Sam cursed silently, checking his phone again. Why couldn't Dean at least leave his phone's tracking on if he wanted to not worry his little brother? This was ridiculous. He could've sent a simple text, something like I'm not dead or kidnapped, just need some time.

"I just can't believe he's still alive. I didn't want to leave him in the apartment alone- but he's with Molly. I suppose after everything, she's trustable. But I saw him jump off the building, you know. Didn't think he was ever going to be back. It's honestly a miracle," John briskly walked alongside Sam, trying to keep pace with his long legs and rambling.

Sam managed a grim smile and said, "Yeah, that happens a lot when you're dealing with stuff like angels and Heaven."

"So what happens now? Obviously that man really is an angel, unless you've devised an extremely clever hoax to trick Sherlock. And it's practically impossible to do that," John mused.

"Well, first I'm going to find Dean and give him a piece of my mind. I get that he's probably pissed off at Cas, but he can't just run off like this. How does that make him any fucking better than Castiel?" Sam fumed.

"Where do you think he would've gone?"

"Knowing him, probably off to get drunk some place."

"Speaking from personal experience, I know quite a bit about all the bars and liquor stores in London. We can start hitting them, one after another. See if he's there," suggested John.

Sam hesitated, "Should we be wandering around this dangerous city? I mean, Cas did say there were demon infestations and whatnot going around. Maybe we'd be better off waiting for him back at Molly's place."

"If you're going to call it a dangerous city, Sam, you also have to be willing to admit you're going to leave your brother alone in it. And I don't think it works that way."

He had to admit John had a point. So he agreed to try all the places John could think of in a close radius where one could get suitably drunk. It was only then that he noticed and asked, "Where's your cane? I thought you had a limp."

"Yes, I thought so too," and that was all he would say about that.

After two bars and a gas station, Sam finally asked, "What's Molly like?"

"Molly Hooper is a quiet and respectable woman. Infatuated with Sherlock."

"Oh? You mean she and him are… like, together or something?"

"Not at all!" John scoffed. "I don't think Sherlock is interested in being 'together' with anyone," John made air-quotations with his fingers. "He's always just kept to himself, you know. I thought I was his best friend, but if you made a list of all the things even I don't know about him, it'd stretch on forever. There's something about being so smart that's made him so bloody stupid with people. Careless, yeah?"

"Yeah. So, Molly's single, is she?"

If John had any of Sherlock's deduction abilities, he would have caught on immediately. But then again, if he had Sherlock's abilities, he would've figured out Sam's intentions from the start- increase in heartbeat, detectable flush on his cheeks, very faint stutter in his voice, glances he continually stole her way, and his tendency to ask her any superfluous and probably pointless questions he had. Instead, John answered, "Yeah, pretty sure. Last person I know she dated was Jim Moriarty. Fucking bastard. He's the reason Sherlock got into this mess."

Sam turned his head ever so slightly, noting the tendency John had to associate everything back to Sherlock. An incredibly deep friendship or did he share Molly's infatuation? "Where are we off to next?"

"There's another bar close by; but before that, I was wondering if you'd be okay with me stopping by my apartment? It's just in the next street. I need to let Ms. Hudson know I'm okay. Landlady. She worries, especially after Sherlock…" John trailed off, preferring to not finish the sentence.

"Oh, yeah. No problem," Sam said, trying not to show his increasing anxiety toward Dean.

They made their way to 221B Baker Street. John used his key to open the door while Sam leaned on the wall outside and waited. Just after the front door closed behind John, a sleek black car pulled up. Sam frowned and warily felt for his gun.

When the window rolled down, he found a pretty young brunette staring at him. She frowned and asked sharply, "Where's John?"

"Who's asking?" Sam retorted.

"Is he inside, then?"

"He may be; he may not be."

"And who are you?"

"No one important," even as he spoke, Sam realized they were getting nowhere with this verbal sparring. His confusion was increasing.

