Hi hi hi!

Happy Halloween-Thanksgiving-Christmas-Hanukah-Kwanza-New Year-Valentine's/Single's Awareness Day everyone! :D I know it's a little late, but hey, better late than never, amiright? Heh, heh, heh . . .

Please don't kill me. ;-;

Thank you soooooooo much to everyone who's stuck around after all this time. I hope it was not in vain!

Without further ado, the next chapter!

Going Somewhere

Boulder, Colorado.

Tucked into a picturesque valley below the iconic Flatirons, Boulder hosted thriving tech and natural foods industries, supported a renowned entrepreneurial community, had some of the region's best restaurants, and was home to many federal research labs and a world-class university.

Or at least, that's what it says on their website.

"Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Ch-king!

To be fair, it wasn't the worst place Dean's ever been to. The city was perfect postcard material, complete with mountains and bright skies and all that other nature stuff. But since the moment he pulled into town, he had to fight to keep his face disinterested—especially with his majesty, Lord Pain-in-the-Ass, sitting in the backseat waiting to deduce all sorts of crap from the rearview mirror—all the while his insides twisted and burned and his entire body itched to ditch the deadweight and turn the whole place upside down by himself. He always did his best work alone anyway.

"Thank you! Come again!"

Instead, Dean gave the cashier a tight smile and walked out of the 7-Eleven like he was just another tourist.

As soon as he slid into the Impala's driver seat, the Doctor looked up from the box of old tapes in his lap and said, "Did you get the thingies with the yellow and the cream?"

Dean frowned. "You had at least fifty on the ride from the airport."

The Doctor stared at him.

After a few moments of staring back, Dean rolled his eyes and handed him the plastic bag. "Yeah, I got them."

"YES."

Sherlock leaned forward in his seat. "Did you get the—"

Dean chucked a box of nicotine patches over his shoulder and hit Sherlock square on the forehead. Sherlock yelped, surprised, and fell back. Rubbing the injury, Sherlock glared daggers at the Winchester in the rearview mirror.

"That was uncalled for."

"Oh, it was called for," Dean quipped.

That was the most they've spoken to each other since the meeting. Halfway between where S.H.I.E.L.D. dropped them off and Boulder, the Doctor decided to break the heavy silence with conversation. And not the good kind either, if there can even be a good kind given the situation. He was quickly acquainted with a certain sponge-like pastry, allowing silence to rule the car once again.

Since they were on a tight schedule, the group made a beeline for the first objective. Agent Harris had decided that Dean, Sherlock, and the Doctor were all professional enough to undergo their own investigation and allowed them to come up with their own plan once they touched down. A marvelous idea, until he told them not to split up and go off alone as it was against S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol. Dean suspected Harris was really just trying to push the whole teamwork thing, although—he glanced at Sherlock through the rearview mirror again—he highly doubted that was going to work out too well.

Luckily for them they were at the very least able to reach some sort of agreement before the plane landed. Unluckily this "agreement" was reached via shouting match between Sherlock, who wanted to go straight to the morgue, and Dean, who wanted to go to where the body was found. Neither side would budge, so when the argument nearly came to blows, it was the Doctor who ultimately decided for them.

"I don't know how long the morgue will hold a body," he said, "or how much they'll tamper with it. The same idea is true for where the victim was found, yes, but at least the building will be in the same place by the time we get to it." As much as he hated to give in to what Sherlock wanted, Dean had to admit that the Doctor was right.

The Impala slid tentatively into a parking space right outside the main entrance to the Boulder County Coroner's Office. As Dean cut the engine, the Doctor quickly wiped away the cream gathered at the corners of his mouth and said, "So how are we getting in?"

"Easy." Dean handed a dark rectangle to the Doctor and tossed another one back to Sherlock. "We walk."

"That's it?" the Doctor asked. "No sneaky lock-picking the back door? No crawling through air vents? Just walk in through the front door?"

"Sorry, Mission Impossible. Let's try to keep it simple."

