"How long do we have?"

"Thirty minutes."

"Do you think they suspect?"

Bela looked over her shoulder, back at the town that was rapidly growing smaller. Her throat worked a moment, eyes never leaving the darkness behind them, the little cluster of lights in the middle of the Welsh countryside. "I hope so. God, I hope so."

"Bela?" Irene's hand slipped from the steering wheel and into the other woman's. Her hand was cold, her fingers having trouble finding their place between Bela's. She swallowed. "Do you ever wonder…" Her voice cut out, and she tried a second time. Her voice was artificially steady, her eyes never once leaving the road ahead. "Do you ever think that… perhaps we are doing the… wrong thing?" Her lips twisted into a grimace of a smile. "Even by our… remarkably low standards?"

Bela looked at the woman sitting across from her, driving the car into the dark ahead. The light from outside the car reflected deep shadows on Irene's face, carving lines of troubled thoughts deep into her expression. Her blood red lips were parted. Trembling. Bela couldn't bear to look at her a moment more. She gripped Irene's hand, swallowing hard and forcing her voice to the level. "I'm doing the only thing I can do."

"We don't have to," Irene murmured. Her hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. "We could leave. Right now. Go back, fix it all… Leave all this behind."

Bela shook her head. "Not this. Not ever. It… won't let me be, Irene."

"What will happen?"

"I don't know."

Irene blinked, fast and frantic to keep the tears from building in her eyes. She stared at the ceiling of the car and gnawed on her lower lip. "God." She sniffled, shaking her head and struggling to keep her eyes on the road. "Call it," she finally said. "Call it before I change my mind and turn round."

Bela nodded. She pulled her phone out of her clutch, dialed the number. She pressed it hard against her face to keep it from falling out of her shaking hands. "We're clear," she said, wiping under her eyes. "Begin distribution at your discretion."

A button was pressed and the call ended. Minutes passed in silence save the soft hum of the road passing beneath them.

Irene kept glancing into the rear-view mirror, unable to take her eyes off of what was now a single golden spot in the distance behind them. "What will happen to them?" she asked.

Bela shook her head, staring out the passenger window and gnawing on her thumbnail. "We can't worry about that anymore."

The car sped off into the night. Meanwhile the small town Wrexhaven slept; deep, restful, and final.

Three days earlier…

The champagne bottle opened with a pop, and without sending a cork flying across the room. Dean took the moment to remind everyone that he had not, in fact, managed to screw this one thing up. Everyone laughed, glasses were poured, and it was John who proposed a toast.

"To us, gentlemen," he said, raising his glass high. "From turning over the most wanted Slitheen crime lord two hours ago—"

"To Dean peeing himself because of a Weeping Angel a week ago," Sam said, managing to keep a straight face despite the look Dean was giving him and the laughter of those around him.

John smiled and amended with, "and to the first day we all met up on the roof of this fine building. A job well-done and a job nearly finished." He held out his glass. "Gentlemen, it's been an honor."

"Hear hear," the Doctor said, clinking his glass against the others.

"To good times," Dean said.

"To more to come," Sam added.

Everyone moved as though to drink, when it was realized Sherlock hadn't spoken yet. All gazes rested on the man, sitting at the small dining table with his legs drawn up to his chest. His eyes narrowed. "What?"

John sighed. "Sherlock, just say something nice."

Sherlock glared at the group. "Why should I have to say something nice? You are all perfectly aware of my opinions of you, good and ill."

"Sherlock—"

"Fine," he snapped. "You all have proven yourselves to be considerably less irritating than when we first met." He dinged his glass against Dean's then, looking directly at John the entire time, downed the glass in one go.

"We like you, too, Sherlock," Sam said, smirking.

"Oh, don't patronize me," Sherlock sighed. "I just don't understand the significance of sitting around affirming our importance to each other."

"Fair enough," Sam chuckled.

The Doctor, who had just taken a sip of the pale-colored liquid, stared at the flute in his hand. "This is rather good."

"Should we really be letting a Time Lord drink?" Sam asked.

Dean's brow furrowed in thought and he looked at the Doctor. "Can you get drunk?"

The Doctor's eyebrows went up. "Drunk?"

"Yeah."

"What's that?"

Dean gave Sam a sidelong glance. "We need to have him over for whiskey weekends at Bobby's."

"We should probably never do anything like that," Sam said without emotion. "Like, ever. At all."

"No, we should!" Dean laughed. "Hell, let's make a night of it. Doc can fly us all out to our neck of the woods and we'll have a round. On me."

"Dull—"

"We'd love to come," John said over Sherlock, offering Dean a warm smile.

"Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Sam said. "We've still got—"

"Sammy, come on, enjoy the moment," Dean said, clapping a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We just closed up a huge case. Let's just celebrate. Put our feet up for the night." He thought a moment then added, "and late into tomorrow afternoon."

The din of conversation and laughter continued. No one noticed the new-comer in the room until Sherlock suddenly put both feet on the floor. "Mrs. Hudson."

The woman smiled warmly at them as they all turned and welcomed her to the apartment. Dean offered her a glass of champagne, to which she responded that she didn't drink the bubbly after nine in the evening ("Upsets my stomach, dear. You understand.").

"You're more than welcome to join in the conversation, Mrs. Hudson," John said. "God knows you've been a lifesaver these last few weeks."

Dean raised his glass in her direction. "And you so make the best pie ever."

She slapped his shoulder and giggled. "Oh stop. Young thing like you, you'll make an old lady blush. It's not decent."

Dean smirked. "Only if it's not true."

Mrs. Hudson giggled again, stopping and composing herself before pointing toward the front door. "I didn't mean to interrupt your lovely party, boys, but you've a visitor."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Tell them to go away. Consulting hours are from nine in the morning until—"

"I'm not here for a consultation."

A man stepped into view, dressed in a black and charcoal pinstriped suit, and carrying a matching umbrella.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

"Wait, Mycroft?" Dean asked. "As in your brother, Mycroft?"

At the same time Sherlock snapped out a harsh, "no," Mycroft smiled at the table and said, "the very same."

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, pulling his legs back onto his chair and glaring at his brother over the tops of his knees.

"For God's sakes, you act as though I'm going to ask to pull a tooth from your mouth."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"You were ten and it was falling out as it were—"

"Alright, boys, that's enough," John said, stepping between them. "Mycroft, what can we help you with?"

"Actually, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said. "I'm not here for you. Nor for my brother." He barely pivoted to face the Time Lord who, up until that point, had been very quiet. "Hello again, Doctor."

Sherlock was still in the kitchen, glaring out at the living room over his knees.

The Doctor sighed, giving him a sad look. "Sherlock, you can't stay in there forever."

"Yes, he can," John and Mycroft said in unison.

The Doctor sighed, looking back at Mycroft with a weary smile. "I thought, perhaps, your people had lost me."

Mycroft smiled. "Don't be ridiculous. I was informed of your presence within ten minutes of your arrival." He looked in the direction of the kitchen and added, "imagine my surprise when I learned it was my younger brother caught up in another one of your messes."

John looked between the Doctor and Mycroft. "I'm sorry, another?"

Mycroft never took his eyes off the Doctor, nor did his sickly-sweet smile falter. "The 10 Downing Street incident. The Saxon election. The ATMOS conspiracy."

The Doctor's hand shot up. "I'd like to point out, if I may, that none of those were my fault."

Mycroft chuckled. "One might make an argument over the Saxon-affair."

The Doctor shrugged. "True, but the argument wouldn't take—"

"Look, I love discussing politics as much as the next guy," Dean muttered from his position, leaning against the fireplace mantle. "But does Messer Fussy-britches want to cut to the chase?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "I've a request to deliver."

"Yeah, we got bubbly to drink, so if you don't mind just…" Dean gestured with his hands.

Mycroft reached down to the small black case he'd set on the table when he entered. He unzipped it and pulled from it a folder. He opened it. "Dean Winchester," he read aloud. When Dean went stiff, he added, "that is your name, correct?" He continued flipping through the pages. "Elder brother to one Sam Winchester. Currently presumed deceased by the American Federal Bureau of Investigation—"

The Doctor held out an arm to keep Dean from walking directly up to Mycroft and continuing the discussion with his fists. Dean settled back against the mantle with a shrug. "Okay, cool party trick, so what?"

