Two Weeks Ago . . .

Sam exhaled loudly and fell back into the slightly-uncomfortable chair.

"Are you kidding me?" Dean said as he walked out of the kitchen area. Steam rose from the microwaved takeout box in his hand. "What's it been, five hours since you started?"

"Yep," Sam sighed, "and still nothing. No major accidents, no murders, and no sudden deaths anywhere near these places in the past fifty years. The only thing that comes close is a guy who died five miles from the amusement park in '87, but he was cremated and as far as I can tell, he has no surviving family members."

Whatever greasy thing Dean was eating this time filled the room with a thick stench the moment he opened the takeout box. Sam tried to ignore it.

"Well that sucks," said Dean. "So we got perfectly good rides shuttin' down outta the blue, all of which sittin' smack dab in the center of a fifty-foot dead zone, three people walking away with cuts and bruises because of it, and enough EMF to light a Christmas tree, but no ghost! No murders, no violent deaths. What is this world coming to, Sammy?"

"We could look again for hex bags."

Dean groaned. "We already wasted two whole days looking and all we have to show for it is that new carnie smell and this cut on my hand." Dean frowned at his palm. "How'd that happen?"

"I don't get it." Sam palmed his tired eyes. "The only possible explanation is a ghost, but I can't find anything suspicious."

Dean sighed and sat down in front of Sam. "Life is so much easier when you can pin your problems on brutal murder," he stated.

Terrible as it sounds, Dean had a point. After discovering heaven and hell, the whole hunting thing's gotten way more complicated—so much so the boys are actually relieved, if not grateful, if a case turns out to be a simple haunting.

"Mm," said Dean around the chicken wing he was picking clean, "how'd that guy die?"

"Which guy?"

"The guy from '87."

"George Milton? Heart attack. He was working on a car at the time."

Dean tossed the bone onto the growing pile in the box's lid. "Then I guess we gotta check him out."

Sam arched an eyebrow at him from over the laptop. "Are you serious?"

"You got any other ideas? He's the only lead we have. Maybe he had a crappy life and he's taking it out on kids at amusement parks."

"But he was cremated," Sam protested. "There's no body to keep him he—" Realization struck. "His car!"

"There ya go." Dean waggled a nibbled-on chicken leg at him. "Sometimes it helps to think for a second, little brother."

Sam shot him a look then pulled up a new page on his laptop. "It's a bit of a stretch. I mean, the family probably sold it after he died and whoever bought it might've sold it to someone else, provided it even worked at that point. That car could be rusting in pieces under a junk pile for all we know."

"You got any other ideas?" Dean asked crossly.

Sam didn't respond, already engrossed in the task at hand. While he searched the license plate on the deceased's car, Dean finished his snack and noisily licked his fingers clean.

Slurp, slurp. Smack.

Sam pursed his lips.

Slurp, slurp. Smack.

Sam scratched his head.

Slurp, slurp.

Sam ground his teeth.

Smack.

"Would you knock it off?" Sam snapped.

Dean looked up with the pad of his thumb still in his mouth.

"Why?"

"'Cuz it's disgusting."

Dean rolled his eyes, wiped his hands on his shirt, and stood up.

"Alright," Sam said. "I've got something. The car was sold not too long after he died, to a guy named Buford Buchanan."

"Where is he now?"

Sam typed something into the computer.

"Here in Boulder," he said. "He's got a house not too far away."

"Great." Dean grabbed his keys. "I'm gonna go see if the car is still in the driveway."

"I'm not going with you?"

"No. Stay here and dig up some more dirt on that Milton guy. See if he really is haunting the place."

"Alright," Sam said. "Just be careful out there."

Dean waved a hand over his shoulder as his only farewell before closing the door behind him.

"After Dean left," Sam explained to the group, "I checked out the local archives to see if they would be more helpful."

"Were they?" Rose asked.

Sam sighed.

"This is the last box," said the assistant librarian and dropped her burden on the table beside Sam. Sam arched an eyebrow.

"That's it?" he asked.

"I just brought out over a century's worth of newspapers and you say, 'That's it?'" she scoffed incredulously. "So what're you looking for?"

"Anything weird," Sam replied simply, pulling a box closer. Of all the assistants in the library, he had to get the nosy one. Maybe she'll take a hint.

