"We need to get out of here," Dean said. "Like, now. Like, yesterday."

Sam nodded. "We'll get our things and—"

"Nonono," Dean said shaking his head. "We don't have time. If it's not important, leave it."

"Sorry, did we miss something?" John asked, looking between the two brothers.

Dean looked at him. "We need to get to the car. Now—"

"Croatoan," Sherlock mumbled, still staring out the window. "Early 16th century, American settlement, Roanoke Colony headed up by a man, John White, friend of Sir Walter Raleigh's…"

"Wait, wait, wait, hold on," the Doctor said, holding up his hands. "This is familiar… Croatoan, why do I know this?"

"The Lost Colony, they called it," Sherlock said, almost to himself. "White was gone, and when he returned, the entire colony had disappeared. The only thing he found was the word Croatoan craved into a tree, he thought it meant the smaller island, that they'd moved on to it, but he never found them—"

"That's because Croatoan isn't a place," Sam said. "It's a demonic virus." He swallowed, looking over the group. "Turns everyone who catches it into… mindless zombies."

John snorted. "Zombies? What, like… '28 Days Later,' eating each other's faces off zombies?"

"Actually, yeah," Dean snapped. "A lot like that."

"But worse," Sam said. "These guys aren't mindless. They just get… hyper-violent. They can still think enough to wield a shotgun or break into a house—"

"Or The Green Pig," John said, starting to understand their situation.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, still staring out the window. "Or a car?"

Dean whipped around. "What?"

Sherlock pointed as Dean barreled toward the window. He stared in the direction Sherlock had indicated. The car had been moved several blocks away away from The Green Pig. Or at least someone had tried to move it. The hood was smoking and indented inside of it was the lamp post on the corner.

Dean pressed both hands to the glass. "Honey, no! Oh God, why?" Dean grabbed at the back of his head as Sherlock smacked him. "Ow! What the hell was that f—?"

"I think that requires a bit more of our concern, don't you?" he said, pointing to the streets.

People were coming out of the buildings and shops. Their walks were strange, lopsided. Some were carrying items; pots, pans, broken chunks of scrap wood or metal. Others dragged gardening tools alongside them.

John, Sam, and the Doctor were at the other window. John shook his head. "No. Nope, no, this is just…" He pushed away, running both hands over his face. "Alright. Alright, fine. So now what do we 789*-do?"

"We need to get to that car," Sherlock said, never taking his eyes off the soft shuffle of action occurring below them. "The guns are in the trunk."

The Doctor's eyes shot over to Sherlock, then to Dean. "You brought guns?"

"You know what, Doc?" Dean snapped. "I don't have time for your little bitch-fit, okay? Yeah, we brought guns! Yeah, we're going to use them! So spare me the lecture, because I am not in the mood to die today, got it?"

The Doctor's eyes narrowed. He shoved his hands into his pockets and teetered back on his heels, saying nothing. He didn't speak so much as a word to anyone as he walked to the small sofa and sat down.

Sam gave Dean a look, to which Dean snapped, "what?"

"Nothing!" Sam said. "Look, let's just…" He sighed. "We need a better plan than run across the street and go get guns. I mean, we're unarmed as it is, what happens if we just—"

"We're not entirely unarmed," John said.

Both Sam and Dean stopped, turning toward the sound of the voice. "What?"

"I said, we're not entirely unarmed," John repeated, walking to the table at the side of the bed he'd been using during their stay. He pulled his Browning from the top drawer, checked the magazine, reloaded it and pulled back the slide, chambering a round. "Six shots it better than none, yes?"

"You can't be serious," the Doctor snapped. "Look at the lot of you! Going to kick down the door, are we? Going out there, guns—sorry, gun—blazing and mowing down anything that moves?"

"Yeah, actually, and do you know why?" Dean shouted. "Because they aren't people anymore! This is a fucking demonic virus, there's no cure, and there's no way out but a shit load of ammo and luck!"

"They're humans!"

"They're meat shields!" Dean screamed. "And you know what, if we don't get out of here, they'll just make more. And more. And more, and keep throwing them at us until we're all so much meat."

"So that's your plan then?" the Doctor murmured. "Kill everything? Slaughter them like animals?"

"We don't have a choice, Doctor," Sam murmured.

The Doctor shook his head, let out a bitter laugh. "No… no, we always have a choice." He shook his head. "There's no cure?"

Sam shook his head. "It's… a weird virus. They get hyper-violent and… just sort of burn up from the inside out. Everyone of them out there is running a fever of at least one-hundred and ten degrees Fahrenheit."

"Jesus," John mumbled.

"Meaning their brains are already burnt to a crisp," Sherlock said as Sam nodded.

"It's simple science, Doctor," he said. "They're legally brain dead. They're not people anymore. Just… husks."

The Doctor ran both hands over his face. "How did it happen? How does something like this happen?"

Sam shrugged. "They can introduce it a billion different ways. Food. Water supply. It just takes a little."

"Wait, hold on," John said, holding up a hand. "How contagious is this virus, exactly?"

"Within the initial contact?" Sam asked. "Very. Airbourne, skin contact, I mean, it's lethal. The good news, I guess if you could call it that, is that with an outbreak this big, we're looking at secondary contact."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning blood-to-blood," Dean said. "If they bite you or scratch you, any sort of contact with their hands… they'll have you. Then stage three."

"What's stage three?" John asked.

Sam shrugged. "The brain finally overloads and the body gives out."

"Could we wait it out?" the Doctor asked.