"So perhaps you should consider showing some respect," Mycroft said.

Dean smirked. "I always show respect to my elders."

From the kitchen, Sherlock snorted.

Mycroft's expression soured and he shut the folder, looked back at the Doctor. "I come with news that might interest your little group."

"The Unusual Suspects," Sam corrected. At the looks from the others, he shrunk. "Well, I thought it was catching on…"

"Perhaps you haven't been told, Mister Holmes," the Doctor said, "but we're already handling the case."

"Well, I bring news of the one who got away," Mycroft said, pulling out a new folder and sliding it across the coffee table to the Doctor. He continued as the Doctor picked it up, examining the contents, Dean looking on over his shoulder. "While you've excelled in rounding up the, ah… various miscreants, several have gone missing. And I have it on good authority these three individuals are part of what is, no doubt, a nefarious scheme."

"Bela," Dean murmured as the Doctor held up the photograph.

"Correct," Mycroft said. "Miss Talbot in addition to one previously presumed dead, Irene Adler—"

A short laugh from the kitchen.

"And who is the gentleman?" the Doctor asked, poking at the man in the picture. He'd lowered his sunglasses and was winking at the security camera. Not exactly subtle.

Mycroft crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair. "He's a slippery one, that one." He glanced at the kitchen. "Goes by the name of James, or rather Jim, Moriarty."

There was a clamor of footsteps from the kitchen. Without so much as a word, Sherlock walked directly up to the Doctor and snatched the photo out from his hands. The Doctor grabbed at him. "Oi!"

Sherlock examined the photo, eyes narrowing a moment before flinging it back in the direction of his brother. "Alright, so it hasn't been edited, but why would Moriarty be involved in this?"

"If I knew the answer, do you think I would have come?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't know, would you have?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "All we know is that not only are they working together… they are working for someone."

Sherlock gave his brother a thin smile. "Now that I don't believe."

"That's he'd allow himself to be under someone else's authority?" Mycroft murmured. "Of course not. However we both know that's not necessarily how this event it playing out. Regardless… we have information on their next target."

Sam looked at John, both of them sitting behind Mycroft, and mouthed, 'the Spear?' John shrugged, mouthed back a, 'maybe.'

Sherlock had given them a brief glance before returning his attention to his brother. "And what information might that be?"

"A location." He indicated for the Doctor to give him the folder. He pulled out a small map and a few photos, spread them out on the table. John and Sam gathered round to look at the various pieces of information. "A small village on the southern-most coast. Unremarkable in every way save one." He tapped a photo of an old man standing in front of what was too large to call a manor and too small to refer to as a castle.

"A gentlemen friend of mine has something of a collection. Antiquities, rarities, the like."

"So what's Hugh Heffner got to do with this?" Dean asked wryly.

Mycroft sighed. "Mister Brynn Glendower is a friend—"

"I'm going to go out on a limb and guess Diogenes?" John said, raising an eyebrow in Mycroft's direction.

Mycroft merely smiled and continued. "His collection is quite expensive and quite vast. He is not aware that these three have been casing out his home, and with luck, he will never need to be aware."

"And why's that?" Dean asked.

"Because you're going to stop them," Mycroft said. "Or at least, I hope you will. After all, Mister Winchester, we wouldn't want you to end up at the bottom of a pier again."

Dean stepped toward Mycroft but Sherlock stuck out an arm, stopping him. "And why should we?"

"A bit obvious, isn't it?" Mycroft murmured, eyes narrowing. "How it's all related…?"

"Of course."

"Then we shouldn't need to discuss it any further," Mycroft murmured. "Now—"

"I haven't said I'd take the case," Sherlock snapped.

"And once again," Mycroft replied in a similar tone, "I'm not asking you." He raised an eyebrow at the Doctor.

The Doctor reached across the table, gathered the contents of the folder all the while murmuring, "alright, that's quite enough, boys." He flipped to the back, holding up five cards, elegantly lined in black and sealed with navy-colored wax. "Ooh! That's rather nice. What are these?"

"Invitations," Mycroft said. "There are also a list of aliases at the back. Negotiable, save, of course, Sherlock and John." He smiled at his younger brother. "I've already informed Brynn that, as I am unable to attend, you will be attending in my stead."

Sherlock sighed. "Dull."

The Doctor glanced up, muttered, "he means thank you."

"So what do you want us to do, exactly?" Sam asked. "We get there, we go to the fancy party, then what?"

"Apprehend the thieves, naturally," Mycroft said, standing. "The how, in this case, is entirely up to you." He grabbed his umbrella, stopping suddenly and looking at the Doctor. "Oh, ah… one condition, if I may."

The Doctor nodded. "Yeah, yeah, sure."

Mycroft sighed. "I do apologize, but… it would seem your enemies are aware of your mode of transportation. I suggest taking an alternate."

John gestured. "We've the jeep."

Sherlock was already shaking his head "There's the risk of it being recognized."

"Which is why I've gone to the liberty of setting you up with a rental," Mycroft said, holding up a pair of keys. His gaze drifted to Dean. "I was informed it was a choice the Winchester's might be partial to."

Dean's eyes went wide. "Dude… DUDE. DUDE, SERIOUSLY?"

Mycroft tossed him the keys. "See for yourself."

Dean was the first one out of the flat and on the street. He approached the car with hands open, gently ran them over the black frame of the '67 Impala. He paused only a moment to look back at Sam and the others "DUDE."

Sam chuckled. "Dude."

"Oh, it's like having a little piece of my baby here with me," Dean said, lying down on the hood.

John cleared his throat. "Um, will you be wanting us to leave you and the car alone for a bit?"

"Johnny boy, you might have to," Dean said, sprawled out on the front of the car, both feet tip-toed on the ground as he hugged the hood.

"Let me know if you'll be needing anything else for the trip," Mycroft said to Sherlock.

"We don't require any more than your usual assistance, Mycroft," Sherlock said.

Mycroft merely smiled, tucking the crook of his umbrella around his arm and signaled for the car. He entered when it pulled up alongside the curb, and shut the door behind him. The din of the American's excitement faded into the distance.

"Did they buy it?"

Mycroft's eyes went to a solid black, and turned to the sound of the voice. "Every word."

Crowley chuckled. "And they said political moles were a waste of time. Would anyone else be able to play the role of Mycroft Holmes so brilliantly?"

"No, Sir."

Crowley gestured at the driver, then turned back to the demon. "Now, when we get back, what are you going to do?"

"Put it directly back where I found it."

"Which was?"

"In bed—"

"In bed, and he won't recall any of this," Crowley said.

"And if he does?"

"Convince him it was a bad dream." He smirked. "After all, aliens are one thing, but demons?" He leaned forward and pat the man's cheek. "You've done well, Anthea. Keep up the good work."

The thing inside Mycroft Holmes smiled. "Always, sir."

"We all packed up?" John asked, looking over the trunk.

Dean tossed in one final duffle bag. He nudged John, unzipped the bag enough to show him the blades and guns he'd stowed away inside. "Best be safe," he murmured.

John swallowed. "Yeah. Best be."

"Don't tell the Doc."

"Of course not, do you think I'm—"

Sam whistled and gestured at the two of them from the doorway of 221 Baker Street. Dean took the cue and closed the trunk, giving John a look before walking toward the group forming on the sidewalk.

"—so what does it do?" the Doctor was asking Sherlock, holding the small device a few inched away from his eyes and squinting.

"It tracks our location via satellite and gives us directions."

"A GPS?" Dean snorted, and in his best Mel Brooks-style voice, shouted, "we don't need no stinking GPS!"

No one else seemed to get the joke, so Sherlock continued as if he'd never been interrupted. "Considering that against my better judgment, I am, in fact, allowing you to drive, yes. We do need a GPS. The last thing I want is to be stranded in the middle of nowhere due to your own stupid arrogance."

"What you don't trust yourself to read a map right to me?" Dean asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please. My navigational skills are not in question. Your listening skills, however—"

"Alright," the Doctor said, stepping between the two. "I think it's about time we get out on the road, don't you?"

Dean made grabby hands at Sherlock, squirming like a small boy in need of a bathroom break. Sherlock sighed, reaching into his pocket and producing the keys. Dean grabbed the keys, jumped a good two feet in the air and flew to the car. He ran both hands over the black frame. "Aw man, if cheating on Baby with you is wrong, I don't want to be right, Sugar."