No such luck.

"That narrows it down." She slid into the seat in front of him. "Is there anything I can do to help? I'm good with stuff like this. You know, old stuff. Stuff from the past."

"Ah, no. I can take care of it myself, thanks." He smiled politely at her.

She shrugged. There was a little mole on the left corner of her mouth that moved when she talked, which was too often for Sam's liking.

"I find this kind of thing fascinating," she went on while he opened the box. "That's why I took the job. The librarians here don't like working the archives 'cuz it's dusty and smelly, so it's always the assistants that get stuck with it. But I don't mind. I like history."

"Mm hm." Sam opened the box and peered inside with a frown. Of all the boxes, this held the least. "Are you sure this is it?" he asked, closing the box.

"Uh huh. I heard a bunch of stuff was destroyed in a fire or something a while back. It was before the archives were kept here."

"When was this?" Sam asked, alert now.

The assistant waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, like fifty years or so. Or was it twenty?"

"That's a big difference."

"Mmm. . . ." She put her head in one hand and watched him look through the newspapers. "What did you say you were looking for?"

"I didn't."

"I can help, you know. I know lots of things."

Sam sighed. "Alright, fine. What do you know about a George Milton? He died in 1987."

The woman's blue eyes lit up. "George Randolph Milton. Died of a heart attack while he was working on his 1984 Dodge Diplomat. Or was it 1980? His obituary is in that." She pointed to one of the boxes. "He was married with two kids. Or was it three?"

"What was he like?" Sam asked.

The woman shrugged. "Normal, I guess," she said. "Or at least normal enough to keep him out of the paper. His obituary is the only thing in there. Oh, and the ad for his Dodge."

Sam chewed the inside of his cheek for a second then asked, "Was there anything . . . unusual reported shortly before or shortly after his death?"

"Mmmm. . . ." She scratched her blond head. "Not that I can think of." Just then an older librarian poked her head around a shelf and asked for a hand. Giving the librarian a nod, the woman stood and said, "Here, why don't you give me your name and number and I'll call you if I remember something?"

"Couldn't hurt." Sam jotted down one of his multiple cell numbers, and the paper disappeared into the woman's pocket. Flashing a winning smile, the assistant left Sam to his work. Sam smiled a polite smile of his own, which vanished as soon as she was gone. He pulled out a newspaper from the box and got to skimming.

"So while Sam was doing his nerd thing," said Dean, "I went to check out Buchanan. Neither he or the car was home, and his wife said that he was at work in Denver. That was about thirty minutes away so I figured I could run out there, find this Buchanan guy, and get back before Sam finished."

Sherlock and the Doctor listened to Dean's story intently, Doctor from his seat on a rolling desk chair, Sherlock from where he stood beside the Doctor. Both had their arms folded. Dean continued, "I drove out to the place where Buchanan was supposed to be, but he wasn't there. I asked around—apparently the guy wasn't scheduled to go in that day, and no one knew where he could be."

"Where was he, then?" asked the Doctor.

"Hey, it's me," Dean said after the beep. "I'm out in Denver looking for Buchanan, in case you were wondering. His wife said he's here on business, but no one I talk to has seen or heard from him because—get this—he was fired several months ago. I'm on my way back. Hope you found something 'cuz I got nothin'."

He hung up and pocketed his cell. Well this sucked. He checked his watch. Jeez, one o'clock already? Dean quickly slid into the seat of the Impala. The engine roared to life then settled into a contented purr. Maybe I can pick up a burger real quick, Dean thought to himself. Yeah, that'll work.

Two long lines and a really bad accident later, Dean irritably bit into his burger, ignoring the 2:27 on his watch as he drove one-handedly towards Boulder. Sam hadn't returned his call, which wasn't surprising.

It was in that moment Dean's cell rang. Startled, Dean crammed what was left of his burger into his mouth and fumbled for his phone.

"E'wo?" he said.

"Um, hi, is this Dean Winchester?" a woman's voice asked.

Dean swallowed, nearly choking, and coughed, "Who's asking?"

"I'd rather not say my name," she said shyly. "I could get into real trouble for this. But I'm a friend of Tanner's, and he told me that I could call you about Buford Buchanan."