Dean shook his head. "Not a good idea. Used to be we'd see stage three in four days time, but now… it's lasting longer. Bobby kept a Croat in a secure location for three months. It was still kicking when he checked up on it before we left."

Sam was nodding. "And we know for a fact by 2014 they'll have a strain that doesn't burn out the host bodies. Just… perpetual zombieland."

"We're wasting time," Sherlock murmured. "The longer we discuss this, the more of these Croats are meandering into town. If we're going to the car, we need a plan. Now."

Sam thought a moment and then his eyes went bright. "Hold on… I've got an idea."


John had been slicing chunks of fabric out of one of Sam's old t-shirts for a good thirty minutes, while Sherlock and Dean had set to stuffing the fabric into every bottle of liquor Sam and the Doctor were carrying up from the pub below. The Green Pig was stocked to the teeth with ales and liquors of every variety, and—as per Sam's plan—Molotov cocktails were on this afternoon's menu, and the everything was to be used. Everything except the bottle of thirty-year old whiskey Sam had brought up. Dean refused to let anyone turn that bottle into a bomb, and announced so loudly before taking a shot straight from the bottle.

Sam rolled his eyes and went back downstairs.

The Doctor was busy putting together another case of cheap beer when Sam entered the back room. "That the last of it?" he asked.

"The very last," the Doctor murmured, hefting the box onto a table. He leaned on the edge and gave Sam a serious look. "So… these Croats…"

"Yeah, I thought you might have some questions," Sam murmured, leaning against the shelving opposite the Doctor.

"A few, yeah," the Doctor said with a sigh. "I want you to be completely honest with me, Sam. If you are not, I shall be very cross, and believe me… you don't want that."

Sam nodded.

"Alright. These people… the infected. There is absolutely no way to save them? At all, ever, that you know of."

Sam stared at the Doctor a long moment before shaking his head. The Doctor gave a grim nod, eyes trained to the floor as Sam said, "I'm so sorry, Doc… there's nothing we can do for them. When I say they aren't people anymore… that's not me trying to sugarcoat it or justify loading them up with buckshot." He shrugged his shoulders. "It's… biology and it's awful and… I wish I had another answer."

"Then I've only got one more question," the Doctor said, eyes flicking up to Sam's.

Sam nodded. "Anything."

"Who did this to them?"

Sam swallowed. "Bela? Irene? A demon? Someone working with them?" He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Then we need to find out," the Doctor said. "And I need to have a few words with them."

Sam frowned. The Doctor's voice had changed. Something was wrong. Very wrong. But he said nothing about that to him. Just nodded and murmured, "yeah… okay, sure, just… let's worry about getting out of here first, okay?"

The Doctor didn't nod, just hefted the box and started toward the stairs. Sam took a deep breath and started off after him.

The room smelt strongly of liquor, enough to make Sam's head spin when he walked into the room. It was John who first looked up at him, glanced at the Doctor as he set down the case, before asking, "what's the plan?"

Sam shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know. I'm just hoping the fire will provide enough of a distraction for us to get across the street. What we need is to get those guns and get to a roof or something. Someplace higher than this where we might actually be able to see a car from."

"And to think I thought this was a small town when we rolled in," Dean chuckled. "Now I'm wishing it was one of those dinky one-lane places the road just kind of… ran through."

"Me too," Sam murmured before looking toward the window. Sherlock was standing, curtain pulled off to one side and frowning at the street below them. "Something wrong?"

"No," Sherlock said, dropping the curtain and turning. "That's what troubles me…"

John frowned. "You're troubled because we're not in trouble?"

"I'm troubled because it doesn't make sense," Sherlock said. He looked at Sam, gesturing at the window. "Why? Why go to all the trouble of turning an entire village if they're just going to wander back and forth not doing anything?"

"Trust me, Sherly," Dean muttered as he stuffed another bottle with fabric. "No news is good news when it comes to Croats."

"It's not like there's a remote-control," Sam said. "They can't just press a button and tell them to attack. They're mindless by now. Animals."

Sherlock sighed. "Animals can be herded, Samuel. If they set this trap, where is the sheepdog for the masses?"

The Doctor looked up for the first time in a long while. "They don't want to kill us."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, they don't… or at least not all of us."

"Not any of us," Dean snapped, setting the bottle down hard. "Look, I don't know what these dicks have planned, okay, but we're not dying today. We're not getting sheepdogged into anything, or torn to pieces or—"

"Say that again," Sherlock said, not looking at Dean.

Dean blinked. "What?"

"Say it again, what you said just a moment ago. Exactly as you just said it."

Dean glanced at Sam, then back at Sherlock and muttered. "Uh… okay, I said we're not dying, we're not getting sheep-dogged into—"

Sherlock spun to look at Sam whose eyes had gone wide. "It's—"

"—a trap," he and Sherlock finished in unison, the consulting detective adding, "yes, obviously. Sending us through the mulling herd and toward that building. The layout, the angle, it's all… too perfect. We're seeing what we were meant to see, going where we were meant to go—"

"Yeah, well not anymore," Dean said. "If it's really a trap—"

"—anything could be waiting over there," Sam finished.

John ran both hands over his face. "Jesus, it's a rock and a hard place."

"Yeah, no worse than we've been before," Dean murmured, standing. He sighed. "Alright, so… plan B."

"Plan B?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, plan B."

"We don't have a plan B—"

"So we make one!" Dean snapped. "I'm not planning on dying today, and I'm not planning on letting anyone else go down either."