"Are you going to mount the car, or drive it?" Sam called out to Dean.

"I'm getting to it!" Dean bellowed over his shoulder. "Just gimme a sec!" He rolled back his shoulders, staring at the door for a long while. Taking a deep breath, he reached for the handle. He opened the door, and as slowly as he could manage, slid into the driver's seat. Eyes closed and smiling, he nodded. "O-oh man, that's nice." He opened his eyes, running a hand up the center of the console, pushing the key into the slot and, very gently, turning the engine on. The car vrrmmed to life and Dean gave a little shudder. "Hell yeah, that's the stuff."

"Anyone else feel like there should be slow, sleezy jazz playing in the background?" John asked as Dean revved the engine a few more times.

"You should see him back home with our car," Sam said with a wince.

"Pass."

"Seconded."

"No, thank you."

Dean closed the door to the driver's side and gave two long honks. He rolled down the window, grinning like a kid who'd just woken up on Christmas morning. "Come on, guys! Let's get going!"

Sam chuckled, looking over at the other three. "You guys ready for this?"

Sherlock sighed. "Are we ever?"

After some squabbling, it was decided that Sherlock would ride shotgun ("Navigational assistance. God knows he'll need it."), and the other three would pile into the back; the Doctor and Sam would get window seats, and John, as the shortest ("Oi!") would ride in the middle.

The first hour went smoothly enough, save the early confusion Dean had when Sherlock began screaming he was driving on the wrong side of the road. But beyond that, things were better than could be expected. And it wasn't surprising. All of them were excited to be back on a case, and hell. Dean was just excited to have Baby with him and in whatever form he could get her.

In the backseat, John was on his laptop, reading blog entries to a captive audience of two (and a third party who feigned disinterest). Every now and again, however, Dean would glance at Sherlock, ask if the story John was telling was actually true. Sherlock would just smile and keep staring at the long road ahead.

Second hour into the drive, everyone was telling stories. Sam and Dean co-recollected some of their older stories, the simpler hunts where the targets were still ghosts, vampires, and wendigos. John and Sherlock recounted a few of their own adventures, and in due time, they managed to squeeze a few tales out of the Doctor.

And what amazing tales they were. The things he'd seen and the people he'd travelled with. When the Doctor was telling a story, hardly a one of them spoke. Hardly a one of them breathed. Tales of stars and planets unseen, distant futures and forgotten pasts, the great and awful mistakes of the universe, and the brilliant amazing people that inhabited it.

The Doctor spent the better part of an hour telling stories of his last companion, a woman named Donna Noble. Dean proclaimed very loudly at the end of one such story that he thought he would rather like Donna. John and Sam agreed. Even Sherlock, quiet in the passenger seat, smiled back at the Doctor in the rearview mirror. The Doctor said he suspected they would have liked Donna.

Sam asked if they'd ever have a chance to meet her. The Doctor's smile went numb. His eyes went distant as the stars he spoke of and for a long while, he stared out the window in silence. Then, very quietly, he said that he did not think that would be possible. Then came the silence of a conversation turned wrong. It stretched on for several minutes, no one daring to voice any of the hundreds of questions left unanswered.

Eventually, the silence became too much.

"Okay, this is getting weird," Dean muttered. "Sammy, turn on my music."

Sam apologized to John and leaned forward between Sherlock and Dean, fiddling with the console. "Y'know," he muttered as he plugged a wire into the console, "if I recall, you didn't like the MP3 jack when I put it into the Impala."

"Yeah, well you had a stupid little plastic thing that hung off her like a moose antler."

"It was convenient."

"It was stupid." He nodded at Sherlock. "Okay, so get this, Sammy back there dies, right? Like, gone, and I don't touch a thing of his the whole year he's AWOL, right?" Dean said to no one in particular. "But I die—"

"—he didn't die," Sam muttered, "he just went to hell—"

"—and Sam goes crazy on my wheels! Guts the heart and soul out of my baby and fills her up with douchey-gadgets and shit."

Sam sighed, glancing at Sherlock who was frowning at both of them. "I installed an iPod jack and put all of his music on it."

Dean shook his head. "No. Nope. Fall Out Boy is not mine, that shit is yours—"

"He listens to it too."

"The hell I do."

"He does. He loves their new album."

"Shut up, Sam, and crank my tunes."

Sam sighed, hooking up the iPod. "Look, I'm just going to put it on shuffle, okay?" He leaned back, iPod still in hand. "You don't like the song, just tell me to skip it." He looked at the other two and the back of Sherlock's head. "That goes for all of you."

"Unless it's an awesome song," Dean said.

The first song that played was Air Supply's "All Out Of Love." To no one's surprise, John was humming along with the chorus. Sherlock gave him a look. "What? I like this song." By the second chorus, everyone was singing along save Sherlock ("I don't have room on my harddrive for drivel like "song lyrics," and "tunes.")

A Backstreet Boys song started to play, and the car groaned. Dean pointed a finger at the man sitting behind Sherlock. "Sam's! That's Sam's."

"Don't judge," Sam chuckled. "It was to pick up chicks."

John raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? Did that actually work?"

Sam smirked. "It's like girl catnip."

"Change the damn song!" Dean roared.

Foreigner came on and Dean fist-pumped in the air. "Hot blooded, hot blooodeed!"

"Yeah, change it please," Sherlock said.

"What?" Dean gasped. "How can you not like Foreigner?"

"I'm not so much offended by the music as I am your singing," Sherlock said. "Sam. If you would."

Ramblin' Man came on, and Dean sighed. "Love it, but not in the mood. Need something harder than Allman Bro's." He made a face at the next song. "And Dust In The Wind. Waaay too slow."

"Oi! I love this song!" the Doctor argued.

"Chaaaaaaange," Dean groaned, throwing his head back.

Sam did as he was told. He smirked as the next song came on. "Dean. Deeean…"

"Hells to the yes," Dean said, drumming on the steering wheel. "Bring it, Ozzy…" He started singing along to Paranoid, when he was abruptly cut off.

"Bored," the Doctor said, grabbing the iPod, skipping to the next song.

Dean nearly swerved off the road turning to look at the Doctor, bellowing, "WHAT THE HELL?"

"DEAN!"

"STAY IN YOUR BLOODY LANE, WINCHESTER!"

"OI!"

Dean glared at the road ahead of him. "What did we establish? No changing the music if it's awesome!"

The Doctor sighed. "Awesome is… relative." He spent the first minute learning how to use the device with John and Sam's instructions—and Dean's irritation—and the next minute listening to the first three seconds of a song, then sighing, "bored. Bored. Heard it before. Slow. Bored." Dean looked ready to tear the steering wheel off of the dashboard when Sam finally snatched the iPod back.

"Okay, whatever the next song is, no matter what it is, we're listening to it, got it?"

"Whatever," Dean snapped at the same moment as Sherlock, rubbing his face with both hands, muttered, "thank you, Samuel."

The song's opening chords started playing and the car went into that awkward silence that follows a roadside argument. There was a break, and the chords started playing again; heavier with a drum beat backing it. John was the first to respond.

"Oh my God. Oh my God! Yes! I love this song!"

"You an AC/DC man, Johnny-boy?" Dean beamed, looking at the tiny blonde bouncing in the middle of the backseat.

"Hell yes, I am!" he laughed.

"What is an AC/DC?" Sherlock asked.

Dean gaped at him, but John was quicker. "Don't mind him, he doesn't even know the earth goes 'round the sun."

"Seriously?" Sam asked, laughing.

Sherlock's jaw was tight. "It isn't important information. All I need to remember is—"

Dean turned the car stereo up to near-full volume, and began singing along at the top of his lungs. "She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean…"

John joined him for the second line, "She was the best damn woman that I ever seen!"

By the end of the line, the Doctor and Sam were singing along. "She had those sightless eyes, telling me no lies, knocking me out with those American thighs! Takin' more than her share, had me fighting for air, she told me to come but I was already there!"

"What?" John asked, catching Sherlock's eyes in the rearview mirror.

The look didn't surprise him. What did surprise him was the smile. "You," Sherlock answered.

