Seven

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Sherlock wrapped his coat more tightly around himself, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets. "Got it?"

The young lad nodded, palming the crisp banknote and secreting it about his person. "You found a knife, got mercury and silver on it, some weird words down the side, you're lookin' for someone to buy it, might be antique," he intoned.

"Excellent. Usual alert if you get any takers," Sherlock said.

The boy's eyes darted past him to latch onto John. "See your boyfriend's still around. Ain't he got bored o' you yet?"

John stepped round Sherlock and pinned the lad with a look that could have made landmines think twice about going off. "His blogger is wondering if you're actually going to do what he's paid you to do - sometime soon," he said, deliberately clearly.

The boy just grinned and tipped a hand to his forehead. Then he turned and shuffled off, back under the graffiti'd bridge.

Sherlock watched him disappear. He sniffed, spun on the balls of his feet, and began to walk off. John caught him up and the two walked along the pavement in silence for a moment.

Sherlock stopped suddenly. He waited, and John realised he'd dropped from the corner of his eye and jerked to a halt. He turned to face him. "What now?" John asked.

Sherlock half-smiled. "Why didn't you take the knife?"

"What?" John asked.

"Back at the flat. Dean wanted you to take the knife. Why didn't you?"

John huffed, looking left and right, up the dark street. "Is this really important right now?"

"Very."

He glared at Sherlock - just glared.

The detective folded his arms and waited.

John's jaw jutted out just enough to convince Sherlock that Very Bad Things were looming. "I think I said very clearly why I didn't want it when he tried to give it to me," John said. "We all have nightmares, Sherlock. Dean seems to think in terms of what can kill people. He's been seeing evidence of how people have been killed, what could have done it, how it could have done it."

"And?" Sherlock pressed.

"If I held the knife, it wouldn't be what kills people."

"But you were in the army - you saw death all the time," Sherlock mused, eyeing the shorter man.

"No, I saw wounds and people in agony, Sherlock. Have you ever been shot?"

"Not so you'd notice," he said, with a polite smile.

John blinked. "It hurts. People scream," he said, his voice hard enough to cut diamond. "They try to be brave and they try to act with dignity - but it hurts and in the end, they all scream. All of them."

"You… think… that's what will happen? That this creature will make people suffer more before it kills them - if you held the knife? Because that's what you know?"

"Some days you're not as stupid as you look," John snapped. He turned and walked off.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. His mouth squirrelled to one side as cogs and wheels ground round in circles in his head. Then he straightened up and followed the-

The film paused. Sam and Dean looked at each other across the cinema seats. They looked around the theatre, eventually twisting up to the opaque glass of the projection window, high above them.

"That it?" Dean called.

The film skipped and jerked.

"Dean," Sam said.

They both looked at the screen to see it run through frames so fast they couldn't trace it. Then it stopped, to reveal

the front room of 221B Baker Street, the curtains open to a dark evening, the lights on and four men sat around, pretending they weren't waiting for something.

"So, let me get this straight," Dean said. "You told a bunch of homeless people where the knife is?"

"For the fourth time, yes," Sherlock said.

"And what happens when the thing comes to collect?" Dean asked clearly. "How much damage can this apartment take? What about your housekeeper?"

A voice floated over the room, as if from far away. "Landlady, dear! Not his housekeeper!"

There was a rather surprised pause to the room.

Until Sam huffed. "Dean's right. We shouldn't be waiting around in here. We should be somewhere public. It'd be harder for him to-"

"You said he could change his face," Sherlock interrupted. He was splayed out in his chair, his legs stretched as far as they would go, his heels digging into the carpet. His elbows were perched on the arms of the chair and his hands were carefully steepled in front of his nose. "What if he takes the knife from us and then turns into anyone in the crowd?"

"He can't do that - he has to peel off the skin first," Sam said.

John's face gave the phrase 'bad ham' new meaning. "How do you know that?"

"We found cast-offs before," Dean said dismissively. "He needs time and effort to change - he can't just snap his fingers and be someone else," he added, now looking at Sherlock.

Sam leant forward. "We should not be in this apartment, man. We need space to take him down."

Sherlock shook his head. "The less people the better. If there are only four of us, and in this confined space, it'll be harder for him to simply take the knife we leave out and escape."