"Two of us could do it."

Everyone looked at John.

He looked up at the others. "Just two… take the rooftops, stay out of sight… find a spare car. There's got to be one lying around here somewhere."

Dean frowned. "You think?"

John nodded and stood, taking his gun out of the backseat of his trousers. "It's just a look 'round. Nothing dangerous."

Dean nodded his approval and looked at Sam.

The younger Winchester was frowning. "It's risky," he murmured. "You rustle the Croats, and you're on those roofs with just nine rounds?"

John smirked. "That just means I can't miss."

Sam looked at each of the group members in turn. "Am I the only one who thinks this idea is insane?"

"You're the only one who believes it is not the most rational choice," Sherlock murmured.

"What, and you do?" Sam asked.

"Look, Sam," Dean snapped, "unless you have another plan B to pull out your ass, I think this is it."

Sam took a deep breath. "Okay, well… we're not sending John alone. Who—?"

Dean put up his hand. At the look Sam was giving him, he said, "what? Okay, who here in this room actually knows how to hotwire a car?"

Sam and Sherlock's hands went up.

Dean puffed out his chest. "Okay, who can hotwire a car in less than thirty seconds?"

Sam's hand went down. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he lowered his hand.

Dean nodded. "Okay then. It's agreed." He turned and gave John a slap on the shoulder. "You and me, Johnny-Boy. To the roof?"

John nodded. "To the roof."

"Hey, boys?" the Doctor said as the two walked toward the window with the fire escape.

Dean turned just in time to catch what the Doctor had tossed to him; his sonic screwdriver.

The Doctor smirked. "I'll be wanting that back in good condition, Dean Winchester."

Dean glanced at the screwdriver, then tucked it into the pocket of his coat. "Yessir."

"Don't do anything foolish while we're gone," John said to the group, though his eyes never left Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Sam said, "we won't. Just get back soon."

Dean nodded. "If you hear two honks, get your asses downstairs and be ready to jump in. We've only got one shot at this."

"Be safe," the Doctor said.

"Always," John replied with a smile, opening the window. Dean went first, John following behind him.

Sam shook his head. "I don't like this."

"No one likes waiting," Sherlock said, tossing himself down on the sofa.

"Not talking about the waiting," Sam muttered to himself.

"They'll be alright, Sam," the Doctor said.

Sam stared at the window, muttered, "Yeah. I hope so."


"I gotta say," Dean said as John brushed himself off. "For a small guy, you got some serious balls."

John snorted and looked back at the rooftop behind him. "Wasn't that big a jump. Not compared to this one. Think we can make it onto that fire escape?"

Dean nodded. "Easy as pie."

"Alright," John said, doing a little bounce on his feet. He looked at Dean, smiled. "Mind the gap." And with that, he took off at a run toward the edge of the building. His feet left the ground, and he flung his body toward the fire escape. He landed hard on the metal, surprisingly soundless as he regained his balance. He pulled himself over and motioned for Dean to follow suit.

It was easier for the taller man, though he made a little more noise than John had. Both had frozen, looked below for any of the infected. Not a one seemed to notice them, though a handful on the streets began meandering toward the sound, grunting their agitation.

Dean looked at John. "Right, let's get climbing, yeah?"

They took the fire escape at a run until they reached the roof. By the time Dean looked back down the side of the building, the few Croats that had wandered into the alleyway seemed to have forgotten what they were doing there. One of them pushed the other, the other pushed back, and a fight broke out. Fingers that should have never been able to pierce through skin so easily moved in a blur, and in a moment, the few others were tearing the first Croat apart.

"My God," John said, voice lowered to a whisper. "You weren't joking."

"Nope," Dean whispered back. "When I said animals… I meant animals." He looked at John. "And they'll do the same to us if they get the chance." When John continued staring at the scene below, Dean gave his shoulder a shake. "Hey, come on. We got things to do."

John nodded and looked away from what was now nothing more than a pile of meat and gore. "Right, right…" He cleared his throat, muttered, "let's keep moving, then…"


"I don't like this," the Doctor mumbled, half draped over the couch, half spilling onto the floor. "The waiting." He stared at the ceiling. "Is this what it's like all the time for you lot, just… waiting?"

Sam chuckled, still sitting at the window, occasionally peeking out through the curtains. "Loads of waiting in my line of work, Doc." He took a deep breath. "Some days that's all a body can do." He glanced across the room where Sherlock had taken to sitting in the small armchair, knees under his chin, arms folded across his chest, and eyes closed. "You okay, Sherlock?" he asked.

"Thinking," Sherlock mumbled, not looking up.

Sam nodded. "About anything in particular?"

Sherlock opened one eye. "Largely about how foolish we've all been." Closed the eye. "Stupid. Blind." The eye opened again. "I don't suppose shouting would be wise at this moment, would it?"

Sam shook his head.

Sherlock sighed. "Of course. Dull." He unfolded his body and pointed at the bag nearest to Sam. "Hand me John's laptop case."

Sam snorted. "What, you serious?"

Sherlock just made grabby hands at the bag and glared at Sam.

Sam sighed and picked up the bag, walking it over to the man who began rummaging through the front pocket. "What are you looking for?" Sam asked.

Sherlock held up a nicotine patch, fanned his fingers out to show the brother two of the patches. "Care for one?"

Sam smirked. "Uh, no. Not really."

"Fine," Sherlock muttered, then opened both patches and slapped them on his arm.