John held his gaze. Eventually, Sherlock looked away. John saw the Doctor smiling at him. He said nothing, just shrugged, and went back to singing. John laughed, joining back in, "The walls start shaking, the earth was quaking, my mind was aching…"

Dean rolled down the windows of the car, sticking one arm out into the brisk air of sundown as the entire car sang and shouted along at the tops of their lungs, laughing and smiling. "We were making it!

"YOU. SHOOK ME AAALL. NIIIGHT. LOOONG! (Dean took a solo: "Yeah, yoo-hoo-hoo!") YOU. SHOOK ME AAAALL. NIIIGHT. LOONG!"

The car full of men drove down the road, singing at the top of their voices. The city of Wrexhaven was a small dot of lights on the darkening horizon and for the first time in a long while, everyone was smiling. For a moment, there were no monsters. No things lurking in the dark and no worries hanging over their heads. For a moment, there was only the road. And the music.

Mycroft had booked them lodgings at a hostel located above a pub called "The Green Pig." Everyone was quite certain they did not need to find out why. It was a small building made of old red bricks, color turned from too many rainy seasons and crawling with ivy. The group decided right away that Sam and Dean would share the double bed, while the singles would go to the others. Sam was just glad he wouldn't be spending another night on a bunkbed.

It was, naturally, Dean who pointed out they had no case to work until the next evening. And with that in mind, he suggested a night in at The Green Pig.

The pub was already overflowing with a rush of early-evening patrons, and more were still arriving. John ordered the group a round, and the Doctor discovered that he wasn't a fan of lager. More patrons arrived, and soon the pub was a mass swarm of energy.

Dean started out playing darts with three, burly fellows who worked at a sawmill five miles out. No hustling, no game-fixing, just an honest game of darts. A few rounds more, and they talked him into a game of shove ha'penny. It didn't take long for Dean to get the gist of the game, and following his second victory in seven games, he announced to Sam that American bar-games sucked.

He'd deny that he said any such thing the next morning.

At some point in the evening, someone began playing a piano and singing. At some point after that, the Doctor led the crowd in a few verses of the familiar Gilbert and Sullivan pattersongs. No one was surprised to see John singing along word-for-word, even as tipsy as he was becoming.

No one noticed that Sherlock had gone.

He'd been sitting in the corner when he first noticed; the slender man standing in the corner of the hall amongst the crowd, eyes moving over the throng but never looking. Not really. He knew what he was looking for. It wasn't until Sherlock noticed him, the man who should have been in a suit, not these poor workman's clothes, that he began to move.

He asked an older gentleman for a smoke, and once he'd had it, he shuffled toward the front doors. But not before looking over his shoulder, back at the consulting detective sitting by himself at the center of the bar. He smiled with too many teeth, winked, and disappeared out the door.

Sherlock felt his blood turn cold, and without so much as a word, was on his feet, shoving through the throng trying in vain to reach the entrance. It took far too long for Sherlock to reach the door, and by the time he'd stumbled to the end of the cobbled road that led to the pub, whomever had been there smiling at him was long gone. Sherlock swore into the cold night air, shaking his head and turning a circle before noticing he was not, in fact alone. However, this was not the person he'd expected to find lying in wait.

Irene smiled, some twenty paces away from him, hiding in the massive shadow of an elm tree, not daring to step into the full glow of the moon. "I suppose suggesting we have dinner is out of the question?"

Sherlock's expression remained neutral. "You would suppose correctly." He glanced around him and Irene chuckled.

"Jim's long gone," Irene said. "He's played his game and now he's gone." She smirked. "It took longer than I expected for you to notice he was there. Your friends have you distracted—"

"Enough," Sherlock said, cutting her off. "If you've something to say—"

"I came here to warn you."

Sherlock gave a soft chuckle, smiled. "Warn me? What for?"

Irene's lips parted, her mouth opened as though to speak. A moment hung in silence and her mouth closed. She gave a shrug, barely noticeable. "I've no idea," she said with a soft laugh, almost bitter.

"And what is the warning?"

"Go home," Irene said. "Go back to your city and your streets and small murders and criminals."

Sherlock took a step toward her. "And if I refuse?"

Irene shook her head. "Please. I'm not here to threaten or bargain—"

"Then why are you here?"

Irene's throat worked. "You saved my life once, Mister Holmes." A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips and she shrugged. "I don't like being in anyone's debt. Especially not yours."

Sherlock never once took his eyes off the woman. "And let's say I believe you. What then?"

Irene swallowed hard, gave a small nod. "Then gather your friends… go to your car, and leave. Please." Her voice broke on the final word and she closed her eyes, shaking her head.

Sherlock stood, staring at the woman. The woman. No longer vibrant. No longer strong. Still running, but it was more than that. It was the way she stood, wringing the color out of her hands, feet twitching as though longing to run. It was the way she couldn't stare him in the eye for more than a few seconds at a time. It was the way she spoke; short, brief sentences that were more despair than desperation.

She was afraid.

Sherlock closed the distance between them in one suddenly burst of movement. Irene had only enough time to stumble backwards two steps before he'd caught her by her elbow and pulled her up hard to face him. "What is happening? What is he planning?"

Irene shook her head, trying to break free. "He's not planning anything!"

"You're lying!"

Irene's arms came up between his grip and knocked him backwards. "Am I?" she shouted. She tugged at the jeweled band of her watch, pulled it free then shoved her wrist towards him. Her eyes were bright with the challenge. "Go on. Try me."

Sherlock frowned, but took her hand in his, rested his fingers on her wrist. "Tell me what Moriarty's intentions are."

Irene shook her head. "Moriarty isn't leading this operation—"

"He always leads the operation, he has employers but he's never—"

"It's different this time," Irene snapped. "Everything is different." Her mouth snapped shut and she swallowed hard. "This is bigger than you know."

"Oh, I know plenty," Sherlock said. "And if you really know how big this is, then you know why I can't leave."

Irene sniffed. "Well… that doesn't mean I can't wish you would." She pulled her hand away and folded her arms under her breasts. "Can't blame a girl for asking." She looked over her shoulder, eyes suddenly gone wide. She looked back at Sherlock. "I should be going."

Sherlock's eyes flicked out, taking in the darkness of the forest beyond. "Are you being followed?"

"I can't tell anymore."

"That hardly sounds like you."

"Says the man working a case with four other men. And to think there was a time I'd never have believed your ego would allow it." Irene smiled, pulling her coat closer around her and turning. "Goodnight, Mister Holmes."

Sherlock watched her take the first few steps before saying, "and what's to stop me from restraining you? Right this moment? I know for a fact one of my companions would be eager to have a word about the compromising position you put his brother in."

"It's not my fault the moose is slow," Irene said over her shoulder, pulling her phone out of her pocket and selecting a few digits. Her eyes flicked up to his and she smiled. "Besides, if you wanted to do that, you'd have already done it." She pressed the send button on her phone, began to lift it to her face, then stopped. She ended the call and turned to face him. "I wish you would listen to reason, Mister Holmes."

"Reason is what compels me to stay."

She smiled. "Your heroism would be surprisingly sexy if it weren't so remarkably stupid." She re-entered the numbers and started away. "Until tomorrow night, Mister Holmes."

Sherlock said nothing, merely watched the woman disappear into the shadows of the wood. He stood a long while in moonlight, listening to the crickets and the songs of patrons making their way from the pub to their cars. At the sound of footsteps behind him, he turned to look over his shoulder.

Sam Winchester smiled at him. "Hey. You're missing out."

Sherlock smirked. "More 'Penzance'?"

"Uh, no," Sam laughed. "It seems they've moved on to the Beatles discography."

"John still singing?"

"He's harmonizing with Dean now."

Sherlock chuckled, deep and full.

Sam laughed, nodding toward the pub. "You coming?"

Sherlock gave him a weak smile. "Yes, just… give us a moment."

"Okay," Sam said. "Don't be too long, they're calling for last rounds. You want anything."

Sherlock shook his head. With a soft smile, he murmured, "thank you, Sam."

"No prob," Sam said frowing. "Hey, uh… call me crazy, but… you okay? I mean…"

Sherlock gave Sam a sidelong look, then turned back to the forest. "Just… thinking."

"Mind if I ask what about?"

"Not at all."

"Alright. What you thinking about?"