Tanner was the hunter that originally told the Winchesters of the strange things going on in Boulder. Dean scowled. "How do you know about Buchanan?"

"Sam called Tanner while we were at lunch, and Tanner happened to mention it to me."

"How convenient," Dean muttered, but he sat up in his seat. "So do you know the guy?"

"Sort of. I work at a bar out in Colorado City. A few months ago—I think, like, two or three—Buford got fired, but he couldn't bring himself to tell his wife about it."

That checks out, thought Dean as he pulled over and cut the engine.

"Ever since," she continued, "he would drive down out to the bar I work at and gamble. He's pretty good—he usually walks away with enough money to hold him and his family over until his next visit."

"Great," Dean said. "But how do you know all this?"

"Because he told me," the woman sniffed. "He always ended up coming during my shift, so we talked a lot."

"So you think he's going to be there?"

"I know he's going to be there."

She then gave Dean the address to the bar, which he jotted down on an old receipt, and hung up. Dean immediately punched in the address into his phone. About two hours from where he was. Dean thought about this for a moment. He had already been gone for, what, two hours? Two hours there, two hours back, and who knows how long it'll take to locate Buchanan and get anything useful out of him—Dean might not be back until late. He should go back for Sam. That would be a good idea.

But then he thought back to this morning and grimaced. He didn't really feel like dealing with pissy-Sam, and besides, Sammy's a big boy. He could handle himself for a few hours.

Dean picked up his phone again and dialed. "Change of plans," Dean said to the answering machine. "Just got an anonymous call from a friend of Tanner saying that Buchanan's at a bar in Colorado City. I won't be back until late, so you just get some sleep. I'll call if anything interesting happens."

He hung up and, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat, Dean turned the Impala around and made for Colorado City.

"I didn't get out until dark," Sam said. "By then I was so tired and I just wasted an entire day reading that I decided to just go back to my room and turn in early. When I got back, I noticed Dean called a few hours earlier, which was weird because my phone never went off in the library."

". . . sleep. I'll call if anything interesting happens."

Sam deleted the message and tossed the phone onto the bed beside him. So much for that, he thought bitterly. Hopefully something interesting does happen, otherwise—Sam hated to think it—they might have to drop this case.

But none of it makes sense! Sam thought. The accidents, the EMF, the exact radius all this is going on in—there's no way this is coincidental.

The manager of the park even said that they've only had one accident in all of the time the park's been in operation, and now all of a sudden everything that can go wrong goes wrong on a daily basis. It won't be long now until something serious happens. . . .

Sam's mind wandered back to Dean's message. An anonymous tip? From a friend of Tanner? He didn't even know Tanner HAD friends that weren't hunters, and even then the term was a stretch. Something didn't sit right with Sam. He reached for the phone and stopped.

The message came in a few hours ago. Dean would already be in Colorado City by now. There's little chance that Dean would turn around and come back just because Sam had a bad feeling, if he even picked up the phone at all considering he would be in the middle of getting information from Buchanan.

If he's even there, whispered in the back of Sam's mind.

But Dean could take care of himself—this wasn't his first case, and he certainly wasn't a stranger to bar life.

Still . . .

Sam's hand darted for the phone just as it went off. He answered in a heartbeat.

"Dean, listen," he said quickly but was interrupted.

"Is this Sam Winchester?"

Sam froze. The voice was gruff, male.

"Who is this?"

"My name's not important, but one of the ladies at the library said that you were the person to go to for this."

"And that would be . . . ?"

"I'm a friend of Buford Buchanan. A few weeks ago he started acting . . . weird. At first I thought it was because he got laid off, but . . ."'

"Weird?" Sam asked. "Weird how?"

"He was all twitchy and suspicious. He would yell at people for stupid stuff, which is weird because he's pretty calm, and he started wearing sweaters even in the hottest part of the day. Anyway, his wife made him go see a doctor about it, and I was thinking that the doctor would know something."

A thrill shot threw Sam's heart. This was it! A legitimate lead!

"Her name is Dr. Felicia Boiga," the man continued. Sam immediately searched her on the internet. "If you swing by her office in the morning and show her your badge, I'm sure she'd be willing to talk."