The Doctor pouted and flipped open the rectangle. Inside was a golden badge and a fake ID with his picture. Sherlock tucked his badge into the inside of his coat. "Impersonating a government official," he said. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Don't act so high and mighty," Dean snorted back. "Besides, this time I have the government's blessing. That Saunders chick gave 'em to me before we left; we should have absolutely no problem getting in."

He was right—the intern at the front desk immediately got that familiar nervous-awe look the second Dean said "FBI."

"You made it just in the nick of time," the intern said as he led them to the back room. "We usually don't keep bodies this long, but we got a call from higher up to hold onto it a bit longer."

"Would've been here sooner," Dean quipped, "but we ran into traffic on the way over."

The intern's brow furrowed a bit at the sarcasm, and he said no more. He was barely out of the room before Sherlock immediately rushed the table and pulled the crisp white sheet using only his fingertips.

Dean gave a low whistle and grimaced. "Well someone's been busy," he remarked as Sherlock pulled back the sheet to the corpse's midsection. Just as Coulson said, the throat area was ripped open, seemingly by animal claws. But that was where the major strangeness ended. The body was molted with bruises, some fresh and some almost fully healed; most were concentrated on the face, neck, and ribcage. Cuts, scrapes, and one non-fatal stab wound, also in various stages of healing, marred the body as well. Not the kind of wounds resulting from an animal attack.

Sherlock opened the mouth and peered inside. Just as he expected—two missing teeth. He huffed and removed his fingers.

Yes, there was no denying that this nineteen-year-old has been in several, unmistakably brutal fights. The yellowed bruises alone are at least two weeks old, and the fresher ones were received at most two days before the victim died. Sherlock had seen these types of wounds on many people, living and dead, during his various cases but never had the sight been more irksome than in this singular instant. Sherlock turned the corpse's head one way and then the other and spotted something interesting. Amongst the bruises and cuts was a thin scabbed-over line across the victim's neck, a small incision a few centimeters from the spine no longer than his thumb. A strange blue-green-purple bruise with darker, hair-thin veins radiated out from the cut.

An infection? Sherlock didn't remember seeing that on the other victims' bodies or any mention of it in their autopsy reports. Something to look at when they returned to the plane.

"I'm not seeing anything overly unusual," the Doctor admitted regretfully. "Poor chap looks like he was beaten to death before something frightful got ahold of him."

Sherlock hmph'ed. "Well, Mr. Winchester?" he said without looking at the hunter. "What say you? A psychotic fairy got ahold of him? Or perhaps you think Big Foot met him in the woods."

Dean shot to detective a poisoned glare and pulled out his EMF detector. The moment he flipped the switch, the device screamed and flashed all five of its lights. Sherlock and the Doctor flinched at the sudden noise. Dean's eyebrows jumped up. He hadn't even put the thing that close to the body yet and already the needle was practically trying to fly out of the machine. He took several steps back. The EMF kept screaming. Dean kept moving backwards until he was about five feet away from the table where the corpse lay. The EMF abruptly stopped screaming and settled to a quiet mumble with only one light on, indicating that the device was on but not picking up any EMF.

Dean frowned and took one small step forward. Immediately the EMF detector started screaming again. Dean quickly stepped back again. The detector went quiet.

A bad feeling tugged at the pits of Dean's gut. Going on instinct, he walked in a circle around where the body lay.

"Huh," he said when he returned from his original point.

"What is it?" the Doctor asked.

"The electromagnetic field makes a complete circle around the body," Dean explained.

"What does it mean?"

"Dunno, but it ain't normal."

The Doctor frowned and turned back towards the body.

Dean pocketed the detector and said, "So what about you, Detective McGruff? What do your all-seeing eyes see?"

". . . . . . Oh I'm sorry, did you say something? I mistook your voice for a gnat flying around my ear."

"Is it physically impossible for you NOT to be an ass for more than three seconds?"

"Is it physically impossible for you NOT to ARGUE for more than three seconds?" snapped the Doctor. "Say something useful, or don't say anything at all."