"Mycroft."

"Your brother," Sam chuckled. "Okay, to be expected, I guess. Why?"

Sherlock shook his head. "This… place, this event… the whole thing seems very… odd."

"Odd how?"

Sherlock nodded back towards The Green Pig. "For one, his choice in lodgings."

"Hey, it's not perfect, but—"

"We shouldn't have lodgings in the same township as a case. It's the mistake of a novice, one Mycroft would never make under normal circumstances."

Sam frowned. "So… what? You think your brother's game is off?"

Sherlock let out a breath through his teeth. "Not sure. This case reeks of his usual meddling, but…" Sherlock shook his head. "God is in the details, Samuel. And some of the details are… off."

"It almost seems too easy, right?" Sam murmured, staring up at the full moon. "Like…"

"A trap," Sherlock finished.

Sam folded his arms across his chest. "You think it might be?"

"I think it's safest we be prepared for the worst tomorrow evening," Sherlock said with a shrug.

Sam nodded. "Fair enough." His eyes swept over the looming dark of the forest. A chill went through his body and he shuddered. "Hey," he chuckled. "I'm going to head back in, okay? See you inside."

Sherlock watched Sam walk the path to the pub, then looked back out at the forest. The cricket's song was louder, almost deafening it seemed against the vast silence of the small town. He stood as long as he could stand, then when the not-silence became too much to bear, he climbed the cobbles back toward the sound of a multi-toned rendition of "All You Need is Love."

Perhaps he'd even join in a verse.

Dean smoothed the tux out, did a circle to examine himself in the tiny bathroom mirror. "You know what's weird?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in the direction of the voice. "That even regarding the sheer amount of greasy food you eat on a daily basis you can still fit into a tux that was fitted for you three years ago?"

"Ye—wh, NO!" Dean stormed out of the bathroom, glaring at Sherlock who was sitting on the opposite end of the couch from the Doctor, both of whom were chuckling. "No, I was going to say the weird thing is that this is the tux Bela bought me."

John frowned, knotting up his bowtie. "Really?" He paused a moment, then added, "um, explain to me why a woman you consistently refer to as a "hateful bitch" would have bought you a tux?"

"Funny story, actually," Sam said as he checked his cufflinks. "She worked a case with a once."

The Doctor frowned. "What happened?"

Dean snorted. "Okay, so that's the best part, right? She stole from us, then needed us to bail her out when the relic turned on her." He gave Sam a sidelong look. "Should have let the bitch burn, Sammy."

Sam just shook his head ansd said nothing.

"The best part?" Dean continued. "She paid us off afterwards. Said she didn't want to be in our debt."

"You're joking," John said, frowing.

Dean shook his head. "10K between me and Sammy. Now I'm not complaining, but she'd rather cough up a wad of cash rather than handing over the olive branch."

The Doctor looked troubled as he murmured, "sounds like she's not one to trust others. At least not easily."

"Uh, wrong," Dean snapped. "She's just not to be trusted… ever."

"You think we'll run into them tonight?" John asked.

"That's almost a for sure deal," Sam said pulling out his laptop. "I was going over the details your brother's secretary sent. If they're after the spear, they'll have to be there." Sam turned the screen to face the others. "I mean, we're talking cutting-edge security on the homestead alone. Everything he's got he keeps in these three vaults and the stuff only comes out every four or five years when this Glendower guy does these parties. Super-elitist and super-exclusive. There's not even a hundred names on the guest list, and nobody brings a 'plus one' without written consent."

Dean made a face. "So how'd we get cleared so easily?"

"Sherlock's brother," John replied. "He's the British government, remember?"

Dean nodded his approval. "Think he's told Glendower that a bunch of criminals from London are after his stuff? Given him a heads up?"

Sherlock let out a soft breath. "Please. If Mycroft merely wanted the piece safe, he'd have called Glendower, cancelled the party and sent an armored car to London with the fragment. And if that was the case, why call us at all? No, Mycroft wanted us involved, which means he wants these people caught. He wants us to catch them in the act and bring them in."

"Which means we can't risk giving ourselves away once we get in there," John added. "We so much as sneeze wrong, this Glendower chap might just call the whole party off."

Dean nodded. "Party gets called off, they go to ground—"

"Or worse," Sherlock said, hands pressed together under his chin. "No vault is safe. Not where these three are concerned. If this Bela Talbot is as good as you seem to think she is, and if she's nearly as good as the woman or Moriarty, the worst thing that could happen is that those items go back in those vaults because nothing, not retinal scanners, not voice identification, nothing will keep them out."

"Which means we need to get it first," the Doctor murmured. "The only way to keep them from getting it is—"

"To take it ourselves," Sherlock finished.

"Sorry, hang on," John said, looking between the two. "You're suggesting we go to a high-security party and steal one of the items on display while under the gaze of dozens of cameras, security officers, and then somehow manage to get ourselves out undetected?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Yes, obviously."

"Oh, fantastic, great," John muttered. "How?"

Sherlock stood from the couch, crossing to Sam's computer and pointing on the screen. "There are three galleries within the Glendower estate. The main foyer will be hosting the modern art display for the first hour of the evening, then the west gallery—housing relics and documents dating from the last century—opens at nine. The east—containing artifacts that predate 1000 AD, will open at ten." Sherlock turned to face the others. "We've two hours to enter the room, find the item, and leave before anyone notices."

"Is Cas coming along this time?" Sam asked in Dean's direction.

"What, are you kidding?" Dean stammered. "Can you imagine Cas at a dinner party?" He sighed. "Not to mention, he's not picking up his angel beeper."

John frowned. "Still no word from him?"

"Not so much as a note," Dean said with a shrug. "It's fine. We don't need Cas for this, alright? We've done plenty of jobs in the past without him, we can do it again." Dean shrugged. "Might just take us a little longer to find the piece this time."

"Alright," Sam said. "What about the, ah… cameras?" He was already typing away at his laptop again. "Okay, looks like there's five on that floor. Aaaaaaand…" He pressed a button, turned the screen to Sherlock. "Two guards scheduled for security, but from the sounds of it, there's only one patrolling, the other will be in the booth."

"Personal security?" Sherlock asked.

"Private," Sam said shaking his head. "Hired, but not employed by Glendower himself."

"So he's not intimately acquainted with his personel?"

Sam smiled. "Nnnnnnope."

Sherlock smirked. "Perfect."

"W-wait, hold on," John said, holding up both hands. "Before this gets any crazier, let's take a moment and just…" He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Is this really a good idea? I mean, this is the Spear of Destiny we're talking about. Weapon of untold power, wanted by heaven and hell, it's a bit like sticking your hand in a blender, innet? I mean, what happens if one of us picks it up and…" John shrugged. "I don't know, Lord of the Rings sort of jumps to mind, doesn't it?"

"You think he might go Frodo," Dean murmured.

John shrugged. "Castiel said this was the largest of the three pieces."

"But it's not like we have a choice, right?" Sam murmured. "I mean, I get being worried, but… it's that or just wait for Bela and the others to get their hands on it." He shrugged. "It's… a mess no matter how you slice it."

"Rock and a hard place," the Doctor mumbled.

"So," Dean murmured, looking at the others. "How are we going to do this?"

Sherlock began undoing his tie. "I've an idea."

John walked up to where Sam was leaning against the wall, scanning the room in silence. "Seen anything?" John asked, handing Sam one of the glasses of wine he'd picked up from a passing waiter.

Sam nodded. "Found Glendower," he said, indicating the top of the staircase with his glass. "Busy guy, working the room, but beyond that, nothing."

John glanced about, not for the first time, wishing he had Sam's height. "Think our friends are here?"

"I don't think we should rule it out," Sam muttered as the Doctor walked up to them.

The Doctor nodded in the same direction Sam had. "Glendower."

"I saw," Sam murmured. "Any sight of Bela or Irene?"

The Doctor shook his head and lifted his glass to his mouth. He took one mouthful and his eyes went wide. He lowered the glass and spit the red liquid back inside. A waiter walked by and he set the glass on the tray the man was carrying.

John was already shaking his head, murmuring a soft chant of, "No. Mm, nope, no, no, no. No." He dumped the glass into a nearby planter and looked at the Doctor. "No, see, this is why we can't have nice things."