The woman turned to glance behind him as John stepped out of the apartment. John's eyes widened and his smile vanished. "Anthea?" he demanded. "What're you doing here?"

"You know why I'm here. Your presence is requested," she stated simply.

"But… I'm with a friend," John gestured toward Sam.

"He should feel welcome to join us, then. I'm sure there will be a certain amount of interest in meeting him as well," Anthea examined Sam and winked.

John sighed, troubled. But he opened the door readily enough and got in. He looked expectantly at Sam. "Well, c'mon. Dean can wait a while longer. We really haven't got a choice; it seems we have an appointment with the government."

Wondering what the hell they'd gotten involved in, Sam joined John in the backseat. Anthea was staring at her phone, busy texting and completely disregarding her two guests. "So where are we going now?" Sam asked.

"It's always different. You'll see."

"No, John, I won't see. I want to know why we stopped… our mission and got into a random car for no apparent purpose."

John gave Anthea a meaningful look, then nodded to her phone. He shook his head.

Understanding the general gist, she's talking to someone about us, Sam busied himself staring out the car at the signs and street posts. At least he should remember how to get back if he fell into a tough spot.

The car stopped soon enough at a small abandoned and unfinished building. "I'll see you later," Anthea remarked without looking up from her phone.

As soon as both men had exited the car into the building, John started talking very fast, "We're going to meet a man who's incredibly smart and talented; he's more powerful than anyone we know; you really have to be careful. He's-"

"Mycroft Homes," said a voice silhouetted in the dark room. "Brother of Sherlock Holmes, no official job status. And you're Sam Winchester. Pleasure." The man held out his hand toward Sam, the other hand clutching an umbrella.

"How do you know my name?" Sam purposefully crossed his arms.

"If we're really going to ignore cordiality and manners, let's jump right into the fray, shall we?" the man said pleasantly enough. He turned to John, "He's alive, isn't he?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," John muttered.

"You're not a very good liar, John." Mycroft chuckled unexpectedly. "I don't know how he did it, but by God. If anyone could do it, he could. Really should've trusted him a bit more, he's my own flesh and blood after all."

John watched him gush with pride before asking, "How do you think that?"

"Someone was going through the American Persons Database, searching for the Winchester brothers. The only person I can think of capable and clever enough to hack both my ID and password is him. The possibility that it could be anyone else never even crossed my mind."

"Well, you're right. He's back."

Mycroft sighed in relief. Even the most fantastic minds have doubts in them. He suddenly looked years younger, a bit less angry and less official. "That son of a bitch- excuse me, mother," he said jovially.

"Don't you dare go harassing it or spoiling anything, Mycroft! If anyone can ruin Sherlock's mood, it's you- so leave him alone!"

"Oh, John, your domestic is showing. But anyway, how did he do it?"

"Can't tell you," John said, shaking his head. "Sorry. You shouldn't even know."

"Never mind, I'll figure it out." Mycroft returned his attention to Sam. "Ah, and the infamous Winchesters. You run around making a ruckus everywhere you go. No sense of damage control- but I suppose when you're good enough at the damaging bit, you don't have to be. Don't know what Sherlock's gotten mixed in now if it's to do with you two. But on behalf of the British government, I must thank you for two things: handling the Apocalypse very well and being indirectly responsible for the demise of Bela Talbot, who has been rather… wanted for certain crimes against the Royal Family."

"You know about all of that?" Sam demanded, looking stricken.

"Know about it? We arrange for it half the time and cover up for it the other half. You think Torchwood is just sitting idle?" Mycroft rolled his eyes and continued, "I just wanted to confirm with my brother's dear friend of his return. But if you two need help with anything, we extend our welcome. You'll find the car outside."

Mycroft turned to leave, but John said quickly, "Actually, would you help us track down a phone? It's American."

The older Holmes brother frowned. "Who?"

John looked up at Sam, who clenched his teeth in frustration at having to take help from a stranger but answered, "My brother."

Now looking amused, Mycroft pulled out his phone and asked, "Pain in the arse, aren't they? Siblings? What's the number?"