The two men immediately fell quiet and stayed quiet until the Doctor finished his look-over of the corpse. The Doctor turned each hand over, inspecting carefully before putting it back. He pulled out a long, cylindrical metal device from inside his coat and pointed the blue tip at the victim's hands. A blue light shown on the body and faded. Tucking the strange device away in his coat again, he then pulled the white sheet over the victim's head.

"Did you find anything, Doctor?" asked Sherlock in a tone that could be mistaken for mild respect.

"There is a faint, almost unnoticeable staining on the tips of his right hand," the Doctor replied. "I believe it is electromagnetic jelly, typically found on some planets in the 392nd precinct of the Novar gala—"

"Aaand that's where I stop you," Sherlock said, every iota of maybe-respect flying out the window. "The moment we bring aliens into rational conversation is the moment our chances of solving this case in a timely fashion diminish exponentially. Electromagnetic jelly? Surely you can come up with something better than that."

Partially-bruised apple was the color Dean thought the Doctor's face looked like at Sherlock's comment, but the detective wasn't done.

"I tolerated the first mention of aliens because it was mildly amusing—"

THAT was toleration?! Dean and the Doctor thought, thinking back to Sherlock's insults on the helicarrier.

"—but from now on, I will not be so forgiving. One more word about extraterrestrial nonsense, and I will take my abilities elsewhere. Is that understood?"

Dean glanced at the Doctor from the corner of his eye. The fury in the Doctor's face collapsed into concentrated cold so his chocolate eyes were like twin chips of ice.

"Perfectly," the Doctor said calmly.

"Good." Sherlock began to walk away, saying, "Now if there's nothing else to be found here, we have other destinations to reach before time is up. And besides," the detective paused to smirk at the others, "standing around a corpse for so long gets a bit morbid, don't you think?"

Smirk still on his lips, Sherlock turned and walked out of the autopsy room. Dean moved to stand beside the Doctor and the two watched him go in silence. They stared, and after a time, Dean finally spoke.

"He's gonna end up dead before this is over, isn't he?" he said.

"Yes," the Doctor replied. "And if they ask, it was an accident."

"Agreed."

The home of Heather Keatley was small, older, and sat apart from the other houses in the neighborhood. No one had mowed the lawn in a while, the bushes surrounding the house reached for the lower-level windows, and the pastel blue paint chipped here and there. There were three trees on the whole property, and they were tall and wide-canopied enough to give the place a shadowed atmosphere even though the sun was at midday height.

The Impala carefully crept onto the worn driveway before coming to a slow stop. Dean and Sherlock immediately stepped out, but the Doctor took a few moments to fiddle with something Dean couldn't see from this angle. Uninterested, the hunter turned to the consulting detective and said, "I know you're such a great people-person and all, but why don't you let me do the talking while you . . . deduce . . . stuff."

"Very well," replied Sherlock, which surprised Dean a little. The Doctor finally climbed out of the car and asked, "What's going on?"

"I was just telling Mr. Sunshine over here to let me do most of the talking," Dean said. "If that's alright by you."

"I don't see why not. While you two are talking with Mrs. Keatley, I'm going to snoop around the outside. I have a feeling there's something important to be discovered here."

"You go right ahead," Dean said and adjusted his tie. "Come on, Sunshine. Let's get this over with." Sherlock pointedly ignored the jibe and followed him up to the front door. The Doctor disappeared around the side of the house.

At the top of the hazard that was the porch stairs, Dean rang the doorbell and waited. Not much time passed before soft footsteps could be heard. Dean squared his shoulders.

The chipping black door opened just enough for a weary, pale face to peer out. "Can I help you?" the woman asked demurely.

"Are you Mrs. Keatley?"

"I am."

Dean pulled a badge from within his coat and held it out for her to see. Sherlock jumped to do the same. "I'm Special Agent Wilson, FBI, and this is my partner, Special Agent McGruff."

