A/N: Oh my Chuck, guys I am so sorry for abandoning the story like this! I've just been swamped with school work, plus I wasn't 100% sure in what direction this fic was going. But I've got it all planned out, and hopefully I'll have the next chapter uploaded this week. Thanks for sticking around, and if you have any suggestions or requests just leave me a review. Or feedback is good too. #abby is begging for reviews

Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own Sherlock or Supernatural, just playing with the characters and praying for Destiel to become canon.

Several hours and two pots of tea later, the newcomers had finished their story and sat clustered on the couch, John across from them, brow furrowed as he tried to take in the Americans' impossible story. Meanwhile, Sherlock sat curled up in his chair, hands in his signature prayer position and eyes closed contemplatively.

John finally broke the silence with a single phrase, "You honestly expect us to believe this load of rubbish?" Sherlock remained silent as John continued to rant at the Americans, "So you're telling us that you have to track down the King of Hell to retrieve the other half of some rock that apparently has Godly instructions on how to close the gates of Hell, that somehow these murders are connected to him, and that you need our help to find him? Are you out of your bloody minds?" John finished, finally running out of breath and allowing the others to respond.

"That's about it in a nutshell," Sam answered John's incredulous question with a small shrug and pleading hazel eyes that would put a puppy to shame.

"Look," Dean spoke up, "I know it sounds crazy, and we probably wouldn't believe it ourselves if we hadn't experienced it first-hand, but you —" he was cut off by the shrill ring of Sherlock's cellphone. The exchange died into silence as Sherlock answered, "What is it, Lestrade?" A few moments passed wherein they could hear the Detective Inspector's voice distantly through the mobile, and Sherlock's answering words, when they came, were an abrupt disturbance whose tone held all the authority of one who was used to getting what he wanted, "Where? Fine, we'll meet you there. Make sure Anderson doesn't interfere, I don't fancy losing any of my brain cells."

As he hung up the phone, Sherlock strode to the door, grabbing his coat and tying his scarf around his neck in one fluid motion, "Well that was a lovely chat but it seems as if the Yard, incompetent as they are, have a lead on the real killer. I'm sure you can show yourselves out, come along John!" Sherlock finished in one breath, simultaneously dismissing the visitors and summoning his faithful shadow. They exited without a second glance, Sherlock shutting the door on three shocked faces.

I really need to get in shape John thought to himself as he puffed after Sherlock's receding footsteps. Although he had run through the Afghanistan desert in the middle of the hottest, driest season while wearing full combat gear, for some reason he found it difficult to keep up with Sherlock, whose long legs ate up the sidewalk and left John to trail behind.

"Hurry up, John! He's getting away!" Cursing under his breath, John put on a burst of speed and turned a corner only to crash into a very stationary consulting detective.

"What the hell —" John managed to get out before he was shushed by Sherlock.

"Quiet, the suspect is just ahead," Sherlock murmured as John made a grab for his friend in an attempt to keep from falling off balance.

"Shouldn't we wait for Lestrade?" John responded, a bit peevishly if he was honest with himself, while trying to quiet his post-sprint breathing.

Sherlock gave a condescending snort, "We'd be waiting here all night. I'm sure that the two of us will be able to sufficiently subdue him; he's scared, cornered, and unarmed. Simple enough." John had his doubts about their ability to successfully apprehend a dangerous criminal who was accused of killing at least three people. However, he kept his thoughts to himself as he didn't want Sherlock to try to capture the suspect by himself and risk getting injured (or worse).

At Sherlock's signal, the two moved forward in unison to stand at the mouth of the alley, "Come out with your hands up!" Sherlock intoned as John strained his eyes to peer into the inky blackness while keeping his gun levelled in the general direction of where he suspected the man to be hiding. "You're outnumbered and unarmed, if you surrender now it will be much less difficult for you," the detective threatened in an attempt to lure out their prey.