"Wait, but his phone's turned off."

"Hardly an issue," Mycroft waved his umbrella and entered the number Sam ratted off. A moment later, he held out the phone so the screen faced the two men. "It's the pub across from the music shop on 23rd," he pointed out on the map.

"I know where. Cheers!" John said; he lightly touched Sam's hand and cocked his head toward the entrance. "And we should be off now. The longer you stand in front of Mycroft Holmes, the more he figures out about you."

"Is that right? Tell me, John, how's that hangover? And the foot infection?" Mycroft smirked.

A muscle in John's jaw twitched and his nostrils flared. "Let's go, Sam."

Mycroft chuckled. "Tell you gentlemen what- Anthea and the driver'll drop you off at the pub to apologize for any inconvenience. And John, don't mention this meeting to Sherlock. I mean it this time. When my brother's ready, he'll tell me he's alive."

"What makes you think that if you can catch my lies, Sherlock can't?"

"I'll leave that to you. Goodbye, John. Nice meeting you, Sam. Give Dean my regards," Mycroft said and turned away.


Dean was the only patron in the pub, sitting in a corner booth and sulking in the darkest corner when Sam and John walked in.

John peered at him and said, "Think you'd better handle him alone. I'll go to the bar."

Sam nodded and went to his brother. "Dean, get up. Let's go back to Molly's apartment. This entire thing is getting silly. Just be glad Cas is back, okay? Your theatrics ruin the occasion."

"My theatrics? I wasn't the one who disappeared and finally showed up bleeding like a stuck pig with news of new prophets and threats!" Dean growled. He gulped down his drink and started for another one. He spotted John. "What's that guy doing here?"

"Yeah, like I was gonna go around London on my own. Probably get lost. John helped me find you." Sam wondered if he should mention Mycroft but passed over it. Another time. Dean has plenty of issues.

"You let that random guy helped you?"

"Dean, 'that random guy' stitched Cas up. We kidnapped and kinda beat him up. Be glad he decided to help us. Besides, I kinda like having him around."

"What's there to like? He's obviously a douchebag."

"Not really," Sam frowned. "He's cool. Talk to him."

"No, thank you!" Dean quickly snapped. "I don't know why you bothered to even talk to that tool."

"Because he reminds me of Bobby!" Sam's response was just as sharp and fast.

Both Winchesters turned to examine the man. "Well, he does wear lots of plaid." Dean observed.

"Ordered a double shot of absinthe; alcoholic."

"Pretty mean hook; used to violence."

"Instantly went to Cas; quick reflexes; well under pressure."

"Ex-army; probably carries a gun around with him all the time."

"Pretty open-minded; took the entire angel thing rather well."

Dean shook his head suddenly. "He doesn't wear a cap. Where's the cap? Nope, he's not Bobby. And he never will be. Actually, how did you even make the comparison?"

Sam shrugged. "The point is, you need to come back."

"I don't need to anything, Sammy," Dean hissed the nickname mockingly.

"Quit calling me that. And even if you don't need to, I bet Cas needs you to."

He hit a sensitive issue. Dean sighed. "Fine. Get your pseudo-Bobby and blow this joint. No pretty girls here anyway."

Sam grinned and fetched John, who knocked back his drink in a single gulp and asked "Make up with Dean, then?" Sam agreed and the three men exited the pub together. With Dean there, John said, "I was talking to the bartender. Asked him if anything strange had been going on. He said it was funny I should ask because just last night they found an entire family murdered. All of them had weird tattoos and pinpricks on their neck. Like vampires."

"Nah, not vampires. They don't have traditional fangs like Dracula. They use all of their teeth." Dean corrected.

"Never mind, then. Anyway, police thinks it was some kind of cult suicide. They're keeping it very quiet because if the news gets out, citizens will be prone to mass hysteria. He only heard about it because his sister's on the force. Hm, but I bet I know someone who could tell us more about it..." John trailed off.

"Who?" Sam rose to the bait.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."