Mrs. Keatley eyed the badge warily. Dean didn't even bat an eye. These badges were brand spanking new, fresh from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s printer and as a result they were way more legit than his old ones. Finally deciding that the two strangers on her doorstep were the real thing, Mrs. Keatley's dark eyes flicked back up to Dean's face and she deadpanned, "I'm assuming you're here to talk about my boy?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Mmm." The woman took a step back and opened the door a bit wider, allowing the pair to step inside. "You boys are slower than the rest," she commented as she sat down in one of the armchairs in the living room. "My boy's been gone for a week now and I've had all sorts of government types come to me with questions. Just when I think I can finally have a bit of peace around here . . ."

From the couch across from her, Dean opened his mouth to speak but surprisingly he was beaten to the punch. "I'm very sorry to prolong your grief," Sherlock said sincerely. "I promise we will not trouble you any longer than we have to."

Mrs. Keatley was clearly taken aback—not nearly as much as Dean, who almost tripped—by the detective's kindness. Some of the harshness in her expression lessened and she dropped her gaze.

"My boy's been gone for a week now," she murmured, "but I still feel like any minute now he'll walk through that door again."

"What was your son like?" asked Dean. "Any strange behaviors before he died?"

Mrs. Keatley sighed and leaned back in her chair. "My son," she began, "was a troubled boy. His father died in service when he was fourteen; he took his death very hard. Eventually he got mixed up in the wrong crowd and got himself in all sorts of trouble."

"Like?" Dean asked.

"Drugs, mostly." Her voice cracked once, but she glared at the men as if daring them to think ill of her son. "Oh don't give me that look, sonny—I know everything that goes on under my roof. Stubborn boy. I think it started after I was laid off; money was tight to begin with, and me losing my job put us in a very dangerous situation. After the second time he was arrested, he dropped out of school and devoted his life to dealing drugs."

Sherlock fought a smirk. So he was right about the arrests and the drug-dealing. But something wasn't right. . . .

"Mrs. Keatley," the consulting detective asked with as much politeness as he could fake, "your son wasn't a violent man despite his . . . choice in profession?"

"No," the woman said, but Sherlock noted the hesitation. "No, my boy, for all his teenaged angst and broodiness, would never harm a soul."

Sherlock's expression didn't change, and he looked at her as if waiting for her to continue. Taking this as a sign of disbelief, Mrs. Keatley readjusted her shawl uncomfortably and said, "I take it you saw hi— . . . his body before you came here."

"No one gets hurt like that walking down the street, Mrs. Keatley," Dean said.

"That is true. Yes, my son got into plenty of fights in his time, but I don't believe for a second that he started any of them. Even at a young age, he never had a stomach for violence."

Sherlock almost leapt up with a shout of victory. Of course he had been right this whole time. Sherlock masked a self-satisfied smile behind his hands.

"You seem pretty okay with your son dealing drugs." Dean held his palms out. "Didn't you try to stop him?"

"Of course I did," the woman snapped, almost startling Dean. "Any mother in her right mind would!" The fire in her eyes softened into low-burning despair. "I confronted him one night about it. He looked so tired—he hadn't slept right in days, but when I told him I knew what he was doing and that he needed to stop before he got seriously hurt, he suddenly came alive and started shouting at me, saying I had no right to order him around. He said something about doing so much for me, making sure that we had enough money to keep a roof over our head and food on the table. Things were said that should never have been said, and he stormed out. I didn't see him for two whole weeks after that, and when he finally came home . . ."

Unable to continue, Mrs. Keatley looked to the window. The boys sat patiently in utter silence as she waded through the tide of overwhelming grief for her lost child.

Mrs. Keatley took a deep breath and turned her misty eyes back to the two strangers. "When he finally came home," she continued in a broken whisper, "he was so tired and so battered that he fell upon that couch—" she pointed one knobbed finger to where they sat "—and slept for the entire day. I was so happy he was alive that I swore to myself that I would never speak of his habits again.

"But God in heaven was it hard. Have you ever had to watch someone destroy themselves while you could only stand back and let them? There were some nights he came home later than usual so banged up you'd think he just came out of a war zone."

Dean gripped his hands with greater force.

"What happened the night Jeremy died?" Sherlock asked.

Mrs. Keatley flinched at the mention of her son's name. Dean shot Sherlock a look. It went ignored.

