A dart hit the yellow smiley face dead in the center, the point embedding itself in the wall. Another one followed, not a centimeter from the other. Then, perfectly, another one landed right between them.

Mycroft sighed as his younger brother walked over the coffee table, collecting the darts.

"Sherlock –" he began, only to be cut off.

"Be quiet, Mycroft, I was doing quite well at pretending you weren't here," Sherlock replied, aiming and tossing the dart. It hit the exact spot it had before.

Mycroft looked disgusted and looked at John, who ran a hand over his face.

"Sherlock, listen," his friend began.

"What is it with you people and your need to speak?" Sherlock demanded, grabbing the darts from the wall again.

John stood and took the darts, slamming them down on the desk. "We've watched you throw darts at the wall for the past three hours, Mrs. Hudson is going to be irate when she sees her wall."

"I highly doubt it, I've been hitting the same three spots since I started –"

"Stop. Just stop," John said, glaring. "We have to talk about this."

Sherlock glared back for a moment before walking towards the window. "There is nothing to talk about," he said, picking up his violin.

"Now don't you start that!" Mycroft insisted, standing.

"Please, Mycroft, remind me why you are here?" Sherlock snipped, running his bow across the violin a few times, creating a high pitched whine.

Mycroft flinched. "Have you forgotten that I've just got you out of exile?"

"Well how can I forget it when you mention it every eight minutes?"

"You said he put the gun in his mouth."

"Yes."

"He pulled the trigger."

"Correct."

"Then what the hell is he doing on every screen in London?!" Mycroft exclaimed.

"Making quite the scene, for one thing."

The three men turned around, seeing another man standing in the doorway.

"Sorry," the man said, not looking sorry at all. "Door was open."

"No it wasn't," Sherlock said, sitting. "What do you want?"

"The name's Crowley. And I'm here because of Jim Moriarty."

"Are you an associate of his?" Mycroft asked.

Crowley snorted. "No. Definitely not."

Sherlock's eyes examined Crowley expertly. Unkept beard, he obviously wasn't used to having one, it most likely was being neglected due to lack of time. Expensive suit, no matter to him, he could obviously afford it. He carried himself with an almost regal air, so most likely head of a large company or millionaire. His cold, dark eyes seemed bored, and possibly a bit amused, and they were boring straight into Sherlocks.

"Have you finished?" Crowley asked, raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock kept a calm front, but inside he was trying to register something about this man. Something was off, definitely not proper. Almost unhuman.

"Have we met?" Sherlock asked, his eyes never leaving the other mans.

"Perhaps at different place and under other circumstances, but that hardly matters," Crowley said smoothly.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked now, feeling like he had an itch he just couldn't scratch.

"Because we're all in the same boat here," Crowley said. "We've all been screwed over by Jim Moriarty."

"What business have you got with Moriarty?" Mycroft demanded.

Crowley cut his eyes to Mycroft. "Sorry, love, and you are?"

"He's no one," Sherlock brushed it off. "Tell me about Moriarty."

Crowley took a seat, looking around the flat for a moment before resting his eyes on Sherlock. "I'm a businessman, Mr. Holmes. I make deals for a living. And when I get screwed over in a deal, I lose . . . profit."

"And you made a deal with Moriarty."

"That's right."

"What was the deal?"

"Well, it would be unprofessional for me to reveal all of my secrets, wouldn't it?" Crowley asked, amused. He stood. "I've got another meeting, but I'd like to work with you on this Moriarty thing."

"With?" John frowned, speaking up for the first time.

"A big job takes the big boss, Mr. Watson," Crowley confirmed as he started for the door. "Oh, and, I would appreciate it if you kept all of this out of the blogs."

"One last thing, Mr. Crowley," Sherlock said, walking to the door and looking down at the man for a long moment. "What are you?"

Crowley smirked, a little 'aha, so you caught me' grin. He winked, snapped his fingers, and was gone.

"What did he – what did he just do?" John demanded, starring wide eyed at the spot where Crowley had just been standing.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft. "This is much bigger than we thought."

"Oh yes," Mycroft said, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. "I suppose I'll make the calls, then? How many plane tickets?"

"Just two," Sherlock said, returning to his violin. "John and I will be taking care of this."

"Taking care of – what?" John demanded, dumbfounded. "That man just disappeared and you two are discussing plane tickets? Tickets to where?"

"Kansas," Mycroft said, holding his cell phone to his ear. "Yes, this is Mycroft Holmes. Identification number 5-7-3-9-1-1-4. Codeword: Lawrence." He paused for a moment. "Name?" he thought for a moment. "Put me through to Dean Winchester."

There was a pounding on the door of the bunker, and Dean rolled out of bed, annoyed and exhausted. Who could it be? Sam was down the hall in his room, showering. Castiel was off doing, well, Castiel things, and Hannah and Clara were pouring over books. The Doctor guy – whoever the hell he was – had wandered off to explore the bunker.

So who else knew where they were?

Dean pulled the safety back on his gun, opening the door of the bunker a crack.

The door was shoved open and a girl pushed past Dean, a whirlwind of red hair and nervous, moving hands.

"I'm sorry, I totally didn't mean it, it just kinda shocked me so I put him through, I swear though he can't get your location. I totally made sure of that. But he may be able to hack into your systems, I'm so sorry!"