Wait, his badge? Sam didn't remember using his FBI cover, not with the library assistant. The excitement dissipated into suspicion. Mumbling a thanks to the man, Sam hung up and looked at his computer screen. Boiga was a legitimate private practitioner, that much was true. But this whole situation . . . . He should wait until Dean returned. Yeah, that would be a good idea.

Sam checked the time.

At this rate, Dean wouldn't be back for a while, possibly just before sunrise. Naturally they weren't going to ask for confidential medical information—to non-hunters, Buchanan's strange behavior had nothing to do with the strangeness at the amusement park, so the brothers would need a warrant. No, they would have to break in, and they would have to break in tonight before the man on the phone could let Dr. Boiga know they were coming.

Sam closed his laptop. This wasn't his first case, either. He could do this on his own; it'd be easy. He'd go in, check the medical records Boiga had on file, and then when Dean got back, they could finally wrap up this case. Leaping from the bed, Sam grabbed the wallet sitting on the nightstand, slung on his jacket, and phoned a cab as he walked out the door.

Dean swallowed and set the empty glass down on the counter.

"Another?" asked the bartender.

"Sure," Dean replied. "Hey, I got a question for you."

"Go ahead."

"Are you the only one on this shift? Isn't there a girl that works here?"

The bartender smirked. "Am I not pretty enough for you, sir?" he joked.

"I'm sure you got all the ladies fallin' around you," Dean quipped back. "I'm asking 'cuz a friend of mine said she worked this shift, and I wanted to meet her here."

"I see." The bartender pulled a glass from under the counter and set it before Dean. "I hate to break it to you, but I think you've been duped. It's just me here most weeknights."

Dean swore inwardly but kept his voice neutral. "Damn," he said. "Aw well. She was a bit of a floozy anyway."

The bartender chuckled and poured Dean his drink. Dean took a swallow and, sighing contentedly, asked, "So do you know of a Buford Buchanan? I heard he comes around here a lot."

"Another friend of yours?"

"Sorta."

"Sorry, but I don't really know the names of most of our patrons. I just started here a few nights ago."

Of course. Dean thanked him, and the bartender went to take a blond woman's order. He glanced at the time and flinched. How the hell did he blow three hours here?! Maybe the clock was wrong. Yeah, that had to be it.

Either way, it was time to go. Dean was getting nothing here, and the day was starting to catch up to him. He paid, downed the last of his drink, and left with a sudden need to get back to the motel as quick as possible.

Not once on the two-and-a-half car ride back did he notice his phone flashing on the seat beside him.

"Hey Dean," Sam said after the beep as he watched the cab drive off, "it's Sam. I just got a call from a guy who says he knows Buchanan. Apparently Buchanan's been acting weird for a few weeks now and he went to see a Dr. Felicia Boiga. The files she has on him might explain why the park's been acting crazy. I'm on my way to her office now. Stay safe, and I'll talk to you later."

With that, Sam tucked the phone away and quickly walked across three parking lots and through some bushes to reach the Boiga's office. All of the lights were off, and only a maintenance truck sat in the parking lot. Stealing a few glances around, Sam quickly got to work on the lock. Luckily the trees and awning cast just the right shadow to hide him until the tumblers fell into place. Sam stowed away his picks and pushed the door open.

The needle on the speedometer impatiently dipped little by little over the speed limit. Dean tried to remain calm. Sam can take care of himself, he reasoned. Just because he left him alone for such a long time, doesn't mean something bad happened. Well, usually it doesn't.

Sam's fine. He's probably back at the motel already, sleeping like an angel. A really tall, really nerdy angel with—

"DEAN!"

Dean swore violently and slammed his foot on the brakes. The Impala screeched to a halt, sending every loose object flying forward. Dean fell back with a loud oof! and whirled around in his seat.

"What the hell, Cas?!" he demanded.

"There's no time to explain," said the angel, leaning forward urgently. "Something bad's about to happen. Sam's in danger!"

"What are you talking about? What's going to happen?!"

"You need to hurry back," Castiel continued quickly. "There's not much time. I'm going on ahead to try and stop Sam, but right now you need to get moving!"

Knowing what was about to happen next, Dean's hand snatched out to grab at the angel's coat but was too slow. Castiel vanished just as quickly as he came, leaving Dean to his bewilderment and dread. Only three words rang in Dean's mind:

Sam's in danger.

