Author's note: I have more followers. Some people are actually interested in following this strange story. I am so happy.

I don't own anything, please review.

Despite Sam's and Dean's obvious interest in how and why Sherlock knew the demon that had possessed his brother, they didn't ask during the cab ride. The consulting detective was busy looking after his blogger, Castiel keeping an eye on him as well.

Sherlock was thankful. At least the hunters understood that this wasn't the right time to ask questions.

He soon realized that John only had a slight concussion and wouldn't have to go to a hospital – not only had he learned a thing or two while they'd been living together, but he had been forced to look after his own injuries now and then when he'd been dead to the World. Therefore he knew what to watch out for, and the only thing he'd have to do after getting John home – apart from making sure he got some rest – was to tend to his dislocated shoulder.

Once the door of their flat had closed behind him – on Sherlock's instruction, the hunters had been careful not to make too much noise on the stairs, otherwise Mrs. Hudson would surely have woken up and come to see what her boys were up to – and John had settled down on the sofa, Dean stated, "So you know him".

"His name is Jim Moriarty" Sherlock answered while trying to get John to follow his index finger with his eyes yet again. "He was a consulting criminal – the most dangerous criminal this country, and I suspect the World, has ever seen. He shot himself almost four years ago".

"A criminal, I assume a murderer too and a suicide" Dean replied. "No wonder he went to Hell".

"You seemed surprised" Sherlock said. Dean looked at him, confused.

"In Mycroft's house, when you realized we knew each other – you seemed surprised."

"All demons were humans once" Castiel answered, beating Dean to it. "Most of them, however, not only forget what it is like to be human, but they forgot they were humans. Jim Moriarty apparently remembers everything."

"It's only been for years" Sherlock argued.

Dean shook his head, a shadow passing over his eyes.

"Time – it passes differently, down there. Four months are thirty years; this means he spent about 360 years in Hell."

Sherlock nodded. Obviously Dean had been to Hell, or knew someone who had. Either way, he couldn't spare the time to think about it know. He had to make sure John was fine, he had to somehow find a way to exorcise Moriarty from Mycroft's body.

"Seeing as he not only remembers his past life, but is also immune to holy water and rock salt merely causes him pain, I assume he is a strong demon?"

"Unusually strong" Sam said, "Yes."

"But you can exorcise him?"

The younger Winchester bit his lip.

"If we can trap him – if he can't move – I think so."

Sherlock would have liked a more definitive answer than "I think so", but it would have to be enough.

He looked back at his doctor.

"John?"

"Yes?" he slurred, trying to focus on Sherlock.

"I have to reset your shoulder. It will hurt."

John nodded and leaned into the consulting detective, once more proving that he trusted him more than anyone else, and a heavy feeling settled in Sherlock's chest.

Not only had he brought his blogger in danger countless times in the past, but he had put him through three years of grief for a dead man, and now there was a demon after them.

He couldn't help but think that he had earned the place in Hell Moriarty had told him he would inhabit one day.

He reset John's shoulder with a quick motion; the doctor did his best to hide his pain but didn't quite succeed.

Afterwards Sherlock helped him to his room, despite his protests.

"I want to – I want to help."

"You need rest, John".

When he came back – after having made sure John was comfortable and would call out should he need anything during the rest of the night – he went to the cupboard and pulled out a file.

Jim Moriarty's file.

It contained everything Mycroft had ever known about the consulting criminal and a few additions of Sherlock's; his brother had sent him a copy when he'd let him know he was alive, and once he had returned he had wordlessly given him the original.

Sherlock had taken it for what it was – the closest to an apology the two of them would ever get – and had filed it away.

Until now.

The hunters might know everything there was to know about demons, but they had to see who they were up against.

He gave the file to Dean, saying "This contains everything there is to know about Jim Moriarty. I'll be in the kitchen" and turned around, intent on finishing the experiment he had been working on before John had let him know Greg was worried about Mycroft as well.

He knew Castiel's eyes were following him, as were Sam's – Dean was already buried in the file, pretending not to notice him, which honestly, he preferred – but he didn't acknowledge it.

He focused on his experiment and managed to push all thoughts of Mycroft and Moriarty away, at least for the time being. There was nothing he could do, and useless worrying wouldn't help his brother. He would have to wait until the hunters had read Moriarty's file. Much as he hated to admit it, they were the experts. He didn't have any experience with demons.

He focused on the sample he was studying through his microscope and added various acids as well as other chemicals, observing the different reactions. He didn't know how much time had passed when he suddenly became aware of someone standing in the doorway.

He looked up to find Castiel staring at him, his blue eyes curious but not unfriendly.

"Have you read the file?" he asked, thinking that the hunter might have a question.

"Yes we did. Sam and Dean fell asleep on the couch" the other man informed him. "They did so quite a while ago".

Sherlock looked at his watch and realized that almost three hours had passed; it was after four am. The sun wouldn't rise for a few more hours – it was the middle of March and quite cold for this time of year, even for London – and it was one of the cold, still nights in which one could hear every sound, the kind of night that cleared one's thoughts.

Sherlock had to cherished nights like these once upon a time, before he had spent too many of them alone on his lonely hunt for Moriarty's men, before they'd made him remember again and again everything he had left behind.

He wasn't surprised the Winchesters had fallen asleep. It had been obvious that they hadn't rested after their flight, not even when they had found a hotel room. And John was sleeping anyway.