"Charlie?" Dean frowned, stowing his gun. "What the hell are you talking about? When did you get back?"

The laptop on the tables screen flickered, and Clara frowned. "Uh, guys?"

Dean marched over to the laptop, turning it to face him. On the webcam was a middle aged man, looking slightly impatient and disgruntled.

"The hell?" Dean muttered, looking at the screen. "Uh, who are you?"

"My name is Mycroft Holmes," the man said, his face annoyed.

"Right," Dean nodded, confused. "How'd you, you know. Get on our computer?"

"Totally my fault," Charlie said. "I redirected any calls with a certain number code and password to come in to me –"

"What?" Dean frowned.

"A certain code and password can access files on how to reach you," Charlie said, like it was obvious.

"Well, how'd you get it?"

"It's in the books," Charlie said impatiently.

"Son of a bitch. I hate those things."

"Anyway, he got directed to me and while he kept me talking he sucked some of the information I have on your guys from my computer. I stopped him in time to keep your location safe, though, I think."

"Not that it matters, I could easily find you if I chose to do so," Mycroft said. "But that's not what I'm contacting you about. This is a, ahem, call concerning your particular career field."

"Sorry," Clara said, pushing past Dean and Charlie and gazing at the computer. "Mycroft, you're Mycroft Holmes. Oh my God."

"Who is this man?" Hannah demanded, trying to get in to see the strange man as well.

"He works on some political stuff back in England," Clara explained briefly.

Mycroft frowned. "Well, I wouldn't call it 'political stuff' . . ."

"What's going on?" Sam asked, joining them, looking at Dean and then Clara with a confused expression.

"My lord, how many people have you got in there?" Mycroft exclaimed. "Can I please get to the point here?"

Everyone quieted down, looking expectantly at the screen.

"Thank you," Mycroft huffed. "Now, I'm sure this will sound odd, of course, but it's about this fellow, Moriarty –"

"Moriarty," Clara frowned. "That's the name of the man we met with Mr. Crowley about."

"Mr. Crowley?" Mycroft asked, looking surprised. "You're familiar with him?"

"Well, not me in particular, but my friend –"

"We know Crowley, what's he got to do with this?" Dean interrupted, crossing his arms.

Clara glared, and muttered "Rude", making Sam smirk a bit before returning to a more serious manner.

"Well, he apparently had a deal with this Moriarty fellow –"

"What's all the hullabaloo?" The Doctor asked, sliding down the banister and joining the group.

Charlie's eyes widened. "You . . . you're . . . you're the . . ."

"Hullo!" he waved at her, turning to the computer. "Mycroft!" he exclaimed, a smile breaking out across his face.

"Doctor?" Mycroft looked confused. "What on earth are you doing there?"

"We heard about all this Moriarty business and I went to meet with someone who knew a thing or two about it . . ."

"Crowley?" Mycroft frowned.

"You know him? Not the sort of bloke I'd think you to have tea with, Mycroft."

"Just met him today, is he trustworthy?"

Dean snorted, "No!"

And at the same time Sam said, "Depends."

Clara looked at Sam as though he were insane. "What? Are you mad? He kidnapped and tortured you!"

"Well, yeah, he's a dick, but if something is a big enough deal for him to track down all these various people, something is up," Sam explained. "He wants something, and he won't double-cross you – until it's over, that is."

"You are mad," Clara said faintly.

"Who is he?" Mycroft demanded. "Obviously we know what he is, but who . . .?"

Sam and Dean looked at each other, and shrugged. "He's the King of Hell."

"King of – what happened the prior arrangement?"

"He didn't like it, so he changed it," Castiel said, suddenly appearing behind the group.

"For the love of God, boy, how many more have you got in there?" Mycroft exclaimed. He shook his head. "This is a serious matter! Now, if this Crowley man has anything to do with Moriarty, it is the utmost importance! You need to get to the bottom of this!"

"Who is this Moriarty man?" Hannah asked.

"An insane mass murderer, for one," the Doctor said. "And a genius."

"The two of them having anything to do with each other? Sounds crappy," Dean said.

"Which is why we need to know exactly what this Crowley man knows!" Mycroft exclaimed.

"I'll go," Sam said, and Dean looked at him with a mixture of anger and possibly fear.

"What're you, nuts?" he growled. "No more solo missions, remember?"

"I'll go too," Clara said, standing by Sam.

"Absolutely not," the Doctor said firmly.

"Yeah, I'm with the Doc on this," Dean said. "You two are going to be the people he'll be least happy to see. You just escaped from him, and you helped," he said, pointing at Sam and then Clara.

"Exactly," Sam said. "Look, we'll lure him out, but once we get him talking you know he's going to be interested, Dean. He's not going to show up if a whole army goes out looking for him."

"He has a point, Dean," Castiel said, and Dean glared at Cas.

"No."

"Dean," Sam said, sighing. "We can't let Crowley and some psycho murderer run around loose at the same time. We've gotta do something about this."

"This is not a good idea!" the Doctor interjected. "Clara, you'll go nowhere!"

"Bugger off, you can't make me stay," Clara snapped. "You always get to be the hero, let someone else have a chance, yeah?"

Shocked, everyone was silent, and Clara looked at Sam. "What're we waiting for, then? Let's go!"