"Is this really the time for—?"

"Shh," Sherlock said, staring at the wall and lifting a hand in Sam's direction.

Sam frowned. "But I ju—"

Sherlock's hand didn't move but he made the shushing noise again.

Sam glanced at the Doctor who sighed and mouthed, "Mind Palace Time."

Sam rolled his eyes and nodded. Of course it was Mind Palace Time. He plodded over to where the Doctor sprawled, torso on the floor, legs on the seat of the couch, fiddling with his glasses, and took a seat. Keeping his voice low, he asked, "what do you think he's looking for this time?"

The Doctor glanced up. "This time? I imagine he's still trying to put the pieces together." He propped himself up on his elbows. "Samuel, none of this makes any sense."

"Yeah?" Sam said with a bitter chuckle. "Welcome to my life on a daily basis."

"No, Sam, think about it," the Doctor murmured. "We're a threat to their spear-plan, so why not just string us up, get it over with? Why all the bells and whistles? The baiting, the traps… if they don't want us dead, what are they trying to do?"

Sam glanced at the consulting detective, sitting upright, moving his hands in the air in front of him. "And Sherlock thinks he's on to something?"

"Dunno," the Doctor murmured. "Maybe he thinks he can put enough like-evidence together and let you do the rest."

"Me?"

The Doctor smirked. "You're smart too, Sam. As is Dean, as is John, as is everyone of you. Absolutely brilliant." His gaze drifted to Sherlock. "I suppose this is new for him."

"What?" Sam asked. "Teamwork?"

"No," the Doctor murmured. "Friendship."


John grabbed Dean Winchester's hand, pulled him up over the edge of the building. John looked him over. "You okay?"

"Friggin' peachy," Dean mumbled, looking up at the steep jump they'd just come from. "How much more of this we got?"

"One more to go," John said, walking over to the edge of the building. "We should be able to see the other block from there. Hopefully with a bit more luck than we've had so far."

Dean chuckled. "Dude, I'll take a minivan and be dubbed a soccer mom for the rest of my life at this point. He stood at the edge of the building with John, looking down. It was about a story-drop to the terracotta cobbled rooftop. Dean nodded. "Bit steep."

"Bit, yeah," John agreed. He took a deep breath, smirked at Dean. "Nothing we can't handle, right?"

Dean chuckled. "Damn skippy." He gauged the jump with another chuckle under his breath. "Mind the gap, right?"

John smiled, nodded. "Always."

"Okay. Here we go." Dean steadied himself, had one false start, then actually let himself drop down onto the rooftop.

It was a longer jump than he'd expected, the clay roofing clacking under his weight and hurting his legs. He caught it early and turned it into a shoulder roll, absorbing some of the shock. Enough to keep from being seriously hurt, but not enough to keep his ankles from feeling more than a little sore. Nothing he couldn't walk off. He turned and looked up at John, gave him a thumbs up.

John nodded, looking at the edge he stood on and the roof below. He did a few bounces to prepare himself, shook out the last of his jitters and held steady on the edge of the roof. He dropped down.

He'd learned from Dean's mistake, planned on rolling once he'd hit the ground, but something was wrong. The ground was moving. He rolled to his feet and the ground kept turning under him. His feet struggled to push him forward, but the tiles were sliding loose. His hands flailed forwards, finding Dean Winchester's arm.

The elder Winchester pulled him up to safe ground and solid tiles, both watching as an entire row of terracotta shingles slid down toward the ground. There was a vacuum of silence that followed, just long enough for John to breathe, "Oh God."

The clay shattered on the walkway below, sent dark orange-red pieces breaking all over. Out on the streets the Croats looked up. In the alley way, the Croats looked up. In the meadows behind the line of buildings, the Croats looked up.

And then they started running. Directly toward the buildings. Below there were footsteps on the fire escapes, windows shattering open and doors being torn off their hinges.

Dean grabbed John's shoulder and began pulling him. "Run… RUN!"


The Doctor sat bolt upright as Sam rose to his feet. Sherlock's eyes opened and he unfolded himself from his chair. "What's going on?"

Sam was to the window in two big steps. He stared out below them. "They're moving." He looked at the Doctor and Sherlock. "They're headed in the direction of Dean and John."

Sherlock's jaw went tight and he pressed his hands together, angled them under his chin. "How many?"

"All of them," Sam said, turning back to the bed. He leaned over it and pulled up a duffle bag.

The Doctor frowned, now standing as well. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Sam snapped, tugging loose an object wrapped in a t-shirt. He unwrapped it to reveal a small knife with a wooden hilt and markings scrawled along the blade. He tucked it into his belt. "We've got to go help them."

"Samuel," Sherlock said, stepping forward, "think. This is suicide."

"And leaving them might as well be homicide," Sam said.

"This is what they want," Sherlock snapped, grabbing Sam by the forearm. "They want us confused, disoriented—"

"Actually, that's not entirely true."

The group turned toward the voice that had not been there earlier. There was small, bookish man standing at the top of the staircase in a sweater vest and glasses; Horace. On either side of him was a hefty gentleman, both of them patrons at the pub the night before. Horace smiled at the Doctor, as all three's eyes turned to solid, black pearls. "We just want him."

The Doctor's lip curled to a harsh sneer. "Well that's not going to happen."

"I thought you might say that." Horace glanced at the demon beside him and gave a nod, then started back down the stairs. The demon Horace had nodded to raised his hand to shoulder-level.

He was holding a revolver. And aiming it directly at the Doctor.