"He won't come if he thinks it's impossible. I mean, what, he comes up here looking like some stranger off the street?" Sam pressed. "That's not going to work."

"Or Mrs Hudson?" Dean put in. "If she comes in here like she's asking about coffee, but takes the knife and runs-"

"No-one must touch the knife but one of us four," Sherlock interrupted.

"Do you really want this place to be where we fight it out?" Sam said. "We need space, we need a place he thinks he can take it and get away. He won't come if he knows it's a trap."

Sherlock eyed him for a long, long moment. His mouth pulled to one side in a very tiny smile. "I see."

John scratched his head, squirming slightly in his armchair. "I hate to say this, Sherlock - but I think he's right."

"Tell me, Dean," Sherlock said slowly, transferring his gaze to the elder brother. "What do you plan to do when he does show his face?"

"Stab it," Dean replied with a nod.

"Just like that?"

"Pretty much," Dean asserted. "Not much else you can do with 'shifters."

"No matter who it looks like?" Sherlock pressed.

"It ain't really them," Dean countered. "Believe me, I know. I shot my own copy before, so yeah, this is something we know a lot about."

"Hmm." Sherlock's eyes went from one brother to the other, then back again. At last he rubbed a finger over his top lip, side to side, over and over. He exploded up out of the chair, surprising everyone in the room. "Let's find somewhere public then."

John got to his feet, collecting his coat from the back of the chair. When he turned, the Winchesters were already in their jackets, waiting. Sherlock bounded past all of them and was swallowed up by the stairs before they could get a word out.

Dean looked at John. He just sighed, waved a hand in dismissal, and headed off down the stairs. Sam and Dean followed, reaching the top of the stairs and

The film skipped and ran on at high speed. Sam sat back in the cinema seat, his face one of vexation. Dean looked over at him.

"I'm not sure about this," Dean said.

"Me either," Sam said. "Knowing our lives like we do, how much do we wanna bet all this is going to go horribly wrong? In a public place?"

"I hear you," Dean breathed, looking back at the cinema screen, still hurrying through hidden frames. He scooted down in the chair, lifted his feet, and crossed his ankles to hang off the back of a seat in front, one place to his left. Sam noticed and smiled, shaking his head. "You know," Dean said, looking around the flickering room, "normally I could really do with some popcorn. But… I just don't feel it. Anything. Maybe I'm not real, and this is in your head after all."

Sam squirmed in his seat, his knees already jammed wide open by the closeness of the seat in front. "Are you kidding? If this was in my head, the seats would be bigger. And further apart."

"I guess they don't do Wookiee legroom in British theatres," Dean shrugged.

"Well they fit people with Gumby legs alright," Sam shot back.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Is this movie ever going to start up again?" Dean asked, but Sam heard the smile hiding in his voice.

He folded his arms, looking around the cinema slowly, taking in the subtle brown-yellow walls, painted in swirls and innocuous patterns. The film stopped and yanked his attention back to the screen.

"Hold the phone," Dean muttered, entranced. His eyes took in the film paused on the sparkling lights and shining, beaming whites, the long expanses of tanned brown and pale softness, the static image of hurled brown and red, black and blonde.

"It's a club," Sam shrugged.

"It's... beautiful," Dean whispered.

Sam blinked at him in disbelief, but didn't have time to close his gaping mouth as the film leapt into motion, showing

a long line of happy, energised women, waiting down the side of a brick wall that appeared to be the side of a building. Brunettes, redheads, darker hair and blonde all with suitably short skirts or tight trousers, and heavy coats, high heels or knee-high boots that made Dean's mouth hang open.

"I think I like England," he managed, his eyes fairly bulging as he waited with Sam and John.

"This is The Estate," John said, smiling at Dean's reaction. "It's pretty posh for a nightclub. You have to be twenty-five to get in. They check for drugs and weapons before you get past the cloakroom, so chances are if this creature does want to talk to us, we'll have a better chance of him being unarmed."

"Good choice," Sam nodded, impressed.