"Wait a sec," Sam said to the Doctor as John went to discard the now-empty glass. "I thought you were going to help out Dean and Sherlock.

The Doctor made a face. "Well, it… the door, right?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Wood."

"Uh, yeah. Most doors are."

The Doctor produced the sonic screwdriver from his pocket, twiddled it in the air, and held it out to Sam. "Doesn't do wood."

Sam stared at it. "You're kidding, right?"

The Doctor slid it back into his pocket. "Nnnnnnope."

Sam nodded slowly. "Okay. Yeah. Awesome. So…" He shrugged. "How are Dean and Sherlock getting in there, dare I ask?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Dean said he'd take care of it."

The two security officers looked up as the door opened. One of the other security officers was dragging in a man in a tuxedo, singing a Beatles song off-key at the top of his lungs. "What's this, then?"

"Caught him causing trouble outside the East Wing," he said. "He's utterly pissed."

"Mmnot angry mdrunk."

"Oh," the security guard snapped, shoving the man into a chair. "And American too boot."

"Haven't you seen the way these folk have been knocking back the stuff?" the other guard asked, nudging his companion at the desk. "He's just the first of many, you mark my word."

"Wonderful," the officer who'd brought the man in muttered. "Can it get any worse?"

"Yep," the officer responded. "Kenny called in sick, so we're short a man."

The man who brought the American in frowned. "So, it's just the three of us?"

"Well, considering by the time the temp got here they party would be over, yeah. It is."

The American's head whipped up. "Awesome."

He dealt a single blow to the man's face while the officer who'd escorted him in used the butt of his gun to strike the other officer out of his chair. A second blow to each and both were unconscious.

"Dude," Dean chuckled, unfastening his cufflinks. "We so kick ass."

Sherlock smirked. "Agreed," he said, pulling off security uniformed hat off the top of his head and setting it on the console. He slid into one of the seats, began typing as Dean leaned in over his shoulder.

"What does it look like out there?" Dean asked.

"Quiet as a tomb."

"Meaning—"

"Meaning be prepared for anything," Sherlock said. He nodded at the guard on the floor. "Front right pocket, the key with the red 'x' on the handle. That should get us into the East Wing. Have you texted Sam yet?"

"Doing it right now," Dean said, punching in the message on his phone.

Sam pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and examined the message.

send the doc. 2nd hall 3rd rm on right.

Sam frowned and began typing out a new message.

That's the opposite direction of the East Wing. Where the hell are you guys?

A few seconds, his phone buzzed again.

in the security booth

Sam's frown turned to a mildly panicked confusion. Why are you in the security booth?

stop bein a bitch n send the Doc! Sam was about to respond when another message interrupted. n i can c u standing there so dont tell me u told him already

Where's the nearest camera?

ur left why?

Sam turned promptly and after he was certain no one else was looking, held out his middle finger to the lens. His phone buzzed.

cute

He'll be on his way up in a second, okay? Now stop texting me. Sam made his way down the hall where the Doctor and John had gone off to. His phone vibrated. With an irritated sigh, he opened the device. There were several lines of blank space and in the middle of the final line, a period, a long underscore, and another period.

What the hell, Dean?

it's a whale lol

Sam rolled his eyes. Don't make me turn off my phone.

Sam made his way through the crowd. Although a guest list of one-hundred people didn't seem like a lot, it was enough to make getting from one end of the manor to the other more than a little difficult. He made it out of the hall and into one of the larger rooms where the Doctor was pointing to a painting.

"Met him before," the Doctor was telling John. "Well, not yet in his timeline, but yeah… he does good work. He's gonna be pretty famous in ten or so years, so—"

"Hey," Sam said, stepping into the conversation. "Dean and Sherlock need you upstairs."

The Doctor frowned. "What for?"

Sam smirked. "Well, not for a wooden door this time."

The Doctor sighed, handing John his glass of wine. "I better see what they need, then."

"Second hallway from the top of the grand staircase, third door on the left," Sam recited as the Doctor disappeared into the crowd. He looked at John and frowned. "Uh, he hates wine. Why the—"

"He felt left out," John said, nodding at his own glass.

The two stared at each other a moment, then began to laugh.

"Man," Sam murmured. "One second it's like travelling with the oldest, wisest, most amazing guy in the universe, and the next it's like—"

"Babysitting a kid still in primary school?" John smirked. "Yeah, I've noticed. What's he doing upstairs?"

Sam shrugged and gestured upwards. "Dean just said they need him in the security booth."

"Mm," John said, nodding. "Sounds promising. Wh…" His words trailed off, eyes gone wide and distant.

Sam frowned at him, then followed his gaze to the top of the staircase.

There, at the top of the stair, chatting amiably with an older couple, was none other than…

"Irene," John hissed, already pushing his way through the crowd, Sam in tow.

"Good, you're here."

The Doctor looked around the small booth. "Sam said you needed me."

Sherlock, not looking up from the string of code he was entering into the computer console, nodded. "We need someone to watch the screens. The door takes three people to open."

The Doctor frowned. "How do you know that?"

Sherlock pointed to one of the screens. "One person has to enter the code and swipe the first of two keycards on the computer on that side of the door. Someone must do the same on the console located on the other side of the double doors, as well as here in the security booth," Sherlock said, pointing to the keycard reader atop a numberpad on the wall. Sherlock was back to typing in the same moment. "It's a small enough window that it will, in fact, require two people downstairs."

"And we really should have someone watching the cameras."

The Doctor looked in the direction of Dean's voice as the man stepped out, holding out both hands and doing a little turn. "How do I look?"

"Like a proper security officer," the Doctor said, beaming.

"Assuming he does not open his mouth in public," Sherlock murmured. "Unlike his brother, Dean has proven time and again he cannot sustain the illusion of being English in any sense of the word."

Dean frowned, folding his arms across his chest. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock sighed and began to give Dean a once over.

Dean started waving his hands about, shouting, "no! No, would you stop? With the looking, like everything I do has a friggin' label attached to it like you can just read it like it's a stupid pop-up, or…" He sighed. "I just won't talk, okay? That make you happy, Sherly?"

"Quite, in fact," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"Stop it," the Doctor chided, giving both a look. He slipped a pair of glasses out from his coat pocket, put them on his face and leaned in toward the main screen, squinting.

Sherlock frowned, stopping what he was doing to look at the screen. "What?"

"Thought I saw something," the Doctor murmured. "Maybe a blip or, y'know… maybe not a blip."

"Maybe we should get down there," Dean said.

"Agreed," Sherlock murmured, rising from the chair. He fell into step next to Dean, closed the door behind them, and together, they made their way down the darkened hall.

John took the steps two at a time, muttering apologies as he elbowed past dignitaries and the social elite until he was close enough to catch the elbow of the woman in the backless, lace dress. She turned at his touch, blue eyes wide with surprise. The expression was gone in that same instant, back to a smile. "Doctor Watson. How nice of you to join us—"

John was already wheeling her back into a corner, his grip white-knuckled on her arm and his voice lowered to a hiss. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Irene's blue eyes flicked over his face. "You know what I'm doing here," she snapped. "Or at least, judging from your very blatant manhandling, you suspect." Her eyes glanced over John's shoulder, and she murmured, "perhaps a little less display of force?"

John looked over his shoulder. A few of the dinner couples were staring now, Sam doing his best to shadow them and failing. John cleared his throat and released Irene's arm, smoothing out his suit.

Irene rolled her shoulders back. "That's better," she murmured. She looked from John to Sam and back to John. "For future reference, gentlemen, you might want to do a bit more research before you come barging into a gathering like this. Though I have to ask who tipped you off… not your angel boy, I imagine. No…" Her nose wrinkled. "No, this reeks of Mycroft Holm—"

"Give us one reason not to call you out," Sam said. It was a statement laced with threat. "One reason not to just drag you out of here. Bela, too, since I'm going to bet she's nearby."

"Oh, bravo," Irene said, eyebrows going up. "Spending time with Sherlock is improving your deduction skills." She nodded. "Bela's over there… chatting up Mister Glendower, if you must know. As for your threats…" She shrugged, smiling at them. "Go ahead. Try it. Let me know how that works out for you, gentlemen."