The Impala roared to life and in seconds was tearing down the highway, heading towards Boulder.

It didn't take long for Sam to find what he was looking for. Buford Buchanan did, in fact, come to Dr. Boiga, but not for unexplainable behavior. Sam slammed the file shut and stuffed it back into the file cabinet.

Sinus infection. That's why Buchanan came here; he had a minor sinus infection, for which Boiga prescribed an antibiotic. There was no mention of anything unusual. Slamming the drawer shut, Sam sat down and put his aching head in his hands. Well this was a complete waste of time. Not just breaking into the office, the whole case was a waste. Strange things happening, people getting hurt, but no explanation. It just happens.

. . . . Maybe the whole hunting thing in general was a big waste of time, too. Sam's head popped up in surprise. Where did that come from? The very thought was almost blasphemy. Of course the family business meant something—look at all the people they saved!

Yeah, well, look at all the people that died anyway. . . .

Sam shook his head and rose to his feet. He didn't like where this dark road was leading, and now was as bad a time as every to venture down it. His head hurt. He needed to get out of this building before he got caught.

In two strides, Sam crossed the room. As he reached for the doorknob, something stopped him. He frowned and leaned in to give the handle a better look. It shown from what little light that filtered into the room, but otherwise it was just a doorknob. But wait, what was that? Sam leaned in a little closer. There was a shadow on the knob, a dark speck that sort of resembled . . .

Sam jerked away and whirled around, swinging his fists. He struck at open air. Sam looked around wildly. He could've swore he saw a monster try to sneak up on him. Heart beating like mad and breath coming out in ragged gasps, Sam spun around and flung the door wide open.

He screamed.

Waiting for him on the other side, pale form cutting through the gloom, eyes wide and vacant, and skin drawn tight across a skeletal face was Mary Winchester.

"You're not supposed to be here, Sammy," she intoned in a hollow whisper. "You're not supposed to be here. . . ."

"Get away," he quavered, taking several steps back. "You're dead. We exorcised you years ago!"

"That wasn't very nice. . . . Don't you love your mother?"

The specter reached out a thin, bony hand. Sam jumped back, slamming bodily into a cabinet behind him. Pain shot across his back, and the specter disappeared.

Sam fought for his breath as he stared at where his mother once stood, the space made darker now that the pale was gone.

I need to get out of here, he thought finally and rushed through the open door. The hallway was darker, with just enough light to make out some cabinets and a vending machine. Sam bolted past that and slowed to a stop when he reached the waiting room. A faint whispering tickled his ear, but he didn't understand what it was saying. The throbbing in his head grew more painful, and the floor started to dip and sway under his feet. Forms and shadows grew from out of the walls and reached out towards him.

Sam cried out and flailed wildly. Once his hand connected with something and pain stabbed his wrist.

"Saaammyyyy. . . ." something crooned.

"Stay back!" he bellowed.

"Welcome back, Sammy. Back where you belong. . . ."

Icy fear shot through his heart.

That voice. . . .

"Impossible," he said. "Dean and I locked you away! You're in hell!"

It giggled. "You're right, Sammy. And so are you."

Unseen chains rattled and screeched in his ears, and just beyond that the whispering intensified. No, this wasn't real. This couldn't be real. Walls of flame blazed just inches from his skin, he could feel it, but all he saw were pulses of living darkness.

"No," he whispered hoarsely. "NO!"

"Welcome back, Sammy. Now we GOTCHA!"

A hand shot out of the dark and grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around.

Sam screamed and flung himself backwards. One of the writhing shadows had solidified into a humanoid shape and now reached for him with a clawed hand.

"Sam!" the shadow barked.

"Get away!" Sam swung with his uninjured fist. The shadow caught the blow easily.

"Sam, stop! It's me, Castiel."

Castiel? Sam lowered his hand and stared at the figure in front of him. It looked like Castiel, and the hand still gripping his closed fist felt solid enough. Sam relaxed. In the dark, the angel had seemed like another specter, but this was definitely—

"Cas," breathed Sam, relieved. "What are you doing here?"

"We need to get out of here," the angel said. "Something bad is about to happen."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. All I know is that there's a disturbance in Heaven. Something bad is coming, something that could destroy every—"

Suddenly the angel collapsed. Sam shouted and reached to grab him when something large and heavy slammed into the back of his head. He was out before his head even hit the ground.