"I don't know what happened," she said hoarsely. "He was no different than he usually was . . . though he did act a bit more nervous than usual just before he left for the last time. I didn't think anything of it at the time . . . but he never came home. He was always late coming home and I always stayed up for him, but this one time I was so tired, I fell asleep before he got back." Mrs. Keatley's face crumpled and her voice shattered to a thousand pieces as she rasped, "When I woke the next morning, an officer was at my doorstep, saying they found his body inside a condemned building on the other side of town. If I'd just stopped him, if I'd just stayed awake . . ."

Dean moved forward, put his hand over the woman's, and looked her straight into her watery hazel eyes. "Mrs. Keatley," he said kindly, "what happened to your son was not your fault. Nothing you could've done would have changed anything. You understand?"

Mrs. Keatley nodded. Dean smiled and with a final pat on her hand, he rose. Sherlock followed suit.

"I think we've caused you enough grief for a while," he said as he buttoned his suit coat. "Thank you for your time and cooperation."

"Wait." Dean and Sherlock stopped mid-turn towards the door. Mrs. Keatley rose shakily from her chair, her face set into a determined scowl. "I don't care what the other police or the media or anyone else says," she said. "My boy's death was no accident. Call me crazy, but I know he was murdered. I feel it in my bones.

"Please, find the people who did this. Find the people who killed my Jeremy."

Outside, next to where the Impala was parked, a gentle breeze brushed against Dean's face, carrying the distant smell of barbeque grill with it. Dean sniffed. Burgers, for sure, and hot dogs, too. The smell made him nauseous.

The only thing making the current situation worse was the standing around doing nothing in awkward silence with Detective Sunshine. Dean leaned against the driver's side door with his back to the gloomy consulting detective, but that didn't do much to help Dean pretend he wasn't there.

"It's getting dark," Sherlock commented out of the blue, "and we still have yet to investigate the building where the victim was found."

"When did Agent What's-His-Face say he wanted us back at the jet?" Dean asked.

He heard the detective exhale, most likely annoyed at the constraint. "He wants the jet to take off at noon tomorrow," Sherlock replied.

Dean did a little mental math. It took them roughly four hours to get to Boulder from where S.H.I.E.L.D. dropped them off. To make it in time, they would have to wrap up whatever they were doing at the time before eight in the morning. Dean checked the time. Almost eight o'clock and like Sherlock said, they still needed to check out where the kid's body was found.

Then there was still that one thing he needed to do. . . .

"We better hurry it up, then," Dean grumbled. "Where the hell is Crazy Hair?"

Just then the Doctor appeared from around the side of the house. He ran up to the two waiting men, stopping in front of the Impala slightly winded.

Sherlock asked, "Did you find anything?"

"Hang on," Dean cut him off. "Let's talk about this in the car. We can't stand around on this lady's property too long before it starts looking suspicious."

As soon as the three slipped into the Impala, this time with the Doctor in the back and Sherlock riding shotgun, Dean pulled out of the Keatley drive way and the Doctor began.

"The back lawn was much bigger than I thought it would be," he explained. "There's a small shed a ways from the house that the victim must have used for his personal man cave as well as for storage. There wasn't much to it, just an arm chair, a telly, a small table, a cooler, and gardening supplies all over the place. A real mess, no one's been there since the lad died."

"How could you tell?" Dean asked.

"There was an opened can of soda and an unfinished plate of chicken on the table. The chicken had a bit of dust on it, and I figured someone would have cleared the meal away if they had gone in there. The shed door was also locked, so that kind of tipped me off, too."

"Interesting," Sherlock said in a way that made Dean and the Doctor unsure if he really thought that was interesting or not. "Anything else?"

"Nothing much, except this." The Doctor fished around his pockets and pulled out a white business card. He passed it to Sherlock. "I didn't think much of it before, but I took it just in case it was important."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the card. "'Doctor Felicia Boiga,'" he read. "'Private practitioner.' Excellent work, Doctor."

"Let me see," Dean said, reaching for the card. Sherlock handed it over. Dean glanced down at the small rectangle. The blood in his face rushed back to his chest, and he reflexively kept his face neutral.