John held her gaze. He smirked, shaking his head, but never letting his eye contact break. "You're bluffing—"

"Am I?" Irene asked. "Look me directly in the eye, John Watson, and tell me, for a moment, if it looks like I am bluffing."

John held her stare, his throat working. Then, slowly, he said, "then you've done something to him. Mind control, or… dunno, maybe you just know what he likes, isn't that your usual turn of phrase?"

"Mm," Irene chuckled. "Aren't you boys quaint?"

"Blackmail?" Sam asked. "Extortion?"

"Adorable," Irene said, "but nothing so wicked as any of that."

John grabbed Irene's arm again, hard enough that the barest wince could be seen in her eyes. "That's enough!" he snapped, straining to his voice down. "What are you planning, Irene? Tell me!"

"Irene?"

Bela was crossing the room pushing through the throng. Mister Glendower was close behind.

"What's going on here?" he bellowed, eyes moving between the two men.

"Sir," Sam asked, "we're going to have to ask you to remain calm, if you'd just—"

"Stop manhandling her!" Bela shouted, grabbing Irene's other arm and pulling her away from John. "Stop it! What are you doing here?"

"We could ask you the same question," John snapped.

"It's just a small bruise, don't fuss," Irene muttered as Bela examined her arm.

"Don't fuss?" Bela shrieked. "He's hurt y—"

"Sir," John said, pointing at the two women. "These two women are not who they seem."

"Aren't they?" Glendower murmured, eyes narrowing.

John was already shaking his head, Sam jumping in to the conversation. "Sir, they are here to rob you. I don't know what these women have told you, or what they've led you to believe, but—"

"How dare you!" Glendower snapped, his expression twisting with anger. "Speaking in such away about my goddaughter?"

Sam's eyes went wide. "What?"

Sherlock shone the flashlight down the darkened hall, assuring for the third time that they were truly alone. He looked at Dean and gave him a nod.

Dean reached down for the shortwave radio attached to his chest. "Okay, Doc. We're ready for you down here."

"Alright, then," the Doctor's voice crackled over the frequency. "On my mark, then?"

Sherlock readied the keycard. Dean did the same.

"Alright now, three… two… one."

The cards were all swiped in the same instant, and deep within the walls, something clicked. They entered the numbers in silence and a final, louder click signaled that everything was in place.

The Doctor's voice came over the radio again. "Did it work?"

Sherlock reached down to the double doors, turned the handle and pushed. Dean took point, pulling out his gun as Sherlock did the same. The East Wing was massive, almost black in its darkness contrasted by the long broken squares of light cast down across the cases by newly waning moon outside.

"Looks like it," Dean murmured over the radio.

"Looks clear as well," Sherlock added. He crossed the wall, flicking on the light switch.

Nothing.

Sherlock tried it a few more times before he sighed and lifted the gun back up to eye-level. "Power severed. Of course."

"So we stay on our guard," Dean said, holding up his flashlight. "Come on… it's got to be here somewhere."

John blinked. "Hang on, wait, no, she…? She's your goddaughter?" John asked.

Sam shook his head. "Oh, you've got to be kidding—"

"Does it look like I'm joking with you, gentlemen?" Glendower snapped. "Invitation from Mister Holmes or not, this the most astoundingly brazen display I've ever—"

"Are you alright?" Bela asked, taking Irene's face in her hands.

Irene nodded. "Fine, love, really, I just—"

John was just shaking his head, barely hearing a word the Glendower was saying anymore. "This is wrong," John murmured to Sam. "What's going on here, Sam? What in the hell—she's here to steal your things!"

"Uncle Brynn," Bela said, barely keeping her voice level. "I think we're leaving."

Glendower turned to her, momentarily forgetting about the two men in front of him. "Abby, my dear, don't—"

"Irene is feeling unwell." Her eyes snapped to Sam and John. "And I'm not in much of a festive mood myself, I'm afraid."

Glendower sighed. "I'll have one of the boys bring round your car. Will you be able to get home alright?"

Bela nodded. "We'll be fine, Uncle Brynn. Thank you. Perhaps we might come around tomorrow."

"Only if you feel up to it, love," he murmured, kissing her on the forehead. "Good night, Abby… Irene."

Bela, one arm around Irene's shoulders walked toward the staircase, only hesitating for the briefest of moments to smile at Sam through the curtain of hair that hid half her face from Glendower. John's jaw went tight and he stepped toward them, stopped by Sam's arm barring the way.

Glendower was already turning to them. "As for you, gentlemen, I'll only ask once. Remove yourselves from my premises, before I have you removed."

Sam held up both hands. "Sir, if you'd just let us explain? Perhaps in private?"

Glendower pointed. "Get out! NOW!"

Both men said not another word to each other, and walked away. Eyes from all over the manor were upon them, and Sam could feel his cheeks heating up. "What do we do now?" he muttered to John.

"Hope that Sherlock and the others don't botch it all up," John responded.

"Have you found anything?" the Doctor asked, voice crackling over the intercom.

"Hard to find something when you don't know what you're looking for," Dean grumbled. "I mean, so far, nothing that looks like what we're looking for. Bits and pieces, but nothing like what we need."

"Well, you've only got ten minutes before they open the wing," the Doctor said, his voice betraying his nerves. "You and Sherlock better wrap it up, before—"

"Dean!"

Dean turned at the sound of Sherlock's voice and took off running in that direction. "Hold on, Doc."

He slid down the banister, rounded the corner and nearly knocked Sherlock over as he came to a sudden stop. Sherlock's jaw was tight. He couldn't so much as look at Dean, still shaking his head.

Dean frowned. "What?"

"Just look!" Sherlock snapped, pointing.

Dean stared at the case. "No…"

Sherlock turned, shoving a stack of papers off a nearby display.

All the while, Dean just kept shaking his head. "You got to be kidding…"

"Dean?" the Doctor said over the radio. "Dean, are you there? Did you find it?"

"Yeah, we found it," Dean muttered.

"Good. Grab it and we'll—"

"It's gone, Doc," Dean said, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Gone? What do you m—"

"I mean it's not here, okay?" Dean shouted. "We found the case, okay, it's labeled 'spear heads and fragments.'"

"So how do you know it's not there?" the Doctor asked.

"There's a note," Dean muttered. "It's been… donated."

"There's more," Sherlock snapped. "Look at the trustee, look who he's given it to!"

Dean shook his head. "NAPAC, what's that—"

"National Association for People Abused in Childhood," Sherlock rattled off. "But that's not it. The trustee, Dean, look at the trustee!"

Dean's eyes went wide. "Son of a bitch."

The radio crackled. "Dean?"

Dean picked up the radio. "Yeah, I'm here. The case was donated to NAPAC… the trustee?" He sighed, looking at Sherlock. "Woman by the name of Abigail Kelly."

It was a long moment before the Doctor responded with an almost inaudible, "oh dear."

"Understatement," Sherlock snapped.

"No," the Doctor said. "I mean I'm looking on the camcorders and Sam and John are outside. That, and it looks like you've got trouble headed your way."

Dean looked at Sherlock. "Abort mission?"

Sherlock nodded. "Afraid so."

"Doc," Dean snapped into the radio, "get out of there and get back to the car, we're leaving." Dean kept shaking his head, walking toward the door marked with the emergency sign. "What the hell happened here tonight, Sherlock? What did we miss?"

Sherlock's eyes looked once more over the dark room, eyes narrow. "Something important… there's no doubt about that…"

Jim Moriarty's cellphone began ringing. He pressed the answer button, but said nothing.

"We're clear. Begin distribution at your discretion."

He smiled and with the touch of a button ended the call. He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his coat pocket, pulled them on with a snap. He opened the small case on the table and pulled two vials from where they'd been encased in the black foam lining. Very carefully, he unscrewed the lid and applied the mixture generously to one glove. It poured like water, leaving almost nothing on the glove. He stared at it.

This had better be everything they told him it would be. Jim returned the lid, slipped both vials into his pocket, and opened the door.

The party was still in full swing, even with all the clamor from earlier that evening. And all the while, he sat in the backroom, waiting for a phone call. It was a near tragedy. He did love a good commotion.

But now to create one of his own.

He moved through the crowd unnoticed, spreading among them like a line of smoke. He passed a waiter, grabbed for a glass of champagne. He touched the rim, then opted to take a different glass instead.

