Author's note: Reviews! Someone listened to my whining! Thank you, oh wonderful readers.

I promise something is going to happen in this chapter.

I don't own anything.

The silence that followed was deafening.

John stared at Dean. Had he really just suggested they should kill Mycroft in cold blood, just in case? Hadn't Castiel told them they could save him if he was possessed?

Sam shot Dean and angry look and was just opening his mouth to explain when Sherlock inquired, "Why are you so adamant?"

Castiel tilted his head and looked at Sherlock, obviously confused, and Sam and Dean didn't seem to understand either, so the consulting detective rolled his eyes and elaborated.

"You said the test with the holy water would be conclusive. And yet you still insist on another test – one that would considerably harm my brother, if not kill him. I want to know why".

This was obviously not the reaction they had been expecting, but Dean chose to answer anyway.

"Look, I like shooting random guys as much as you, and I understand that you don't want to shoot at your own brother, but when you live under the radar and a scary British chick knows everything about you and calls you and demands you drag your ass over to England to check if someone's possessed by a demon, you better do the job right".

For a moment, John saw a shadow of anger cross Sherlock's face; it happened so quickly that no one else could have seen it, but –

Apparently someone else had, though.

"Anthea is sure" Castiel said, "and you know something is wrong too, Sherlock. We have taken on cases for less".

Sherlock stared into Castiel's open face before nodding.

Then he turned to Dean and stated, coldly, "I would prefer it if you could manage not to kill him while performing the test."

"I'm not planning on killing him. I know where to shoot".

Again, there was a silence, and again, it was the consulting detective who interrupted it.

"I am coming with you".

Dean wanted to protest, but Sherlock raised a hand.

"You can't shoot Mycroft in his office or on the street; the Secret Service would arrest you immediately. The only chance you have of getting him alone is in his house. And only I can get you inside".

"We will have to wait until nightfall, of course" John announced, and Sherlock turned his head to look at him.

"You are not coming".

"Sorry?" the doctor asked, taken aback.

"Regardless if Mycroft is possessed or not, John, this is going to be extremely dangerous. You are not coming".

"Then you are not going" John replied matter-of-factly. He felt Castiel's gaze on him and wondered if he was currently staring at the doctor in the way he'd been staring at Sherlock since they met.

Sherlock sighed. "John – "

"Sherlock, you are not bringing down the Government without me, and that's it".

His best friend gave in surprisingly easy, which told John that he hadn't really thought he could dissuade the doctor from joining them to begin with.

"We will meet at ten pm on Piccadilly Circus" Sherlock announced and turned around, but Dean's voice stopped him.

"Just one question, pal, you seem not overly concerned over us shooting your big brother. Want to tell us why?"

Castiel said "Dean", almost warningly, or at least with more emotion than John had heard from him yet, but Sherlock turned around and even John almost took a step back when he saw the ferocity in his face.

The consulting detective took a deep breath and answered, quietly and slowly, "I was of the opinion that we had no other option. If we did you would have told us."

"Yes". It was Castiel who answered, and Sherlock nodded at him before abruptly facing the door again and leaving the warehouse, John doing his best to keep up.

By the time he arrived on the street, Sherlock was already stepping into a cab, and he barely made it through the door before they were on their way back to the flat.

"Sherlock..." John started. He had left him alone until now, left him time to think. This time, though, he wouldn't allow it. His friend must be worried; no matter that he and Mycroft didn't really get on, no matter that Mycroft had betrayed him to Moriarty – he was still his brother, and for all his demonstrative not-caring, Sherlock had an affectionate human side. John had seen him scared when he'd stepped out of the shadows at the swimming pool, happy when he'd received a Christmas gift from him, guilty when he'd reappeared in his life after three years. Sherlock, his Sherlock, the Sherlock so few people knew even existed, would not simply accept that they had to shoot Mycroft.

"Yes, John?" he asked, and the doctor sighed.

"Talk to me. This can't be easy".

"It isn't". John waited for something more, but nothing came.

"We will be there" he offered finally, "we will make sure they don't kill him".

"They will injure him, though". There was an almost imperceptible tremor in Sherlock's voice; John swallowed and said firmly, "Not gravely. I'll make sure. If they should threaten to harm him severely, I will shoot him myself."

"Don't act like you haven't thought about it before" Sherlock answered, but not bitterly. It was more a statement than anything else, and John but his lip. If he had been able to forgive or at least tolerate Mycroft, if he'd seen the change in him, would he have been able to prevent all this from happening? Would anyone? It wasn't a question he was capable of answering, and yet he still felt guilty he hadn't paid more attention. This was Sherlock's brother they were talking about. He was tempted to apologize, but the doctor knew what his best friend needed, so he simply replied, "Why not kill two birds with one stone" and left it at that. This earned him something like a smile, at least.

Mrs. Hudson was out when they got back, and the rest of the afternoon passed with Sherlock playing his violin as before and John trying to read and drinking too much tea.

They didn't speak much, and if they did, they didn't mention their plan for this evening. There was no need to. They both knew the risks involved.

If Mycroft was indeed planning to take control, he wouldn't have any scruples about killing his brother and his best friend. Especially when they broke into his house with strangers to shoot him.

For a while, he toyed with the idea of calling Greg, but he doubted he could convince the DI of the necessity of shooting at Mycroft and seeing what happened. He would most likely think they'd gone mad – or rather madder – and try to prevent them from doing what they had to do. Greg was Mycroft's friend, and John respected that. It was better to leave him ignorant of the whole matter. At least until they were sure.