Then he smiled, trained the gun on Sherlock Holmes and Sam Winchester.

The Doctor felt his stomach drop. "No—!"

The demon fired three rounds in the direction of two men while the other demon produced a crowbar from his jacket.

Horace pulled the phone from his pocket and began dialing. "We're with the package now. We'll be enroute in…" He listened to the sound of gunfire and shouting and smiled. "Five minutes." He walked through the foyer of the bar, smiling. "Yes, sir. I'm about to loose them now. Everything is entirely under control."

And with that, he exited The Green Pig.


John and Dean were running from rooftop to rooftop. They'd gotten three buildings over, but it had done little to stop pressing of the hoard.

"We need a better plan!" John shouted at Dean.

"No shit!" Dean screamed back. He hesitated, did a double-take and stopped running.

John turned and stared. "Dean, come on, we need to keep moving!"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Or we can hold our ground there." He pointed at the substation on the other end of the roof, a small covered unit that was all iron bars from floor to metal roofing.

John was shaking his head. "Not exactly the high ground."

Dean motioned. "Yeah, well this is the highest ground we're going to get." He nodded. "Cover me while jam the door," he said, picking up a length of chain and walking toward the roof access door.

John raised his gun, eyes circling the whole building, flicking between the fire escapes on either side of the building. He glanced at Dean as the man wrapped the first of the two chains around the door. "This is bloody insane, you know that, right?"

"Complete newborn in the world of zombies and demons and you think I'm the crazy one," Dean chuckled, securing the chain and giving it a tug for good measure. "That's almost adorable, Johnny-boy. Come on, let's get ourselves in that substation."

The first of the Croats made it up the fire escape on the east side of the building. Dean picked up a discarded socket wrench from the ground and beat it against the padlock on the gate. The Croats sprinted toward the noise.

John planted his feet beside Dean, lifted his gun. He took aim, took one deep breath. Held it.

One shot. Then a second.

Two Croats fell to the ground; clean headshots on both targets.

John let out the breath.

The padlock clattered to the ground and Dean pulled open the door. "Come on, get in." He began twining the second length of chain around the door as John continued to take slow, measured breathes. He looked over where the two Croats had fallen and then back at John. "You're a helluva shot, John."

John nodded. "It's a gift."

A deep, metallic clunk came from across the rooftop. The door to the roof began thudding forward, fists beating at it, shoving and struggling to break it loose.

Dean swallowed. "Well, let's hope that gift has a lucky streak included… because it looks like we're really going to need it."


Sherlock had anticipated the gun. He usually anticipated guns. If they were not produced, he was pleasantly surprised. And if they were, he was never caught off guard. Anticipation allowed him to be quick. In this case, quick; but not quick enough.

He shoved Sam away from him, separating them both from the line of gunfire. Again, not quick enough. Two of the three bullets caught Sam in his left shoulder, sending him spinning to the floor and sending the knife, clattering across the room.

Sherlock fell backwards into a roll and was back on his feet as a fourth bullet sliced across the arm of his jacket. The near-miss sent electricity teaming through his body with a swimming pulse of adrenaline. He fought back against the rush, slowed his thoughts.

Two men. No, two demons. Clever. Fast. Do what is not expected to be done. Do what is considered impossible.

The demon looked surprised as Sherlock lunged toward him, one hand raised to knock the gun from his hand. The demon lifted the gun, but Sherlock was faster, already bridging the gap between them, grabbing his wrist and twisting hard.

Behind him, Sam was shouting at the Doctor. "Get the knife!"

Sherlock barely heard the background noise, already being accosting by the second demon.

He, it, whatever one would classify a demon as, was fast. Faster than the one with the firearm had been. Sherlock saw him swing, pushed himself down toward the floor. Even then, he felt the crowbar brush through the dark hair on his head, just missing him. He felt the jarring movement as it made contact with the first demon's chest. The shock was enough to dislodge the gun from his hand, allowing Sherlock to grab hold of it.

He shoved himself away from the two, lifting the gun and firing two shots at the demon with the crowbar. Both chest shots. Both aimed directly at the heart. Red began soaking through the pale-colored shirt, saturating through until the red looked almost black.

Two shots should have been more than enough.

The demon looked down at his chest, the two bullet holes where a heart should have been keeping him on his feet. He looked back up at Sherlock, the other demon and chuckled.

Sherlock chuckled as well.

Then the demon lifted a leg, and with the strength of ten horses, kicked the detective squarely in the chest.

Sherlock flew across the room, landed flat against the far wall with enough force to crack the plaster. He fell flat on his face to the floor, coughing as he struggled to fill his lungs again. The whole room was spinning at different angles and he could barely push himself off the ground. The demon walked across the room, grabbing the gun off the floor and holding it right against Sherlock's head.

The demon smiled and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

The demon frowned, pulling the trigger again. Click. Click, click-click—

Sherlock smiled, only vaguely aware of the blood dripping down his nose. "Stupid. Revolvers only generally have six shots."

The demon's face twisted in rage.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked in the direction of the voice, saw the Doctor shove the knife across the floor towards him. He snatched it off the ground as the demon turned the gun around, swung the hilt downwards toward Sherlock's skull. Before the movement could be completed, Sherlock shoved the blade hard into the soft underside of the demon's chin.

His eyes widened with shock as a vibrant yellow-red light lit him up from the inside out, casting the outline of his bones throughout his skull, bursting through his eyes and mouth. The light disappeared, and red gushed down the man's front as he sunk to the floor.

