Wellllllll
My finals are starting and I've been procrastinating like a boss so...yeeeah
Anyways, the drill is the same: 4 reviews (minimum) and I'll write/upload another chapter
NOW ENJOY!
Sam and Dean were incredibly tired, the effects of the time change getting to them as well as the exhaustion of hours of travelling. Though they wanted nothing more than to sleep, they had to leave almost as soon as they settled into their motel room to find a relatively famous man named Sherlock Holmes. Castiel had told them a goblin he had gotten arrested had freed himself from prison and was gunning for the sleuth and so it was the Winchester brothers' job to save him. No time for rest or a minute to relax when the monster could decide to strike at any time.
"I don't think we've ever dealt with a Goblin before." Sam mused as they packed the weapons they would be needing. Castiel had zapped them to their room shortly after having obtained the key.
"Yeah…" Dean slowly realized and halted his movement, "And I don't think dad's journal mentioned one either. So how the hell are we supposed to kill that thing?"
Sam shrugged, "No clue."
Dean sighed deeply, evidently frustrated by the lack of information, "See?" he said to Castiel, visibly angered, "This is why you need to give us as much information as you can before we jump into something."
"Apologies." Castiel said gravely with a light bow of the head, "I had assumed you already knew everything essential. You are hunters."
"We haven't killed at least one of everything, Cas." Dean snapped, "There's a billion species of things out there and not all of them are in America."
"Calm down." Sam sighed. "We'll just call Bobby and have him check everything."
"And what are we supposed to do while he looks for the information?" Dean asked, "We can't just wait here, twirling our thumbs like idiots! That detective guy could be dead by the time we figure everything out."
"We'll just take one of everything." Sam rationalized, "Salt rounds, holy water, a silver dagger, and whatever. If Bobby doesn't contact us by the time the goblin decides to strike then we'll improvise with what we have."
Dean frowned, sighing heavily for a moment before turning back to Castiel, "Next time, just tell us everything." He said before looking through their weapons and selecting what he would carry.
Sam did the same thing and soon enough they were all ready to go. They called Bobby, requested all the information he had on goblins and Castiel then zapped them to the front of the detective's home. Sherlock Holmes lived in an apartment that seemed rather tamed compared to the expectations of the Winchesters. Based off the article they had read in regards to the man, they assumed he would extravagant and posh tastes but his apartment demonstrated the contrary.
It was situated quite narrowly next to a little shop with a red tent sheltering the front entrance and the few seats placed beneath it. The door to Sherlock's home was a dark black with a certain green tint to it surrounded by white bricks. And though the contrast should have made it stand out, it seemed to blend in perfectly with everything rendering it, to a certain degree, invisible. Sam and Dean exchanged glances before turning away as to discuss their strategy with Castiel.
"Any ideas on how to approach this guy?" Dean asked.
"Not really." Sam admitted, a bit puzzled.
There was a moment of silence before Castiel decided to speak, "Well…" he said slowly, "I'll leave this matter to you—"
"Hold it! Hold it!" Dean stopped him just as he was about to leave. Castiel looked back at him, slightly confused, "Where do you think you're going?"
"The monsters plaguing England are planning something." Castiel reminded, "I'm going to try to find out what."
"Well you're going to have to wait a little." Dean said, waving him back to the consensus. "We might need your help with this thing."
"Dean's right." Sam agreed. "We don't know what we're dealing with and if things get hairy, we might need you."
Castiel sighed and reproached the group, keeping his head low, "What do we do then?" he asked.
"What was his job again?" Sam asked.
"Consulting detective." Dean answered, "Like what the hell kind of job is that? It sounds made up."
"The article I read did mention something like that." Sam mumbled but got back to the point, "Anyways, since he's a detective and, according to the newspaper, he doesn't typically work with the police force, he might accept private jobs. We could approach him with a story, claiming help for some reason and get him out of his home. Somewhere safe where the goblin won't find him."
"Sounds good." Dean said, "But we need a story before we waltz in there."
And so they began discussing, slowly forming a concrete lie just on the other side of the road from Sherlock Holmes's house, unaware they were being watched from the very same apartment.
"There are three blokes on the other side of the road." John said, tilting his head as to get a better look at their faces. "They look rather shady. I don't think they're clients…"
"Oh please John," Sherlock growled, "What would you know?"