Apparently that wasn't good enough.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked.

Dean passed the card back. "Nope," he replied coolly. "But this is pretty important, Doc. I'm thinking the vic went to the same doctor every time he got the snot beat out of him, so we should check this place out."

"Will we have time?" the Doctor asked. "Agent Harris seems very strict about his deadlines, and we still need to check out where the body was found."

"Yeah, I know," Dean huffed. "We talked about that while you were gone. How about I drop you guys off at the abandoned warehouse, I go scope out the doctor's office, and then I come back for you in a few hours?"

The Doctor dismissed the idea immediately. "We can't split up, remember?"

"Ya know, this whole go-with-what-the-secret-agency-tells-us to do thing is really starting to get on my nerves."

"There's a reason for it, you know," the Doctor said. "What if something happens to one of us and the others can't get there in time?"

"Yeah, well, that's the problem of whoever is dumb enough to get in trouble," Dean said without thinking. The Doctor fell quiet. Dean immediately regretted his words but he was in too much of a mood to apologize. Sherlock eyed the hunter expressionlessly but said nothing.

After a few moments of quiet Dean took a deep breath and said, "We'll check out the building tonight, find out what we can, and then head to the motel for some shut eye, and in the morning we'll swing by the doctor's office. If we run into overtime, we'll radio the jet and let them know we'll be running a bit late. How does that sound?"

"Very well," Sherlock said.

"We better hurry then," the Doctor said.

The rest of the ride was spent in total silence. Dean didn't even think to turn on the radio.

Nothing but a dull, obligatory murmur came from the EMF detector. Dean angrily shut the device off and shoved it in his pocket.

The Doctor looked about the building's expansive interior. Much of the size was on account of the collapsed second floor, the rest from the lack of furniture in the room. He wasn't entirely sure what the old building used to be, but it gave off a funny smell.

Sherlock rose from where he crouched by the white chalk outline of where Keatley's body was found. "Multiple signs of forced entry into a condemned building," he said. "Footprints in the dirt of varying size, style, and prominence as well as discarded rubbish and graffiti suggest others frequent this place." He turned to Dean and the Doctor. "Considering Mr. Keatley's habits, I would say this is a meeting spot for those in the drug business."

"Yeaaah, I could've told you that," Dean said and folded his arms. "What else you got?"

Sherlock pointed to spots on the floor. "It was raining the night of the murder," he continued, "judging by the dirt—formerly mud—on the footprints."

"Great." Dean deadpanned. "Saved me the trouble of pulling up the weather app on my phone. Anything useful?"

A nerve twitched in the detective's upper lip. "Only two sets of footprints have that kind of dirt on them; the first set—Keatley—paced nervously for a while, most likely in anticipation for the second set—male, by the looks of it—to arrive."

This time Dean said nothing. The Doctor paused his looking around to listen to what the consulting detective had to say.

"The two stop here," Sherlock waved his hand over an area in the middle of the room. "They talk for a bit about something that makes the victim uncomfortable judging by the way his prints seem to shuffle in place, and then . . . ." Trailing off into the complex network of his mind, Sherlock studied the multitude of spots and smudges on the floor. Dean cocked an eyebrow.

". . . and then . . . ?" he said expectantly.

Sherlock ignored him. Scattered around where the victim stood were small flecks of dried blood; roughly two paces behind, a messy smear of more dried blood leading to the gory stain marked by chalk. Aside from the vandalism and chalk outline, the walls and floor were unmarred. But the second set of footprints . . .

"And then," said Sherlock, "the other man pounced."

Dean and the Doctor stared at him. Sherlock stared back.

"He . . . pounced?" The Doctor asked.

"Like a tiger?" Dean asked.