"Sam wasn't at the motel when I got back," Dean said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I went back out to the car to go look for him when I noticed I had a voicemail. It was Sam saying that we went to check out a doctor named Felicia Boiga. I went there as quick as I could, but a cop caught me trying to break in. I got off pretending to be drunk and he 'helped' me back to my room. I went back out in the morning and one of the front-desk people let me in when I told them that a friend's kid left something behind the day before.

"Nothin'. Absolutely nothin'. No sign of a break-in or of a struggle. It's like Sam wasn't even there. I tried calling out to Cas, but he wouldn't answer me. It's like they fell off the face of the earth."

"And then I woke up here," Sam finished. "I didn't see any of the goop that you mentioned, but it's the only explanation for what happened."

Rose mulled over his story in silence. John palmed his eyes. "This is madness," he said. "Absolute madness. Aliens, angels. . . ."

"I know it's a lot to take in," Cas said. "Not many people believe such things exist. You're strong for not fainting yet. Most do."

"If you didn't have an encounter with one of these aliens," Sam said, "then how were you taken?"

"How was I taken?" John dropped his hands. "Not in nearly an exciting way as you three. Sherlock and I just wrapped up a case, I was leaving my flat to meet my wife for lunch when all of a sudden this black car drives up and I'm told to get in."

"And you just went in?" Rose asked incredulously.

"They threatened to kill me," he said. "I thought it was Mycroft!"

"Who?"

"Never mind," John huffed dismissively. "The point is they drove way out of London until they reached countryside and then decided to knock me out. I didn't wake up until I heard those two shuffling about."

"Who was in the car with you?" asked Sam.

"Two men, I think. They were wearing identical outfits and caps, and I couldn't see their faces. They never said a word, which was another reason why I thought it was Mycroft."

"You need new friends," Cas commented.

"Mycroft isn't exactly a friend."

Sherlock and the Doctor were quiet. Dean waited semi-patiently for them to say something. Still in his hand was the EMF detector, which he fiddled with.

"So this angel, this . . . Castiel," the Doctor began. "What kind of angel is he?"

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously?" he said. "After all that, THAT'S your first question?"

"It's important!" the Doctor said defensively.

"I don't know! The normal kind!"

"He doesn't turn you into stone when you're not looking, does he?"

"Wha—no!"

"Oh, ok."

Dean gave him the strongest WTF face in his repertoire.

Sherlock lifted a hand. "May I speak now?"

With a huff, Dean gestured for him to go ahead.

"Thank you. First of all, I would like to say that I completely believe you—"

"That's a first," the Doctor said in disbelief.

"—with the exception of that 'angel' bit."

"There it is," Dean grumbled.

"However," Sherlock stressed the word, "considering that it doesn't interfere with the believability of the rest of your story, I will disregard it for now and instead focus on more important things."

Close enough, Dean and the Doctor thought.

"If what you say is true, then you and your brother were lured into a trap by that Tanner fellow."

"Oh no," Dean said. "Tanner 'n' me go way back. Hunter's don't turn on other hunters like that, especially after that other hunter's saved the first hunter's skin so many times."

"That may be true," the Doctor said, "but Sherlock has a point. He was the one that told you about Boulder to begin with."

"Yeah, but—"

"If he's a hunter," Sherlock countered, "then why couldn't he have investigated the disturbances himself?"

"Tanner ain't the best at what he does, ok?" Dean said angrily. "He's good for small stuff, like exorcisms and séances. He's in the business 'cuz of his uncle, and once you're in, you're in for life. So he when he got wind of something potentially witchy or demony, he called me and Sam."

"Then what of his friend?" asked Sherlock. "The one on the phone who claimed to know him."

"I don't know." Dean deflated a bit. "Even to me that was strange considering Tanner's such a loner. But what choice did I have? It was the only lead we had at the time and I had to check it out just in case it led to anything."

Sherlock got quiet for a moment. Outside, Dean could hear a groups of teens laughing. He tensed. It was highly unlikely they would look come into the building, but it was a reminder that they'd already wasted too much time.

"Very well then," Sherlock said finally and walked toward the hallway. "It seems there's only one thing left to do."