John rolled his eyes and stepped away from the window, wandering into the kitchen where the kettle of boiling water whistled loudly. Sherlock had been in a bad mood for the longest time what with being bored without a good case. He was in a slump and so much so that he refused to look at any of the files Lestrade brought them. John had attempted to get him to consider one of them but Sherlock's mind had been set and the ex-soldier knew there was nothing he could do from that point on.
"I think we should call the police." John said as he poured the water into a cup.
"They haven't even committed a crime yet." Sherlock stated, rolling on the couch to find a comfortable position.
"It's just to be safe." John said, dropping a bag of tea in the cup before bringing it to his computer. "It could be one of Moriarty's men."
"Ha!" Sherlock scoffed bitterly, "Don't be daft John. Moriarty would never do such a thing."
"Well you've pissed off a lot of criminals," John snapped, "They could easily be one of their goons."
"Doubtful." Sherlock concluded, lying on his stomach, face buried in a pillow, "And even if you were right – which you aren't – they wouldn't be anything close to a threat. The criminals I deal with on a daily basis are idiotic, foolish and irrational thus easily overpowered and defeated by pure intellect."
John stared at his flatmate quietly, mentally stabbing him before sighing and deciding to end the conversation there. He opened his computer and tipped in the password as soon as the screen flickered on.
"A part of me wishes they were criminals," Sherlock continued, his voice partially muffled by his position, "Things would finally get less boring around here."
Suddenly, there was a ring at the door and both John and Sherlock looked towards it.
"You might get what you wished for." John said, sipping at his cup.
The three men John had seen outside soon entered their flat, led by Ms. Hudson. She was quickly shooed away by Sherlock who had taken an immediate interest to the three guests and urged them to sit down wherever they pleased. Two of them soon introduced themselves as Sam and Dean.
"We heard you were a really great detective." Sam cooed.
"Great?" Sherlock snorted, "That barely does justice."
Sam exchanged a puzzled look with Dean before he continued slowly, "Right," he said, "Well, we need your help."
"Do you?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, immediately noticing how his tone irritated Dean. Though Dean seemed more brawn than brain, he wasn't particularly as idiotic as any other would mistake him to be. Just by the harsh look in his eyes and the slight clenching of hands, Sherlock was able to deduce that he knew he had caught on to their lie.
"We found this guy," he said, gesturing the third member that hadn't been introduced, "He lost his memory and everything and we thought you could help us."
Sherlock remained quiet, he stared at all three faces intently in pure silence. John felt awkward and uncomfortable at the weighing quietness, wondering what exactly was going on in Sherlock's complicated head when he suddenly clapped. It was a slow clap, the dry sound of which resounded through the flat almost irritatingly.
"Bravo." Sherlock said as he rested his hands on his lap, "You're quite the liar, aren't you?"
"He's not lying!" The third member interjected quickly.
Dean frowned, "Save it Cas," he said, glaring at Sherlock, "He's not buying any of this."
"Quite right." Sherlock smiled victoriously, "But I must admit, it was the best attempt I've seen in ages. Now," he continued, leaning back into his chair and snatching the lukewarm cup of tea next to him, "What do you actually want?"
The three strangers remained quiet for a brief moment, exchanging silent information through mere looks before a unanimous nod was made and they all rose at once. Sam and Dean both made an attempt to grab the weapons – poorly hidden, Sherlock thought – in their coats but were immediately stopped by John who had surprisingly been a step ahead of them. The crick of his gun froze all three Americans.
"Not another move or I will shoot." John warned darkly.
"Well done, John." Sherlock smirked, standing from his chair and retreating to the kitchen.
"Now raise your hands above your heads." John demanded with frightening authority.
"Dean—"
"Just do as he says, Cas." Dean groaned, obeying John's command.
"No." Cas refused, earning the barrel of John's gun in a flash, "I don't understand why we don't just tell them the truth."
"Because they won't believe it." Sam said, "Now just do as he says."
"And, gentlemen," Sherlock said returning from the kitchen, finally having thrown out his tea, "What truth might that be?"
"A goblin is threatening your safety." Cas said bluntly, Sam and Dean immediately sighing and cringing at how mad the declaration sounded.
"You're mad." John concluded. "Goblins aren't real."
Sherlock, for a moment, remained quiet, perplexed by the honest look in Cas's face. It was almost as though he was perfectly sane, but that, Sherlock knew, was impossible. "Right." He finally agreed, "And neither are werewolves, vampires and ghosts."