"Where's Sherlock?" Dean muttered, but it was clear he was on auto-pilot, his brain on other things. Mostly, directing his eyes whilst also sending his Downstairs Brain into the loft. It scrambled up the long ladder to the store room, diving into the storage boxes and crates, sifting through. Eventually it found what it wanted; a large black leather book. It clutched it fondly and hurried back down the ladder, presenting the book to the Upstairs Brain and standing back to await praise. The Upstairs Brain took the book gladly, sliding the fingers of one hand over the front cover, blowing dust off the gold lettering that read Pick-Up Lines for Fun, Recreation and Stress Relief. It showered gratitude on the Downstairs Brain even as it heaved open the heavy cover. It began to read, remembering the old ways, the long-untrodden paths of pleasure for pleasure's sake.

Sam slapped the back of his hand into Dean's upper arm. "Dude, you with us?"

"What?" he blurted. "Yeah, man. Where's Sherlock?"

"I said he's catching us up," John said patiently. "Weren't you listening?"

"The scenery in this country just got a lot more pleasant," Dean said under his breath.

Sam rolled his eyes, turning an apologetic look on John.

John shrugged, then turned away deliberately. "Oh, just in time," he said loudly, and Sam turned to see Sherlock arriving.

"You didn't have to wait for me," Sherlock said.

"There are six hundred people in there, maybe more," John said. "If we get separated-"

"We should definitely split up," Dean interrupted. The other three looked at him with varying degrees of suspicion. "Take a corner each, keep in eye contact. If the creature makes a move on Sherlock, we'll see it and converge. Right? But we can't crowd the guy."

"He's got a point," John shrugged.

"Let's go," Sherlock said, pushing through them all and going up to the front door.

"Sherlock - we have to queue," John hissed through clenched teeth.

"Nonsense," Sherlock said, stopping front of the bouncer. "Redbush," he said, his voice loud and uncaring of anyone listening.

The rather tall, rather wide man in the black suit eyed him. "Wait," he commanded. He stepped back and pressed at the bluetooth device in his ear, talking for a moment. Then he stepped forward again, counting in the next four women in the line. He looked at Sherlock. "How many?"

"Four," Sherlock said with a smug smile.

"Go," the man nodded.

"About time," Sherlock grumbled, ducking in through the door. John avoided the accusatory eyes of the women still waiting in the chilly air and followed. Sam folded himself under the doorjamb and did likewise. Dean caught the eye of the the first woman in the queue, watching him with a shy smile.

"Ah, hey, doorman-dude," Dean said.

The bouncer glared at him.

Dean's thumb went right, indicating the line of women. "Can I take her with me?"

"No, sir," the man intoned. "Go."

Dean looked at the woman. "Sorry, sweetheart."

She shrugged and he looked apologetic, before going in through the club door.

The inside was everything Dean had hoped for and more; a cloakroom off to the right, promising to babysit coats and jackets for the princely sum of five returnable pounds per item, two large doors hiding washrooms to the left, and in front, a pair of very tall black curtains. Music was already pounding through the floor, the air, his bones, and while it was definitely not his personal brand of melodic entertainment, it did give the entire evening a promising soundtrack.

Sherlock and Sam were already being patted down by a very wide young man in a grey suit, watched carefully by two ladies in matching attire and rather serious faces. As Dean got over the promise of the environment, he found himself and John both checked and waved past.

Sherlock swished the large curtain aside and strode through. Sam and John followed, and Dean made every effort not to get left behind. He brushed the heavy curtain aside and pushed his way through.

He looked up and stopped dead.

"Whoa," he managed.

He was vaguely aware of the other three weaving through the crowd, Sherlock's mass of dark hair heading for some silver railings that would take him upstairs. John was pulling himself up after him, but Sam had paused to look back.

"Dean!" he called. "Any time, man!"

Dean's eyes would not close. The huge room was a mass of jumping, writhing people, music blaring so loudly Dean was unsure if his ears still worked. The bass was causing the soles of his boots to vibrate just slightly, sending a grin through him to shine out through his face. Someone pushed into him from behind, but when he managed to turn in the polite press of people he met a smutty giggle and a one-point-twenty-one-gigawatt smile under a flip of blonde hair.

"'Scuze me, love," the woman chuckled, sliding all of her against his front to push past.

"Oh, really, be my guest," he said weakly, watching her go.

"Dean!" Sam called again.

He tore his gaze away from the mêlée of dancing bodies - mostly female - and found his brother watching him. He cleared his throat and squeezed through the crowd slowly, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs.

"Are you done?" Sam frowned over the music.

"I so could be," Dean breathed. He looked up at his brother. "Let's just watch Sherlock and the wrapping," he called over the noise.

