move it," Merlin shot back. "I'm surprised it hasn't decayed by now. And good luck fitting it into the boat."
"Merlin!"
"Both of you!" the Doctor shouted over them. "We're not here to go antique shopping!"
Arthur looked offended, but he dropped the subject as the Doctor made his way over to the stone coffin in the center of the room.
Meanwhile, Sam was looking around for something on the floor.
"Hey, where's that other sword?" he asked Merlin. "The one you left for Sherlock? Isn't it supposed to be here?"
"Hang on, you kept that all those years?" said Clara, who had sat down on one of the stone seats in the circle and crossed her legs, looking as though she were lounging. "For what? Memorabilia?"
"Hardly," Merlin said. "It was Mordred's." He looked around, too, seeming confused. "I'm not sure where it's gone."
"Maybe bandits again?" Dean offered.
"But this room was sealed off."
Dean barely listened to what Merlin said, as he noticed Sam rub at his eyes and shake away pain again.
"Someone bring a torch over," the Doctor called suddenly, and Clara hopped up from her seat to oblige.
As she held the light before him, the Doctor was crouched over the side of the coffin, and the illumination revealed that the lid had slid open a few inches from the top.
"It's open," Clara voiced in shock, and the others stopped what they were doing to gather around.
"It can't be," Merlin said. "I found Arthur in the water, not here."
"Yeah, and he couldn't'a opened it, right?" Sam said. "I mean, remember Merlin tried to last time? It was too heavy. You'd need a lot of strength."
"Demon could do it," Dean said.
"What, you think one of them broke in to see if there was still a body?" asked Clara.
"Could be."
"No, this place is warded against everything—especially demons," Merlin told them, and Dean's eyes flickered to Sam, whose sudden pain made sense. If the tomb was warded against angels, it had to have an effect on a dormant one. Dean didn't know what that effect would be long-term, but he didn't want to find out.
Hoping to speed up the process, he turned to the Doctor, who was ghosting the sonic screwdriver over the top of the coffin.
"Anythin'?" he asked.
"No traces of anything demonic or otherwise," the Doctor reported. He glanced up at Arthur. "What do you remember from before waking up?"
Arthur's jaw tensed as a reaction, but only slightly and only for a moment.
"Nothing," he answered, sounding almost too sure of himself, Dean thought.
"Really?" the Doctor asked, straightening out. "No bright lights?"
"Like Heaven?" Clara asked skeptically.
"Not exactly," the Doctor corrected. "But there was a light that hit the coffin last time we were here. I think that might have jump-started Arthur's resurrection."
"But he came back months after that," Merlin reminded the Doctor.
"Yeah, but time's different than it is here on Earth. Maybe it's like, uh—," Sam said, stuttering slightly as he shook out his head and powered through. "Like, one year here is longer in Hell. Could be shorter in Limbo."
Arthur looked down at the dragon emblem carved into the lid and ran his hand across it, taking away dust. "Perhaps," he said under his breath.
"Doc, what does this have to do with anythin'?" Dean said, trying to force patience into his voice. It wasn't working.
"Just trying to rule everything out," was the answer. "We have an empty tomb that's open, but wasn't opened—not by Arthur, and not by a demon."
"So?"
"So," the Doctor said thoughtfully. "What if we're not just dealing with demons?"
Dean cast his eyes back down at the coffin between them, trying to piece together what the Doctor could mean.
"What else?" he asked when he came up with nothing.
However, the Doctor didn't answer him. Instead, he placed his palms on the top of the coffin, leaned into them, and stared into space, thinking.
"Silence will fall when the Once and Future King rises," he said, sotto voce.
"Wait, I've heard that before," Clara said.
"We all have," Merlin agreed. "Doctor, what does it mean?"
There was a beat before the Doctor seemed to knock himself out of his thoughts and jumped away from the coffin with renewed energy.
"It means," he said, "let's get back across the lake and see what Sherlock's found."
He crossed the room and started bouncing up the stairs, leaving the others to exchange either foreboding or annoyed looks.
"I hate it when he does that," Merlin voiced for them all.
"Try putting up with it on a daily basis," Clara agreed, and they all followed in the Doctor's wake.
Dean kept his eyes on Sam until they once again reached the sunlight.
"Listen, I just wanted to tell you I might not make it in tonight," John said into the receiver, mentally preparing himself for the slew of questions that were bound to come after a statement such as that one. After all, married men—especially newly married men—weren't supposed to say things like that.
However, a laugh sounded from the other end of the call.
"Got a big case, then?" Mary asked, not sounding perturbed at all.
"Uh—yeah. I think so," answered John, shaking his head in attempt to recover. He walked up to the high fence separating the walkway from the large football field, in which a few inmates were currently holding practice, and laced his fingers through the mesh wiring. "But it's taking us outside London. I might not get back 'til tomorrow."
"Anything I can do from here?"
"No, just—you rest."
Mary snorted another laugh.
"I'm not ill, for god's sake! I can still go out and live my life, can't I?" she defended. "I'm at the office now, and I haven't needed a break all day. Ate lunch at my desk and all. So, let me know if I can help. Go on. What's the case?"
John gave a long sigh of defeat.
"Honestly? No idea," he admitted. "Really—your guess is as good as mine. I feel like I've had one too many, actually."