No sooner had he gone down than the second demon was standing before him.

Sherlock swung out with the knife, but the demon blocked him, kicked him hard in the ribs. Sherlock crumpled to the floor, only to have a hand grip him by the throat and pull him back to his feet. The assault came to a startling stop when a huge vase shattered across the demon's face, startling both of them.

"Oi!" the Doctor shouted, picking up another vase from the small table beside the sofa. "Boss said you're here for me, didn't he?" He held both hands out. "So come get me."

The demon glanced back at Sherlock, then to the Doctor. With a smirk, he released Sherlock's throat, letting him drop back to the ground and started toward the Doctor.

The Doctor shoved the vase in the direction of the demon's head.

The demon caught it with both hands, crushed it with little effort and dropped it onto the floor with a chuckle.

The Doctor blinked. "Ooh, bit not good. Wasn't expecting that."

The demon's eyes went wide, turned black as light illuminated his entire body in one, electric shock. Sherlock stood directly behind the demon, gripped him tight and jammed the knife into his side a second time for good measure. The body sunk to the ground, motionless.

Sherlock looked at the Doctor, who was staring at him. He nodded, breathing hard. "That was tedious," he mumbled. Just before his knees gave out.

The Doctor caught him by his shoulder, steadied him. "Whoa, whoa, Sherlock, hey… You alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock muttered, wiping under his nose again, smearing blood across his face. "Go to Sam." Sherlock propped himself up against the wall, shrugging off his jacket and pulling off his scarf. He stared at the scarf, now spattered with dark black where the blood was already setting it. He sighed. "I liked that scarf," he mumbled as the Doctor dropped down on the floor next to Sam.

"Are you alright?"

Sam took a sharp breath in through his teeth as the Doctor pulled him into an upright position. "Yeah… yeah, it's just the shoulder, nothing fatal." He tried to move his arm and let out a gasp. "A-ah! Yeah, okay, just… pain, that's definitely pain."

"Could have been your heart," the Doctor murmured, examining the wounds.

Sam nodded. "Would have been," he breathed as the Doctor examined his shoulder. "Thanks for that, by the way."

Sherlock nodded, still breathless as he wiped his face on his scarf. He gestured to the empty air, still nodding before he finally gave up the attempt at words and shrugged. "Well…"

"Yeah," Sam murmured. He began unbuttoning his shirt with his good hand. "Okay, bullets. Doc, you'll have to help me get this off, we need to get those bullets out, just…" He looked at the Doctor. "Doc?"

The Timelord was frozen, kneeling on the floor beside Sam, all the while staring across the room at the top of the staircase. He'd gone ashen, eyes wide.

Sam looked around at the empty room, then at the Doctor. "Doc, what—?"

"Sam… what… is that?"

Sherlock frowned. "What's what?"

The Doctor nodded at the empty air. "That."

Sam frowned. "Doctor, there's nothing there, just—"

A low growl cut him off. Sam felt his whole body go cold. He'd never seen one. He'd never wanted to. But that growl… he knew that growl. He'd never forget it. Not after watching one tear Dean to ribbons on the floor of a living room. Not after Ellen and Jo.

"That, Doctor," Sam whispered, staring at the empty air, "is a Hellhound."


"How we looking?" Dean asked.

"Two shots left," John shouted back. "You sure this will work?"

Dean shrugged, nodded, and shook his head all at one then made a high-pitched noise. "Eeeeh, yeah? Maybe? I don't know, I've only ever done this with a car battery, so—"

Another shot and a Croat fell to the ground. "Well, hurry it up!" John shouted as another three Croats climbed up the fire escape.

Dean pulled the last of the wires out, wrapped them around one of the iron bars. "Get to the center!" he shouted back at John.

John stepped back until both he and Dean stood in the middle of the small substation. No sooner had they arrived there than three Croats were on the gates, clawing and reaching for them. One of them snagged hold of John's jacket and he fired the last round right between her eyes. "Dean?"

"Got it," Dean murmured. He stepped forward as far as he dared, and kicked his foot out at one of the breakers.

There was a spark, and all at once, every Croat hanging on the cage began flailing. The smell of scorched flesh and smoke took to the air as they dropped. One of them leaned up against the bars, body gone limp, still crackling and popped against the now-electrified bars.

It took some time for the Croats to learn, at least twenty of them threw themselves at the cage, but soon they seemed to understand. They all just stood around the cage, screaming and yowling, walking the perimeter and trying to understand why these two were now untouchable.

Dean looked at John who was nodding. "Brilliant," he said, still gasping for air.

Dean nodded as well, sinking to sit on one of the plastic covers for the breakers. "Can't say I never learned nothing from Dad." He chuckled as one of the Croats grew impatient and threw themselves on the cage. Just like every other, no sooner did his hands touch than he fell to the ground, flailing. Dean jumped to his feet. "Yeah! Suck it! That's how we do it in America! Whoo!" He did a double fist pump and kicked out his leg. "Boo-yah, bitches! SAY SOMETHING!"

"Question, then," John said, raising a hand.

Dean composed himself. "Okay, yeah, sure, what?"

John gestured. "How we getting out of here, then?"

Dean blinked. Then blinked again. He looked at the bars and seemed to realize for the first time that this was not, in fact, an ideal situation. "Shit."


The hellhound let out a fierce bark, making all of them jump. The adrenaline was making Sam's head rush, but helped him push the pain to the back of his mind. "Sherlock," he said, voice low.