"Yeah, I got that," Sam shot back. He turned to go.

Dean grabbed his arm, hauling him back. His right hand went up behind the back of his jacket. "Take this," he said. He pulled something free and pushed it into his brother's front.

"What is it?" Sam asked, already grasping the item and shoving it inside his jacket. He squeezed it in his grip, trying to divine the shape.

"It's the real knife," Dean hissed.

"What! You gave it to Sherlock!"

"No, I gave Sherlock a kitchen knife in the right wrapping. I don't know how far we can trust these two not to lose it," Dean said. Sam went to move but Dean's fingers dug into his jacket almost painfully. "We don't let that leave you or me, got it?"

"Ok Dean, I got it," Sam protested.

Dean let his arm go. "Ok then. Let's get eyes on Sherlock."

Sam shuffled the item under his jacket as he turned to the stairs. He wended his way up, Dean following, and they found John and Sherlock at the top. The walkway up here was ten feet wide, with railings for safety that allowed people to dance very close to the edge, or simply look down over the dancefloor on the ground floor.

"You took your time," Sherlock announced. "Distracted, were we?"

"Dude, look at this place," Dean said, as if it should be obvious.

John hid a smile. "Yes, well. As… uhm… fantastic as the scenery is, let's split up, shall we?"

Sherlock turned and pushed through the crowd in his long coat, toward the DJ booth far on the right of the stairs. Sam nodded to Dean and pushed the other way. He went toward a space reserved for tables and chairs. Every chair was full of two - or more - bodies resting from the fun and games, while the tables were littered with branded bottles that told tales of everything from beer to mixed spirits.

John and Dean looked at each other.

John leant closer to Dean's shoulder. "Let's just make sure Sherlock doesn't get jumped, shall we?" he called over the music.

Dean raised his eyebrows at him. "I promise at least one of my eyes will be on him the entire time."

John couldn't stop a smile. "I know this place might look great, but it rarely is."

Dean frowned at him. "How many times you been here?"

"Many."

"By yourself?"

"Of course."

Dean looked around the dancing, pulsing upper floor, filled with bodies squeezing past others, against others, around others. "And how many women have you picked up?"

"Less than one," John admitted.

Dean's attention was brought sharply back to John. His face morphed into one of outrage as his hand landed heavily on the shorter man's shoulder. "Dude, you're doing it wrong," he tutted. "Allow me to educate you."

"You really don't need to-"

The film sped up and the frames whizzed past. Sam snorted in amusement.

Dean looked over at him. "Oh come on, man. John's an ok dude - he just deserved a break, that's all."

"And you decided to hook him up," Sam smiled.

"Couldn't help it. He did that face on me."

"What face?" Sam asked.

"The face you pull on me when you can't get a wi-fi signal on your laptop," Dean said.

Sam let himself chuckle, then got over it. "Do you remember what happened next?"

"Not a clue."

Dean tutted and looked up at the ceiling. "Again with the drips in the eye!" he accused, wiping at his left cheek. "What kinda place is this?"

Sam watched him test at his eye, find it dry, and then frowned. "Maybe it's not water. Maybe it's just you," he said carefully.

Dean looked at him. "I'm tellin' you, Sam, something keeps hittin' me in the eye and then disappearing!"

"Riiiight," Sam said, with enough sarcasm to float the QE2.

The movie slowed to a stop, making them both look at the screen again. The film flickered into place and then showed

Dean and John with two women. Dean was standing comfortably close to one of them, her smile encouraging him to lean even closer to be heard. His right hand was wrapped round a beer bottle, his other poking an index finger into her long brown hair, winding it round idly as they attempted to talk over the noise.

John was looking rather less relaxed, his beer bottle half full and his face one of caution as he tried to keep the woman in front of him engaged.

The woman with Dean put a hand to his jacket and pulled, allowing him to say something in her ear. She laughed and wriggled, pushing him back to put a few inches between them. Dean was grinning, until he caught sight of John's face from the corner of his eye.

"Hey," he said, folding his free arm round the woman's back. He turned them both to see John and his captive. "Has he been tellin' you all his army stories? No wonder you're bored," he said to the woman.

"Army stories?" she asked, surprised. She flicked blonde hair over her shoulder. "Hardly."