He walked past a group where a woman was announcing, quite loudly to her husband, that she wanted another drink. He handed her his. She thanked him for his trouble.

He just smiled.

He shook hands with others, caught one of the waiters by his bare arm when he nearly tripped, gave him a pat on the back for good measure. He chatted up a woman, then told her she'd something on her face. He swiped at under her eye, showing her the eyelash.

She asked why he was wearing gloves.

He just smiled. "Weak immune system," he said.

One vial empty, Jim pulled off the gloves, discarded them in the bathroom and washed his hands with soap under running warm water. He pulled out his phone and pressed a few keys. It began dialing.

"Hello?"

"It's Jim," he said, glancing back at the party as he made his way toward the foyer. "Party's over."

Somewhere in some remote location, Crowley smiled. "Good work."

"Always."

"This is bullshit!" Dean shouted, flinging the security shirt across the room. "How in the hell did we go from being the good guys to the bad guys in one night?"

John shook his head, already working on Sam's laptop. "I'm looking at the webpages right here, Dean. Brynn Glendower is her godfather."

"But to protect her like that," Sam murmured, "A known criminal, wanted all over the world for thefts? You gotta admit, that's weird."

"Think he was possessed?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "No… no didn't seem like it. None of the usual signs." He looked to where Sherlock was lying on the couch, eyes closed and brow furrowed. "Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"What do you think?"

Sherlock's eyes didn't open as he moved to press his hands together under his chin. "Something's wrong."

Dean snorted. "Wow, hey, no kidding?"

"I'm not talking about the evening," Sherlock said, opening one eye and looking directly at Dean Winchester. He shut the eye and settled back into the sofa. "It was before this evening. Something I should have noticed."

"What?" Sam asked.

Sherlock sighed. "Well, perhaps I'd be able to remember if you'd all stop talking," he said, his tone taking on an edge.

"Yeah, well maybe if your stupid brother had done his research, we wouldn't have been sent down here just to get shafted by the Bitch-Sisters a second time!" Dean yelled.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Mycroft?"

"Yeah," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "I know the guy's name."

"What about Mycroft?" John asked, frowning.

Sherlock pushed himself off the sofa, cellphone already in hand, texting rapidly. "Glendower wasn't compromised," he muttered through his teeth. "But I think I know who was."

Sam's eyes went wide. "Oh my God. You don't think…?"

Sherlock's phone pinged, and he held up the phone to Sam. What do you mean, Wales? Where are you? –MH

Sam shook his head. "How did we not—?"

"Does it matter now?" Sherlock asked. "All that matters is that the very people who we have tried to keep from getting their hands on that weapon now have it. All of it. It's just a matter of assembly now."

"How long will it take to assemble?" John asked.

Sam shrugged. "I've looked into the lore, but… I don't know. There's nothing about it. I don't even think there's any lore about the spear having been broken…"

"You okay, Doc?" Dean asked, looking at the man standing in the corner by the window.

The Doctor dropped the curtain, turned. "Sorry?"

"I asked if you were okay,"

The Doctor stared at Dean. Perhaps not so much at him as through him. He looked far away, distant. "The crickets."

Everyone exchanged confused looks.

"What of them?" Sherlock asked.

The Doctor's gaze went back to the window. "They've stopped chirping."

Everyone stopped, listening intently to the sound of nothing outside the bedroom window.

"That's a bit weird, isn't it?" Dean murmured.

John glanced at him. "Yeah… more than a bit."

"Does it mean anything?" Sherlock asked.

Sam shook his head. "Nothing comes to mind…"

The Doctor was still staring out the window. "Something's wrong here," he mumbled, seemingly to himself until he looked over his shoulder at them. "Can't you taste it? It's like ozone after a lightning strike…"

John gave a little shudder. "Right, well, we can't do anything about it right now, so perhaps we should all try for a little sleep."

"Right," Dean murmured, then a little louder, "right, we'll sleep on it, and tomorrow we'll head out. Look for some answers. Everything looks better in the morning, right?"

"Nnnnnno," the Doctor mumbled. "No, not always."

"Either way," John said. "We're all rubbish right now, and we really do need some sleep if we're going to do any proper work in the morning, right?"

"John's right," Sam mumbled. "Let's sleep, but not too long. Let's try to be on the road by ten, okay?"

The others busied themselves with getting ready for bed while Sherlock excused himself over to the Doctor's corner of the room. He stood at the window, looking out over the same roving hills as the Doctor. "What are you thinking?" he asked.

The Doctor clicked his tongue, lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "That this is a trap… and you?"

"The same," Sherlock murmured. He glanced at the Doctor. "What do you really think we should do?"

The Doctor pushed away from the window, shaking his head. "I don't know, Sherlock… I really don't. All I know is I haven't felt this uneasy for a long time." He swallowed. "You can feel it too, can't you? The quickening?"

Sherlock didn't turn from the window. "Like a laser scope focused on the back of your neck. You don't have to see it to know it's there…" He dropped the curtain, turned to face the Doctor. "I don't like it."

The Doctor gave him a tired smile. "Well, like it or not, John's right. You do need some sleep."

"Sleep," Sherlock snorted. "Sleep is boring. All I need's an espresso."

The Doctor shook his head with a chuckle. "Oh, Sherlock Holmes… you know you're not feeling like yourself when you do that…"

"Do what?"

"Bluff."

Sherlock smirked. "Good night, Doctor."

"Good night, Sherlock."

Sam didn't sleep well. His dreams were dark and filled with teeth and screaming. They always were, but this was different. There was no shape, no movement. Just the looming sensation of dread and cold fingernails underneath his shoulder blades.

When he couldn't sleep any longer, he opened his eyes. He checked his cellphone on the bedside table. He was awake an hour earlier than they'd agreed. The alarm hadn't sounded yet. He looked over his shoulder at Dean, still deep in sleep. Sherlock, John, and the Doctor were much the same. He decided not to wake them. Last night's loss had been heavy enough they'd all earned the extra rest.

Sam walked on to the bathroom, careful not to make any noise. He ran cold water, splashed it on his face and neck. He held very still, turned off the water and listened.

Still no crickets.

He tried to shake off the feeling that he was missing something. Something big. Something right in front of him. He scanned his brain for any link between the silence of crickets and the supernatural. It was at the edge of his mind, he could feel it, and every time he wrapped his fingers around it, it slipped away. The harder he grabbed for it, the less he remembered. A second splash of water and he grabbed for the hand towel to dry himself off.

Perhaps a jog would clear his mind.

He grabbed a t-shirt from the floor, sniffed it and decided it was still good. At least good enough for him to finish getting dirty. He put on his shoes, checked the time on his phone one final time, and started downstairs.

He'd gotten only as far as the front area of the bar below, the massive glass windows that lined the wall, when he stopped, staring at the glass. Someone had written on it, deep long letters in red. The sun coming through the window shaded it in with yellow and scarlet.

It wasn't paint.

It took Sam half a second to remember why crickets would stop chirping.

He was up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Sherlock was already awake, standing by the window. He turned at the sound of the man lumbering up the stairs and frowned. "Samuel… what's the matter?"

"We need to get the hell out of here," Sam gasped, crossing over and shaking the bed Dean was still lying in. "Dean, get up!"

Dean's eyes were open in a moment, near-military training kicking in as he grabbed Sam's arm. "Sam, what's wrong?"

"We need to get to the car," Sam snapped, turned to see the Doctor shuffling out of the bathroom, John sitting up and rubbing at his face, mumbling, "m'up, m'up," repeatedly.

"Sammy, what's going on," Dean snapped, standing from the bed. "Talk to me?"

Sherlock frowned, staring down across the plaza. "Strange."

"What's strange?" the Doctor asked.

"The graffiti," Sherlock murmured. "Over half a dozen buildings tagged."

Dean frowned. "Graffiti?"

Sherlock turned to Sam. "Clearly that's what's got Samuel in such a rush. What does it mean, out of curiousity?"

"What does what mean?" John asked.

Sam crossed to where Sherlock was standing, looked out the window. Sure enough, every building in sight had been tagged. There it was, staring back at him like a slap in the face. Sam swallowed hard. "It means we need to get the fuck out of Dodge. Now."

"Sammy, what's going on?" Dean snapped. "What does it say?"

Sam's throat worked. "Croatoan."