"Why can't I see anything, Samuel?" Sherlock said in a low, measured voice.

"Why can I see 'em?" the Doctor asked.

"Because it's here for you," Sam said.

"They."

"What?"

The Doctor's throat worked. "There's, uh… two of them, actually."

"Two?" Sherlock repeated.

"Look at them," the Doctor said, rambling to himself again. He smiled. "They're lovely! Well… aside from the burning eyes and razor teeth, they look almost remarkably cuddle, like giant saber-toothed badgers from the moons of—"

"Doc," Sam murmured, eyes fluttering. "Not exactly the right time."

The Doctor looked from the hounds to Sam then cleared his throat. "Right. Hellhounds. What do we do?"

"I'm not going anywhere, Doc," Sam chuckled. "Room's spinning, there's hounds in the room, I'm losing blood, and fast. You, though? Y-you need to get out of here."

The Doctor smirked. "Humans. You do tend to love being dramatic."

"He's not being dramatic, he's being realistic," Sherlock said.

Another bark startled everyone in the room. "Alright," the Doctor said. "That's about enough sacrifice talk—"

"We're done talking," Sherlock said. "Sam? That knife of yours? It work on these things?"

Sam's eyes went wide. With the last of his strength, he pushed himself upright. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's gaze flicked over the younger of the two Winchester brothers. "Eyes dilated, breathing gone shallow. You were going to lie to me, Samuel." He smiled, twiddled the blade and caught it in a fist. "Whatever happens… it's been a pleasure. Truly."

The Doctor's eyes went wide as the dogs began to growl. "Sherlock, don't you—!"

Sherlock grabbed a handful of the shards from the vase, flung them at the top of the staircase. The pieces landed on what was not there, the outlines of two huge creatures. They rustled, shaking the dust out of their fur and snarling.

Sherlock kicked the smallest table towards them, using all the strength he had. It cracked against something, spattering black on the walls. There was the sound of yelping, of something large falling down the stairs and cracking the wood.

The second unseeable thing lunged at Sherlock.

He managed to swipe the blade somewhere important, splashing black on the floors. But it was not a fatal wound. Something snatched him up by the front of his shirt and with one strong movement, flung him down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, the growling commenced.

Sherlock screamed. There was yelping and yowling below, the sound of glass breaking and tables shattering.

"No, no no, NO!" the Doctor screamed. "Stop this! Stop this right now!"

"You could stop it right now."

Horace had reappeared, was standing in the corner of the room. He pulled off his glasses, listening a moment to the sound of things being broken below.

"I want your word," the Doctor snapped as Sam sank to the floor, eyes closing.

Horace's eyebrows went up and he chuckled. "I'm not in sales, I'm in management and loss prevention—"

"You bloody well cut me a deal or I'm not going anywhere with you," the Doctor snarled.

At that moment, without so much as a sound, a man in a suit appeared. "So… Timelord…" He smoothed the front of his coat, checked his cufflinks, and smiled. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The Doctor's eyes narrowed. "And you are…?"

"Name's Crowley, but there'll be time for more… proper introductions later—"

"Oh, no need for that," the Doctor said, his face gone blank. "I've already heard about you… loads about you, in fact."

"Color me flattered," Crowley said.

"Nnnnnnno," the Doctor murmured. "No, they weren't very flattering things…"

Crowley gave a single dry chuckle. "Alright… Doctor. You called me here. So… make me an offer I can't refuse."

The Doctor smirked. "If I understand celestial physics right, you have no claim on my soul."

"I don't need your soul to make you a deal," Crowley said. "Though you might want to hurry up on those terms. I don't think your boy downstairs is doing too well."

"Stop it," the Doctor snapped. "All of it, right now."

"Horace take a note." He smiled at the Doctor. "Care to be more specific?"

"The Winchesters, Sherlock, John, leave them alone. You touch a hair on their heads, a hair more than you already have, the deal is off. Immediately."

Crowley snapped his fingers. The scuffle downstairs turned to silence. He shrugged. "Anything else?"

"The Croatoans," the Doctor said. "Change them back."

Crowley chuckled. "That's… not an option. I've plenty of tricks up my sleeves. That, however, is not one of them."

"Then let them go."

"Done," Horace said. "And in return, you come along quiet-like. No tricks, no fooling around…" He smirked. "And no regenerating." He held out his hand. "We have a deal?"

The Doctor reached out a hand, hesitated at the last moment and pulled it back. "You touch them, and I swear, I—"

"Please," Crowley said, rolling his eyes. "If there is one thing I am, above all else, I am a keeper of my word." He looked at his hand, then back at the Doctor. "Unless you'd rather a little kiss. It's only required for the, ah… heavier of the contracts."

The Doctor's eyes were narrow as he put his hand into the demons. He took in a sharp hiss of air as red flickered over his skin, words appearing in long lines the color of blood as Crowley gripped his hand tight. "There is, of course, the standard fine print detailing breeches in the contract on both sides, collection notices, early collection notices, subtext alpha through omega, and just the bit you just signed off on."

Before the Doctor could so much as blink, Horace was behind him, jamming a syringe into the Doctor's neck. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The last of the Timelords fell to the floor with a heavy thud. "Think it will be enough?" Horace asked.

"Enough to get him there before he wakes up," Crowley said, frowning at the unconscious Winchester brother. He sighed. "Make certain they don't completely die before we finish, yeah? And do something about those Croats."

Without so much as a sound, Crowley disappeared. Along with the Doctor.