Behind him, he heard the doors of the main building open up, and he looked over his shoulder to find Sherlock and Castiel jouncing down the steps in his direction.
"You two aren't drunk on the job again, are you?" Mary mock-scolded, bringing him back to the conversation.
"What? No, no—I'm not," he promised quickly, wanting to get in a few more words before their privacy was interrupted. "Just—Mary, do me a favor and keep an eye on the news? Make sure you get home right after work and—if you hear anything—anything at all—stay inside."
There was a heavy pause on the other end, long enough for John to wonder if the call was dropped. He was just about to remove his mobile from his ear to check his service when Mary said, "John?"
She sounded worried.
"Is something wrong?"
"No!" he assured her, but it wasn't very convincing. He wasn't convinced himself. "No, it's fine," he tried again.
At that moment, Sherlock and Cas caught up with him next to the fence.
"Who's that?" Sherlock demanded.
John made a soft noise from his throat, about to answer, as Mary asked, "Is that Sherlock? Put him on."
Knowing she wouldn't take no for an answer, he dropped the mobile from his ear and offered it to Sherlock. "It's Mary. She wants to talk to you."
Without hesitation, Sherlock relieved him of the phone.
"Yes?"
John heard a soft murmuring from the receiver, but it wasn't loud enough to form proper words, and it was being drowned out by the shouts from the men on the football field and the wind whipping around the buildings.
"Of course not. No need to worry," Sherlock said, looking straight ahead as he spoke. "I'll have him home by breakfast tomorrow." He looked at Castiel and gave a wink, which Cas only narrowed his eyes at.
John tried to take his attention off what Mary might have been saying by looking at Castiel, too, but he found his presence strangely unnerving. He knew Castiel couldn't hear the phone conversation either, but there was something about his being there that felt like an invasion of privacy. Then John remembered what Dean had said earlier about Castiel now being human, which only unsettled John more, but he tried not to show it.
Suddenly, John felt someone watching him, and he glanced back up to find Sherlock was no longer looking through him, but directly at him.
"Yes, I did promise that," he said in a graver tone than before. "I'll see to it."
Seconds later, he ended the call and tossed the phone back to John.
"She sends her love," he said shortly.
"What did she say?"
Sherlock furrowed his brow. "I just told you. And why would you tell her to stay indoors? Do you really think she'd do that?"
John groaned and threw back his head. "Sherlock, she's pregnant!"
Sherlock let out a soft breath through his nose, dropping his usual aloof demeanor. "I know. If it makes you feel better, I'll contact Lestrade and tell him look out for her."
The promise made John feel better, but only just.
"Now, what have you determined from the files? Or have you been chatting with your wife this entire time?"
John shot him an unamused glare. While Sherlock and Castiel were interviewing Patrick, John had looked through the files of two other inmates involved in the previous year's attacks, both of who had been transferred to other facilities.
"No, smartarse," he said. "But there wasn't much to look at. You said look for anything unusual—which, by the way, wasn't very clear. But they were just ordinary people who got up one day and decided to kill. Full confessions, the both of them."
"Did they describe the details of the attack in their confessions?" Sherlock asked.
John nodded. "Yup. And, before I phoned Mary, I got off the line with a guard from Bronzefield in Surrey. They had a girl who killed three people with a knife during a school trip to Windsor Castle."
"Did you get to speak with her yourself?"
"No," John said, shaking his head. "She—um. Actually, the guard said it was strange I was asking about her. They found her dead in her cell about an hour and a half ago. Said she hung herself."
"An hour and a half?" Sherlock repeated. "Just as we arrived here."
John checked his watch, not following Sherlock's thought pattern. "Yeah . . . But her file said the same thing as the ones here—full confession, totally coherent. I thought you said they wouldn't be."
"They shouldn't have been," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Unless it wasn't possession."
"It wasn't," Castiel broke his silence. "That man inside displayed none of the usual signs."
"Oh, like what? Vomiting pea soup?" John said dryly.
"Um—no," Castiel answered, blinking away his confusion as though he took the comment seriously. "Demons leave their vessels weakened and injured, both mentally and physically; and it wouldn't remain inside the host in a jail cell. That man wasn't possessed, Sherlock; I don't believe he ever was."
"Well," John said, trying not to say I told you so. "Thank god for that."
"I wouldn't say that. Now we haven't anything to go on," Sherlock said, staring off at the football match in thought. "Unless . . . It was something Patrick Lewis said. He decided to attack, he just didn't have a reason to do so." He turned back to Castiel. "Do you know of anything that could control a person like that? Perhaps hold a power of suggestion?"
Castiel looked down and thought for a moment. "The only things I know of are hoodoo or voodoo."
"Great, witches now," John said.
"Which legend says Morgan le Fay was," Sherlock reminded him before referring to Castiel. "Would that leave any physical signs?"
Cas shrugged. "It's possible."
"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaimed, shoving his hands into his coat pockets and starting down the walkway. John and Castiel trailed after him on his either side. "John, call us a taxi to King's Cross. We need to be on the next train to Surrey. It's not too much of a detour on our journey to the Doctor."
John was already dialing when he asked, "Why are we going there?"
"We need physical proof," he said. "And, luckily for us, we've got a body."