Shuffling footsteps came from the depths of the night-darkened shadows, and moments later a figure stepped into the flickering glow of an overhead streetlight. "Well, hello there, Mr. Holmes," the man greeted them with a slow smile and an expression of smugness that implied he had them trapped instead of the other way around. As the pair drew warily closer, John's eyes skipped over the suspect as he began to catalogue any and all details that were readily evident, a habit left over from his military days where the ability to pinpoint possible danger could save your life. The man was taller than John, but not quite as tall as Sherlock, with mousy brown hair and wearing a cheap suit that possibly bespoke of an office job; overall normal and unremarkable. John hoped that Sherlock was getting more out of his own deductions than he, as the former soldier was concentrated on keeping the both of them safe and more or less unharmed.

"And look, it's your loyal dog," the man continued, turning empty, predatory eyes on the shorter man. John held his ground as the suspect's gaze casually took him in before flicking back to Sherlock with an air of obvious dismissal.

Sherlock ignored the man's attempts to goad them, simply stepping forward to apprehend the suspect, but paused at the man's soft words, "I didn't do it; I didn't kill those people."

"Yet all evidence points to the contrary," Sherlock responded, levelling an inscrutable gaze at the other man.

"Come now, Mr. Holmes. Does it really look as if I have three-inch fangs hidden behind this pretty smile?" the man was practically purring at this point.

Sherlock disregarded the man's remark and instead leapt straight to the point, "Then what were you doing at the crime scenes? And if it wasn't you, then who?"

The man sucked in a deep breath and assumed an injured expression, "Why, Mr. Holmes, you wound me. I was simply overseeing a business transaction; a final payment, if you will."

"And does your business usually result in brutal maulings?" Sherlock questioned, attention captured and body language like that of a bloodhound on a scent.

"On a good day," the man responded flippantly.

"Sherlock," John warned, speaking for the first time "don't let him pull you in."

"Oh look, you've taught your pet to speak. I guess it's wrong what they about old dogs and new tricks," the suspect sneered.

Suddenly, he was shoved up against a wall, the rough, weathered brick catching on the back of his suit jacket, "You still haven't answered my question," the detective practically snarled, finally losing patience with the suspect's semantics, "If you didn't kill those people, then who did?"

"I never would have pegged you for a man with a short fuse," the suspect remained infuriatingly calm for someone with an angry consulting detective in his face and gun pointed at his head. "Hellhounds, Mr. Holmes. They're quite cost-efficient, although they do tend to make a bit of a mess." He let out a manic laugh, as if amused by the look of shock and confusion on Sherlock's face. "You should have left it alone," he continued, irises disappearing as his eyes became pools of black, filled with dark intent and seeming to contain the very essence from whence nightmares were born.

Then, several things happened at once. The man threw off Sherlock, tossing him into the opposite wall as effortlessly as if he were nothing more than a ragdoll. John's gun rang out in three successive shots, smoke spiraling from the muzzle into the frigid night air, all three bullets hitting the man squarely in the chest, yet he continued to approach the army doctor unimpeded. The whoosh of wings cut through the frozen air and, suddenly, the trench-coated American — No, Cas, John remembered distantly —appeared between the blogger and the suspect. John had a split moment for his brain to dart between He's going to get himself killed and How the hell did he just appear like that? before Cas stepped up to the man, gripping his throat and pinning him against the wall, feet dangling inches above the pavement. "Where's Crowley?" Cas growled without preamble.

"Nice try," the suspect scoffed, "but I'm not stupid. I'm more afraid of what Crowley will do to me than anything you feathered pansies could think of."

"In that case, you're very stupid," Cas rejoined, placing his palm over the suspect's face as a blinding flash of light exploded from the man's eyes and mouth, "You should be more afraid of me," he finished, addressing the slumped body at his feet.

Cas turned to the doctor, calm blue eyes meeting the panicked gazes of the two stunned Brits. "Maybe now you'd be willing to help us?"