With all the theatrical authority of a Broadway actor, Sherlock jabbed a finger down at the floor. "Neither set of prints move from their respective spots," he proclaimed, "yet the victim's body is found two meters away. Blood near the original location, splattered away from the end location, and a bloody smear in between. He was thrown back, but by what?" Sherlock pointed around the room. "None of the broken windows or other such exterior openings provide good vantage points for a shot from a weapon strong enough to send a man flying off his feet and land where he did. A device attached to the ceiling, then?" Sherlock gestured upward. "The unbroken sections of floor on the level above us are too narrow for someone to stand on, let alone set up and/or trigger a device that would knock back a man. Any such device would be too conspicuous; the victim would've seen it and, suspicious, left the premises." He dropped his arms and looked to his companions. "That leaves our mysterious second person, who was without a doubt the murderer. He didn't fire a weapon of any kind at the victim because we didn't see any such markings on the corpse back at the morgue. That leaves one possible option—he pounced."

Without waiting for the others to reply, Sherlock spun on his heel with a dramatic flourish of his coat and strode over to the chalk outline. "Ah! Further proof!" he exclaimed, gesturing in a wide sweeping motion beyond the stain. "The murderer's footprints leading away from the crime scene. Ohhhh, he's a quick one! Quick enough to lunge at his victim with hardly a smudge of the footprint, very impressive."

"Is it just me," the Doctor muttered to Dean, "or is he really excited about violent murder?"

"Here's the smudge S.H.I.E.L.D.'s gotten itself all worked up over," Sherlock mused, completely oblivious to their comments. "Much clearer up close, very distinct from the rest of the shapes, but still unrecognizable. Hold on."

Suddenly Sherlock crouched down and put his face only inches from the floor, balancing only on the balls of his feet and the pads of his fingers to avoid touching the blood stains. The two spectators watching with mix feelings of creeped-out and fascination as the detective scanned the floor like some kind of lizard looking for its prey. The way he moved his head and body reminded Dean of the Komodo dragons he saw one time at the zoo.

A smile stretched across the detective's face, reinforcing the reptile idea.

"There was a third person," Sherlock rumbled as he slowly rose and leaned back on the balls of his feet. "There; you see? Another set of footprints in the blood, much smaller and narrower than the other two. She came in after the victim was killed. Clever, that one; she took the precaution of not tracking mud into the building and avoided the dirtier parts of the floor as not to leave tracks. She did, however, make the mistake of stepping into a puddle of the victim's blood when she went to stand next to him for whatever reason. But that's it. Just this print here, and this cluster of prints where she turned about after noticing the blood on her shoes and cleaned it off. One so clever as to know to cover her tracks must be an accomplice.

"But where did she come from? Where did she go?"

Quiet followed in the wake of Sherlock's rapid-fire deduction. Outside, the sun was finishing up its daily routine, casting long black shadows across the floor. Somewhere overhead, a bird fluttered from its roost and flew out a broken window.

Dean exhaled slowly and said, "Well, we'll be sure to ask Cotton-Eye Joe if we ever catch him."

The Doctor frowned. "Him? Didn't Sherlock say it was a woman?"

With a longsuffering sigh, Dean clapped the Time Lord on the shoulder and said, "You've got a lot to learn, Doc. Come on, there's nothing else here to look at. Let's get outta here so I can get my four hours before we gotta leave."

That night, a moon bright and round like a polished platter shone high over Boulder. No clouds contested its radiance. It watched over Boulder with disinterest, only caring a fleeting glance down at an ebony form as it slipped into a shaded parking lot miles below. Its equally-polished surface mirrored the silver light, a reflection of a reflection, before it passed under the cover of trees. Reflection lost, the moon turned its gaze elsewhere.

Even with the brightness to give him away, breaking into the office of Dr. Felicia Boiga was almost too easy. The lock gave effortlessly under Dean's practiced hands, and no alarms went off when he stole inside. The inside was dark with just enough moonlight to keep him from bumping into furniture. Dean pulled out the EMF detector. The obligatory red light lit up, but that was all. Frustrated, Dean shoved the device back in his pocket, clicked on his flashlight and scanned the room. The office space was like any other he's broken into with tastefully simple furniture, landscape paintings on the walls, and those ridiculously tall potted plants.