At half past ten Sherlock put down his violin without a word and put his coat on. John was at his side in an instant, and not a minute later they were sitting in a cab to Piccadilly Circus.

They had left rather early and had to wait for a while before the Winchesters and Castiel got out of the tub. Dean was carrying a bag that Sherlock eyed with the knowing look of someone who'd spent three years in hiding and bringing down the web of the most dangerous criminal the World had ever seen (at least until now).

"Sawed-off shotgun?" he inquired quietly. Dean nodded.

"Loaded with rock salt".

Without another word and only taking the time to nod at Sam and Castiel (the latter shot John an understanding look; the doctor was confused; surely this stranger couldn't know enough about his friend to understand him from the few times they'd met?), Sherlock got another cab, a larger one than what they usually took. But since they were five people this time, it was necessary.

They had themselves dropped off a few streets from Mycroft's house, and Sherlock led the way.

Dean's breath hitched when he pointed out the house to them.

"Is your brother rich? That's a mansion, for Christ's sake!"

"Mycroft has never been short of money" Sherlock replied coldly. "I don't know how long we will have to wait. My brother tends to work long".

Dean mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a disgruntled "Of course" but no one answered.

They waited until after midnight, observing the light in an upstairs window that was coming from Mycroft's study. They didn't talk and kept in the shadows – they couldn't afford to be seen; in such a posh neighbourhood, anyone would probably call the police if he saw them standing at a corner for hours on end.

Finally, the light went out and John breathed a sigh of relief. He was freezing.

"He'll go to bed in exactly half an hour" Sherlock said to no one in particular. None of them asked how he knew.

Somehow, this half hour seemed longer than the two hours that had come before it. John knew they had to do it because Sherlock thought they did and he trusted his friend. He just wished Sherlock didn't have to see it. Even though the consulting detective would probably ask "Why?" if he told him.

Sherlock was tense, he could feel it. His friend hadn't taken his eyes from the house since they arrived. John turned his head to look at the other members of their group; the Winchesters seemed equally alert, ready for a fight; Castiel looked just as clam as he had in 221B and the warehouse. John couldn't really see his eyes, but suspected they were fixed on the house, just like Sherlock's.

Sherlock hadn't looked away from the house once. He couldn't. He didn't want to turn his head to see John's sympathy, Dean's determination, Sam's concentration or Castiel's strangely understanding glance. This was just another case, he reminded himself; he couldn't afford to think of what they would do as something special, something that concerned him. He would get distracted if he allowed that to happen.

As soon as the half hour was over, he carefully stole towards the house, more feeling than hearing the others following him.

He couldn't escape all cameras – Mycroft would never have allowed any dead angles, not in his home – but he could make sure they moved slowly and in the shadows. And it was highly unlikely that his brother should sit in front of his monitors at such an hour.

Sherlock managed to quickly disarm the security system – it wasn't the first time he'd done it; now and then, when he'd still been an addict and living on the streets, he'd sneak into Mycroft's house to use the bathroom – and led them upstairs, simply using waves and other gestures to convey to them where they needed to go.

And then, just as they all stood in the corridor leading to Mycroft's bedroom –

"Hello, Sherlock".

The light went on. Mycroft was standing in front of them, in a suit, umbrella in hand, and suddenly, Sherlock was sure.

Whoever this was – whatever this was – it was not his brother.

Mycroft didn't stand in dark corridors and waited for burglars to stumble across him.

It was – it was almost unnatural.

"John" Mycroft continued before looking at the Winchesters and Castiel.

"And – are these hunters that I see? I must confess I am surprised. Why would you bring the Winchesters into my house?"

"To make sure" Sherlock replied calmly, his voice not betraying what he was thinking.

Mycroft chuckled, but it sounded hollow. Not because he was worried, but because –

Because he simply didn't care. There was nothing in his posture or his voice to indicate that he was even aware they had broken into his house, and Sherlock felt a shiver run down his spine.

Without hesitation, he said "Dean".

In the next moment, the hunter took the shot. Sherlock's ears where ringing but he managed to stand still.

Mycroft was clutching his left upper arm.

There was no blood.

The British Government let his hand drop and inspected the wound.

"That hurt. And you ruined the suit."

He looked up. His eyes were black.

Sherlock could hear John's breath hitch, and his hands clenched. This was it then; proof. Until now, he hadn't been able to bring himself to believe that his brother was possessed.

And here he was, seeing it with his own eyes.

"Come on, Sherlock, say something!" Mycroft whined in a tone that was oddly familiar but that Sherlock couldn't quite place. "Don't be boring".

Sherlock swallowed. That's where he had heard this tone of voice before.

It couldn't be. It was impossible. He was dead.

"What, we see each other again after such a long time and I don't even get a greeting?" Mycroft – not Mycroft asked, his voice dropping again and taking on an almost teasing tone.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Sherlock, what – " John began; at the same time Dean inquired, "You know him?"

The hunter sounded surprised, incredulous even, but Sherlock would wonder why later.

For now –

He looked into the demon's black eyes and said slowly and deliberately, "Hello, Jim".

Author's note: I had this in mind from the moment I started writing this fic – a twist and another cliffhanger. I regret nothing.

I hope you liked it, please review.