John turned over one of the bodies with a nudge of his boot. "I thought you said weeks. Months even…"

"I did," Dean murmured, looking at the bodies that had just fallen down around the substation. He'd disconnected the cables shortly after it had happened; all at once, every single Croat had just fallen to the ground. The pounding on the metal door to the roof had stopped. Even now as he looked down into the streets, across the lane and beyond, every single person infected with the Croatoan virus had just… stopped.

"This… is… strange," John said, glancing back at Dean. "It is strange, isn't it? Tell me it's strange."

"No, you're right," Dean said, nodding. "It's strange." He looked around the rooftop, eyes finally meeting John's. "We need to get back to the others."


John and Dean took to the streets, hurrying as best they could back to The Green Pig. They broke into a run when they saw the broken windows, hurried inside.

There was black sludge all over the floor. Broken bottles and tables scattered about. There was a huge puddle of the black, outlining what was clearly—

"Hellhound," Dean murmured, shoving himself toward the stairs. "They sent fucking hounds—Sammy!"

"Dean!" John shouted after him, taking the stairs two at a time to keep up with him. "Dean, just…" He nearly ran right into Dean as the elder of the Winchesters came to a sudden stop at the top of the stairs.

Sherlock was holding an unconscious Sam Winchester in his lap, a wadded plaid shirt pressed over the man's shoulder, soaked in blood. Sherlock wiped a hand across his brow, smearing red over his pale skin as he struggled to swallow. He held up one hand as Dean crossed the last few steps, sunk down to the floor beside his brother. Sherlock clapped a hand on Dean's forearm. "He's going to be alright, just a shoulder wound."

"With what?"

"Bullets. Two, but fortunately, nothing critical was struck… He's lost quite a bit a blood, but nothing so severe he won't recover."

"What happened to you?" John asked.

Sherlock looked down as if noticing himself for the first time. He was a mess of black and red, his shirt ripped at the chest and shoulder and one pant leg torn clean off at the knee, the skin beneath the color of raw liver. He sighed, flapping a hand. "Nothing, just… a rather large creature with something of an ill-temperament."

"We need to get to the not-'pala," Dean murmured, standing again. His expression was serious, but his words seemed rushed. Panicked. "I've got a first aid kit in there we can use. We need to get the bullets out and stitch him back up and then we… wait… wait, hold on, just…" He stopped speaking, eyes darting around the room as if noticing for the first time something was wrong. He looked at Sherlock. "Where's the Doctor?"

Sherlock glanced up, his mouth opened. "I…"

John swallowed. "Sherlock… where is the Doctor?"

Sherlock held John's gaze as long as he could, then looked at the floor. "They… took him."

"Took him?" Dean shouted. "Took him where?"

John put up a hand. "Dean—"

"I don't know!" Sherlock snapped.

"Well then work it out!" Dean bellowed. "That's why you're here isn't, because your so fucking clever, all the fucking time, so just figure it out—!"

"Alright, that's enough!" John shouted, loud and harsh enough to silence the both of them. He looked between the two. "Now we can either sit here, shouting each other hoarse which—may I remind you—is probably exactly what they want us to do, or we can sack up, shut up, get Sam patched up, and then we can figure out what the hell to do next!" Sherlock had only just opened his mouth when John shoved a finger in his face without looking at him. "Shut up, Sherlock!"

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut and he and Dean looked at each other. Dean sighed. "Sorry, man, I didn't mean to—"

"No apologies required," Sherlock murmured.

"Right," John said, nodding. "Dean, you're with me. We'll go get that kit and I'll have Sam patched right up. Shouldn't take more than twenty, thirty minutes tops. Until Sam's stitched back together up, let's just focus on getting him that way, yeah?"

Dean nodded, crossing the room and taking the stairs one at a time. "Kit's in the trunk in a dark red bag. Should have everything you'll need in there, John."

John nodded. "Glad to hear it," he said, then turn to Sherlock. "We'll be right back, keep an eye on him, yeah?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, nodding. "Oh, and John."

John turned, blinking as he was suddenly pulled into a tight embraced. He frowned. "Uh, Sherlock?"

Sherlock just held him tight a moment more before pushing him an arm's length away. "I'm just glad to see you well."

John was still frowning. "Uh… yeah. Yeah, you too, hey, um… is everything alright?"

Sherlock's eyes crinkled. "Of course it is, why wouldn't it be?"

John scratched his nose. "Dunno, you just seem a bit…" He scratched his nose again, suddenly needing to sneeze. The room smelled staler, like blood, dust and…

John's eyes went wide.

Before Sherlock could make a move to stop him, John's fist collided with the underside of his chin, sending him toppling to the floor.

Dean was up the stairs in a moment, eyes widening as Sherlock tried to sit up.

In that same moment, John was across the room, grabbing the man by the tattered remains of his shirt and slamming his fist into his face a final time, hard enough to knock him out cold.

Dean grabbed John, pulled him off of the consulting detective, shouting, "John, what the hell?"

"He's not Sherlock," John gasped, shaking his head. "He's not Sherl—that's not Sherlock, Dean! What the hell is that?"

Dean stared at the man on the floor, not moving, and for the first time since he entered The Green Pig, he could smell it.

Sulfur.

"There's chalk downstairs on the menu board," Dean murmured. "Bring it up."

"Dean," John murmured, eyes never leaving Sherlock's motionless body. "Dean, I think he's been compromised."

Dean's throat worked. "I think you're right."