Leaving as little trace of his presence as possible, Dean searched every nook and cranny in the office. No crevice between cabinets was left unexamined, no dark corner uninvestigated, no garbage bin unrummaged-through. Every few feet the EMF detector was called upon, but it never rose above a quiet crackle.

After the sixth or seventh failed try, Dean was ready to explode. Too long. He waited too long to come back and now there was nothing left. Dean forced himself to take a deep, relaxing breath like Sam taught him the one time he agreed to do yoga together. He still had one place left to check: a space tucked away in the back, open but hidden from anyone standing in the lounge.

He assumed this space was a break room of sorts since it had a fridge and vending machine, but it was more of a dead-ended hallway than a room and there was only enough space for a handful of adults to stand around in. The cabinets were bare except one, which held Styrofoam cups, paper towels, and typical doctor stuff like Q-tips and Popsicle sticks.

Dean opened the fridge. Bottled water, three containers of unidentifiable contents, and some fruit. He closed the fridge in disgust.

There was one thing left to do. Dean took out the EMF detector. Then, with the tiniest hints of hesitation, he flipped the switch.

The machine screamed. Dean almost dropped the thing; it fumbled in his hand a bit before he shut it off.

The silence that followed was deafening. Dean's heart jackhammered against his ribcage, and he quickly looked around. He was still alone.

A grin pulled at his face. So he wasn't too late after all.

Hunter's instinct told him that the source of the crazy EMF was behind the door hiding in the darkest part of the break room.

EMPLOYEES ONLY, the door declared.

Not today, Dean replied.

The hunter cautiously approached the door. His hand reached out, very carefully inching closer and closer to the doorknob until it's cool, smooth surface was a mere inch from his fingertips—

"Sneaking around like a criminal, aren't we, Mr. Winchester?"

Dean spun around. "You son of a bitch," he growled. "How did you—"

"Know you were going to sneak out while we slept and come here?" Sherlock asked, stepping out of the shadows, Doctor at his side. "Wasn't difficult. You're very easy to read, I'm afraid."

"Your engine's also quite loud," said the Doctor. "You might want to get it checked."

"It's an American thing."

"Is that right?"

"How did you get here without a car?" Dean demanded.

"Cab," they said in unison. "Nice chap, the driver," Sherlock added. "He was very understanding of our time-sensitivity. But enough about that—you have some explaining to do, Mr. Winchester, so I suggest you get to it."

Dean's eyes flicked between the Doctor's expectant face and Sherlock's. A knot formed in his gut. Quick, brain, think of a lie. Any lie, as long as it's convincing.

"I . . . uh . . . ."

Sherlock sighed. "Don't waste your time lying. You've been on edge since we first saw the Welcome to Boulder sign. I know you've been here before, and I'm guessing this has to do with your brother's disappearance. Any information you have could be relevant to the case, so there's no point in hiding—"

"No point in hiding?" Dean snapped. "Are you kidding me?! With your arrogant ass waiting in the wings to blow off everything I say, you little—"

"What he's trying to say," the Doctor interjected calmly, "is that it's not easy being upfront with someone who doesn't listen, Sherlock."

Sherlock squared his jaw.

"Both of you," continued the Doctor. "We're supposed to be a team. Like it or not, we're stuck together and every moment we waste bickering or . . . not being a team, the enemy wins. So for once, let's get along for at least ten minutes so we can make a LITTLE progress. Dean, please say what you need to say."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

"Sherlock, keep your big trap shut and let the man speak or so help me I'll set your hair on fire."

Sherlock quickly closed his mouth.

Dean almost smirked. "Thanks, Doc," he said then got serious. "I don't wanna waste too much time, so I'll keep it quick. A few weeks back, my brother, Sam, and I got a call from another hunter. Machinery in Boulder was going nuts, shutting off randomly, causing a few minor accidents, but just in specific areas around town. Didn't seem like anything too crazy at the time—just going off what the hunter said, it was probably a poltergeist or a vengeful spirit or something."

Sherlock decided not to ask what was considered "too crazy".

"We did some poking around," Dean continued, folding his arms, "and the whole mess pointed to a vengeful spirit. There was only one problem. . . ."