"Wrong." Cas concurred.
"Cas, just stop." Dean hissed, "They're not going to believe you—"
"Wait," Sam said, interrupting his brother, "I have an idea."
"Is that so?" Sherlock asked, unimpressed and yet completely curious.
"Castiel, our friend," Sam explained, "He's an angel."
John grimaced at the odd declaration and turned to Sherlock in puzzlement. "As in, an actual angel?" he asked incredulously.
"Yes," Sam insisted, "And we can prove it."
"How?" John asked.
"Shoot him." Sam said.
The demand was surprising enough to render both British men highly uncomfortable. It was more than evident that all three, but particularly Sam and 'Castiel', had lost their minds.
"Your bullets can't kill him." Dean finally said, breaking the tense silence, "Only an angel blade can and those are hard to come across."
"Do you not hear yourselves talk?" John asked, "You're all completely insane!"
"He's telling the truth." Cas insisted, and then, without much warning, he reached into Sam's pocket, pulled out a dagger and stabbed himself. The blow was straight to the heart and blood did indeed drip from the incision but Cas still stood and showed no signs of pain.
Immediately, the doctor within John kicked in and he threw away his gun, rushing to Cas's side as to treat the wound hastily, but just as he cleared the fabric from his way, the stab mark had already healed only leaving a scar. John stared at it in pure astonishment, Sherlock peeking over his shoulder with the same awestruck expression.
"Impossible…" Sherlock muttered beneath his breath, "That's…there must be a trick…"
"The knife—" John said and snatched it from Cas's grasp to test the blade. He looked dismayed when he found that it wasn't fake and particularly sharp. "Sherlock it's—"
"Quiet, John, I'm thinking!" Sherlock barked immediately and began thinking rapidly of every possibility available to explain what had happened.
"We don't have time for this," Dean growled, "Listen, you idiots, Cas is real, this is real and a Goblin is coming for him!" he then pointed at Sherlock who seemed surprised by the gesture.
"Me?" he repeated, he had never felt more clueless in all his life, "Why me?"
"Because you threw it in jail," Sam explained, he pulled out the newspaper they had been consulting earlier and showed the article, "And now it escaped."
"That's Robert MacDonald from the Bloodless Case." John muttered, eyes widening at the picture of the escaped convict. "And he's a…goblin?"
"Yes, well, according to Cas." Dean answered. "And he's out for blood."
"We have to inform Lestrade—" John said but just as he stepped towards the phone, the door to their flat flew open with a loud bang and in came Robert Macdonald.
His blue eyes had suddenly become yellow and flashed with an animalistic ferocity that chilled Sherlock to the bone. Taken aback by the suddenness, he nearly tripped over the footstool but managed to catch himself just in time to see Sam and Dean pull out two guns and shoot him. Two bullets landed perfectly in his chest and belly but drew no blood as they were filled with salt. Strangely enough, Robert Macdonald released a horrendous screech and beneath that a faint sizzling of burning skin could be heard.
"So he doesn't like the salt," Dean concluded, moving to the goblin's left as Sam moved to his right.
"It doesn't seem particularly effective, though…" Sam concluded. "Any ideas on how to deal with this thing, Cas?"
Suddenly, the temporarily stunned Robert Macdonald snapped back into reality, more angry than ever and immediately lunged for Sam. Sam managed to evade his grip skillfully, noticing his sharp claws in the process and quickly warning his brother. The creature then shot back for a few more swings before it was stunned again by mutual shots from Sam and Dean.
"No." Cas finally answered.
And just at that moment, reality caught up with Sherlock and he was finally able to process what was happening, regardless of how insane it seemed to be. "Iron…" He said in a mumble.
"Iron?" John repeated, incredulously.
Rather than repeat himself, Sherlock dashed for the fireplace and grabbed the fire iron which he promptly stuck through the goblin's heart. He was surprised by the inhuman screech Robert Macdonald had released before his eyes became white and he fell to the floor, lifeless. Then, his normal, human appearance slowly melted away and the figure of a grey, wrinkly goblin was revealed to everyone in the room.
"Hun, iron." Sam concluded with a smirk.
"How did you know that?" Dean asked.
"Faery tales." Sherlock answered, staring at the body in complete awe, "Every child in England knows the lore."
"So does that mean you believe us now?" Cas asked, stepping in.
John and Sherlock exchanged looks, "I suppose when you've eliminated all possibilities, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth…"