"That's cos they're a little rough," Dean said seriously, nodding. "John's a bit of a hard case. Got shot, you know, had to come home."

"What?" the woman gasped. She turned on John. "Really?"

"Uh - yeah," he managed, surprised.

"If you ask him real nice, I bet he'll even show you where," Dean winked.

The woman smiled slyly. She folded her hand round John's arm and pulled him away with her, into the crowd. John had a moment to look worried before he was swallowed up by the press of people.

Dean felt an arm move round his back, and then the woman's hand was in his hair at the back of his head. "You know all the right things to say, don't you?" she teased.

"I don't just talk."

"God I hope not," she chuckled. She smoothed her hand to his face and kissed him. It was a long moment before she eased him back. "And you've actually been a gent so far."

"Is that a good thing?" he grinned.

"Oh yes," she laughed. She noticed Dean's eyes go past her into the crowd. "You worried about your mate? Don't worry - she won't hurt him. Much," she giggled.

He chuckled. "I'm kind of responsible for getting him home, Liz. If anything happens to him I'm in trouble."

"Nothing will happen to him," she said, aware of his eyes going over her other shoulder, as if to the other side of the room. "You, on the other hand," she dared.

"What?" he asked, his face serious. His right hand came up slowly, brushing hair from her face.

She was smiling as his hand slid down over her skin. "I could imagine a lot happening to you."

Dean let his hand slide, falling into her hair and away, down her back. "What kind of things?"

"You want me to make a list?" she asked.

"It's too dark to read in here," he said. "You'll have to just show me."

"Ooh," she winked. "Let's go somewhere more private." She pulled and he

Sam reached out and slapped Dean's arm. "Dude - you didn't."

"Yeah I did," he protested. "It'd been so long I couldn't be sure the pipes were even working, ok? Leave me alone."

Sam huffed. "You were supposed to be watching the crowd - watching Sherlock."

"I was - and I saw you hitting on that girl by the exit, Mr Perfect," he shot back.

"We were just talking - and I was still watching! -And what happened to John?"

"I can't remember yet, ok? Can we pay attention to the movie that's showing us now?" Dean accused.

Sam folded his arms. His eyes went back to the screen, seeing

Sherlock looking around the club, watching people bobbing about, mingling, talking, dancing.

"Evening," said a woman's voice next to him.

"Yes it is," he confirmed.

"Are you not drinking?" she asked politely.

He turned and looked her up and down, noting the high heels that matched her dress - slightly below the knee, not too open but not too dowdy. Open shoulders to look inviting, deep V to attract males, small silver chain - Winnie the Pooh charm with 925 assayer's mark on it, probably a gift from a family member. Shoulder-length brown hair, cut probably a week ago, dark eyes, friendly face. Loves dogs and her mother, makes regular visits. Deserves more than trying to pick up men in a club for pathetic singles. "No," he said clearly.

"Ah. I've been watching you," she said shyly. "You don't seem to be with anyone. If you're planning on meeting someone, you should probably speak to people."

He appraised her. "My friends are here. I'm waiting for them to get bored. Then we'll leave."

"Oh. You know… there are men here too."

"This is obvious." His eyes flicked up across the room. John's moved out of sight. He looked right. Dean's gone. He looked back at the woman, heard her talking and saw her mouth moving, but put it all aside to check Sam's position. Gone. Is it so hard to just stick to a plan?

"-But you know, either way, you can come and join me and my friends, if you like."

Oh god, she's still talking. What was it John said I was supposed to say? Ah yes. "Thank you."

"No worries," she smiled. She patted him on the shoulder, then turned and walked off.

His shoulders sagged just slightly, but his razor-sharp eyes went back over the crowd. He spotted John's head in the crowd, on the lower level, very close to a woman's blonde head. Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept surveying. Eventually he found Sam's shaggy hair by virtue of the woman wearing a bright red, tight-fitting dress right in front of the tall Winchester. Careful scrutiny of the room did not reveal Dean, however, and Sherlock re-doubled his efforts.

His eyes swept back and just about caught John's head disappearing into the crowd. The detective's eyes went back to Sam and the girl in the red dress - or, more accurately, where they had been. The spot was now occupied with dancers in black dresses and watchers in jeans and smart shirts.

Sherlock stepped back from the railings to curse to himself.

Until something bumped into his elbow. "Heard you had something for sale," said a voice.

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