Sherlock was used to waiting for other people to wake up, for life to recommence. He didn't need much sleep.

He was not used, however, to have someone stand before him, completely awake.

"In case you should feel tired" he offered "you can have my bed".

Castiel shook his head.

"I am not fond of sleeping".

Sherlock remembered what Castiel had said to Dean the day before – I'm not used to it – and was wondering whether it would be socially acceptable to ask why (not that he cared, but he needed his and the Winchesters' help) and if this strange man would answer him honestly if he did (considering he couldn't deduce him, it was a frustrating question) when Castiel suddenly said, "I am sorry I could not heal John".

"I took care of it" Sherlock replied. He was confused and this wasn't a feeling he liked.

Castiel shook his head. "I didn't mean tending to his wounds or making him feel better by offering him companionship. I meant heal him."

"As in – "

"Heal his shoulder and concussion."

"And you are sorry you couldn't do that" Sherlock stated, although more for his than for Castiel's benefit. Why would the hunter be sorry for not doing something that was utterly impossible?

Granted, during the last twenty-four hours Sherlock had learned that many things he'd though impossible were in fact real, but Castiel was human. He couldn't have healed John with a look or a touch, much as Sherlock wished it were true.

"Yes. I used to be able to have the ability" Castiel looked down at the floor, self-conscious, "but not since I became human. I know John means a lot to you – "

"Since you became human?" Sherlock interrupted him. What was he talking about? He couldn't honestly think the consulting detective would believe he had ever been anything else than flesh and blood.

On the other hand, with everything else he had seen today –

"I was an angel of The Lord" Castiel answered matter-of-factly, either genuinely unaware of Sherlock's incredulity or not caring. "My Grace was ripped from me."

There were many reasons for Sherlock not to believe him. Demons existed, but this didn't mean angels did too. And yet –

He trusted Castiel. For some strange reason, he had trusted him from the moment they had met.

"So you aren't just named after the Angel of Thursday".

Castiel seemed surprised.

"Most people do not know where my name comes from."

"I am not most people."

"I have noticed" Castiel replied with a small smile that Sherlock returned.

"Your Grace was ripped and you became human" the consulting detective stated. He knew John would probably have told him he was rude – that Castiel wouldn't want to talk about it – that he was supposed to be polite to the people who flew in from the United States to help them, but he had to know.

"Yes. I – I wasn't with Sam and Dean at the time. It took – I wasn't sure they would take me back when I turned up human. I only gained the courage to find them after a few months."

"I understand" Sherlock said, looking at the slate he'd been studying, because he did. After he'd dismantled Moriarty's web, he hadn't been sure he would be welcome either. He had come back from the dead half-expecting John to have settled down and forgotten about him, or for the doctor to be too angry to let him back into his life. He had been wrong on both counts.

Sometimes, he wondered if this was a good or a bad thing.

Castiel tilted his head and gave him a puzzled look and Sherlock was surprised at the understanding in his eyes once again.

"I am sure you do" he finally said.

Sherlock cleared his throat; he didn't know what to say. To this man, this – angel who had fallen (for his friends, he didn't doubt it, even if Castiel hadn't said so) and still cared enough to try and comfort a complete stranger – there was no other reason why he should stand in their kitchen talking to him at this time of the night.

He finally came up with, "That's why I couldn't deduce anything about you, then. You haven't led a human life to deduce".

"Deduce?" Castiel seemed genuinely interested.

""Yes. The Science of Deduction. It means I draw conclusions about people, things, places and are therefore able to solve crimes."

"I see. Anthea mentioned something about you being – what was it, a consulting detective? – to Dean."

They didn't say anything for a while, and Sherlock was wondering if Castiel would just turn around and leave when the ex-angel said, "We will try our outmost to help you brother".

"You already said that."

"In my experience humans like to be reassured more than once."

"Yes" Sherlock answered, looking at his hand that lay on the table and looked unnaturally pale, even for him in the harsh light of the kitchen lamp. "I suppose they do".

"I am not of the opinion that you will go to Hell" Castiel resumed as if it was the most logical continuation of their talk "should you be wondering."

Sherlock couldn't help it; something that sounded suspiciously like a snort escaped him and the angel gave him another puzzled look.

The consulting detective couldn't deny that being for once the person to understand emotions and social conventions better than his conversational partner was quite refreshing.

He grew serious again, however, when he thought about what the angel had said.

"I am not sure about that, Cas." He noticed that he'd used the nickname Castiel had obviously been given by the Winchesters, but the angel didn't seem to mind. "I did some things – "

"But you regret them" Castiel said simply. "Whatever they were, you regret them. I can see it".

Sherlock wanted to argue that regret couldn't be the answer, that it couldn't be that easy, but Cas had been an angel of the Lord. Maybe there was hope for him.

Either way, it didn't matter now. What mattered was their attempt to save Mycroft and the country.

He would have to wait until the others woke up, though.

Cas apparently thought the same, because he inquired, "What exactly are you doing?"

A few minutes later, Sherlock found himself explaining his experiment to a former angel of the Lord in his kitchen at 4.43 am. It wasn't the something he had ever expected to do – but the distraction and the company brought him peace of mind.

If only for a short while.

Author's note: I admit that this chapter mainly exists for Sherlock's and Cas' conversation.

I hope you liked it, please review.