Exchanging a glance, Dean and the Doctor followed Sherlock. In long strides, the consulting detective quickly crossed the floor to the darkest part of the room, to the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Sherlock brushed open the door and stepped into inky darkness. There were no windows, so Dean clicked on a flashlight and shone it about the room. This was probably where Dr. Boiga kept all her official papers, because there was nothing in it except for a desk, a painting, and a bunch of file cabinets. Sherlock glanced around for a second before heading straight towards a cabinet.

"K's are over here," the Doctor said, pointing in a different direction.

"Just a moment," Sherlock muttered and skimmed his fingers over the labels. Finding the one he needed, the detective quickly pulled the drawer open and flipped through the files, making a small victorious noise when he found it.

"What is it?" Dean asked.

"It seems your mysterious caller did her research," Sherlock said. "Buford Buchanan does indeed come to this physician, but his last check-up was only for a mild sinus infection."

Dean swore. The Doctor opened a different, thicker file. "I found Jeremy Keatley," he said. "Massive! His record is just full of sprains, breaks, and overall nastiness."

"Let me see." Sherlock took the file and flipped through it. "Hmm . . . strange. In the thirty years Buchanan's come to this facility, two of them were under the consultation of Dr. Boiga. The years prior were done by someone named Dr. Price."

Dean folded his arms. "So?"

"Jeremy had been using this facility for almost ten years, and all that time he's been seeing Dr. Boiga."

". . . .Ok?"

"Maybe there were two physicians using the same building at one point," the Doctor said. "I didn't see Dr. Price's name on the sign outside, so he must have moved on. Why is that important?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. Truth be told, he had no idea why he noticed it—ok, he knew why, but he wasn't sure why alarms bells went off in his head when he did. All of a sudden this little bit of seemingly-inconsequential information bugged him, like his brain had an itch he couldn't scratch. Sherlock put the file back where it belonged.

"We need to leave," he said abruptly. "It must be close to the time when we're supposed to meet Agent Harris."

"Hang on," Dean said. "I need to do something first."

Sherlock and the Doctor watched as Dean flicked on the EMF detector. Suddenly electronic wailing pierced the heavy silence like a razor blade. Both men flinched, but Dean immediately started walking around the room, holding the detector out. There was no change at all until he approached the vent. The wailing turned to mad screeching, and all of the lights on the detector blazed.

"Shut that thing off!" hissed the Doctor, but it wasn't necessary. The EMF detector sparked in Dean's hand, causing him to drop it, and died. Dean gingerly picked it up and, satisfied it won't try to electrocute him again, stuffed the now-useless machine into his pocket. Then he squatted down and pried open the vent. Curious, Sherlock and the Doctor peered over his shoulder.

Dean shined his flashlight inside. Almost immediately he recoiled with a noise of disgust.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock asked eagerly. The Doctor stooped down to get a better look then immediately grabbed Dean and shoved Sherlock out of the way. "Get back!"

Dean yelped as he was dragged back by the collar, falling back on his behind. "What the hell, man?!"

"I was afraid of this," the Doctor said gravely. "Remember the stains on Keatley's fingers?"

"The electromagnetic jelly?"

The Doctor pointed into the vent. "That's it."

The three stared past his finger. Dripping in slow, thick globules was a dark grey slime that coated the entire inside of the vent. Most of it had already collected at the bottom and hardened into an even darker color with patches of milky white on the surface. The stuff oozed from a grotesque greying orange mass of flesh farther into the vent.

"That's not jelly," Dean said finally.

The Doctor swore violently, which surprised his partners almost as much as the slime did. "That's an Yllri," he explained. "It's been dead for a while, which is why the jelly hasn't had much of an effect on us. Otherwise this enough to make five men start seeing the purple monkeys."

"The . . . what?"

"Never mind that now. We need to report back to Agent Harris. Now."

Happy Halloween! Hopefully you are all high enough on candy and Halloween cheer to forgive such a late update.

Thanks to everyone who still stuck around even though I am officially one of those authors. (You know the kind.) In addition to adding this chapter, I also edited the previous chapters for any really dumb mistakes (thanks to Beserked2 for pointing out the "private detective" thing. I wrote that chapter during one of the hiatuses and kinda forgot some things from the show.)