Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine with the exception of Sarah Denton, March Denton, and Mr Clark.

Two

A Case Of National Importance

It was early afternoon when John Watson went to visit his old friend Sherlock Holmes in his flat in 221B Baker Street. Even though he had long since moved out, John still had the key to the flat for sentimental value. However he rarely had to use it since Sherlock always kept the door unlocked for him - not that Sherlock cared or anything. That would be ridiculous.

As John walked in, he hung his coat on its usual hook and looked round the dusty flat, drinking it in. It was always dark because Sherlock kept the curtains closed, and everything inside was neither dark green or brown. John liked it this way. It felt warm and comforting, like watching a classic Disney movie, and it gave John the same feeling of nostalgia. The brown furniture was lit up gold by the fire-place, like a mysterious hoard of gold at the heart of the flat. A heart of gold, John thought, and yes, that seemed appropriate. He'd have to remember that for his blog later - Sherlock always complained that he romanticised everything, and John would be forced to admit that, maybe, he was a romantic underneath his rough military exterior.

John spotted Sherlock sat in his chair, facing away from the windows - "Light is distracting, John!" - his hands pressed together, tucked under his chin and his eyes were closed. John tried to be quiet: his friend was thinking, and hated to be disturbed. This was another way Sherlock was odd; sometimes he noticed the tiniest changes in the flat, a creak in the floorboard or a fleck of dust out of place, and other times he wouldn't even notice if a circus had come in, performed, tidied up, and marched back out while he was thinking. Still, John crept into the kitchen, each step taken with caution like a mouse trying to avoid a trap, but he accidentally stepped on a creaky floorboard. As the floor moaned and sighed under his boot, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and John was caught.

"Hey." He said, awkwardly.

Sherlock glanced over at him, his eyes flickering over John as he began to automatically analyse him, as practise for later deductions. There was a little smudge of grease on his bottom lip – chips – and he was frowning a little, with bags under his eyes – tired, annoyed, frustrated – and then there was his shirt. It was slightly damp along the collar line and chest, but dry on the sleeves where he'd been wearing a coat – was it raining? Sherlock then realised that John had been out, but not with Mary or he would have brought an umbrella to keep them both dry while they stayed a close proximity to each other. (Gone out + frustrated + chips.) That could only mean…"You've been with Mycroft." Sherlock accused, his greenish eyes narrowing at John.

"Yeah." John said, puzzled. "It's Friday."

Sherlock blinked, "Is it? Oh. I could have sworn it was Monday when I sat down – oh well." John raised his eyebrows as Sherlock got up and wandered over to the wall where photographs of his 'markers', as he put it, and maps of London were pinned up. Though his eyes followed the pattern only visible to him, Sherlock continued talking with John, "You've had chips with him again. I thought that would stop once I came back."

"Force of habit." John said with a shrug - which wasn't actually true; John would give anything not to have to sit and talk with Sherlock's brother, but he couldn't help it if he was kidnapped on a weekly basis. John moved from where he was stood in the kitchen and came into the main space of the flat, taking his usual seat opposite Sherlock's. He watched his friend look over the wall and imagined his brain working like gears on a clock; perfection, everything in working order. John had called Sherlock a machine before, referring to his lack of human heart and his understanding of it, but it was true in that Sherlock's mind worked like a machine; fast, calculated, and professionally ordered. In reality, John never had much luck with machines. He's once yelled at a Self-Check-Out while shopping. Stupid, inferior, thing! In fact, it was safe to say that Sherlock was the only machine John thought he understood.

"He told you something, didn't he?" Sherlock asked, though it was hardly a question, more like another one of Sherlock's futile attempts at 'chatting.'

When John said nothing, Sherlock turned from the wall and narrowed his eyes at him. One look at John's expression told the detective all he needed to know. "No. I won't do it." He said firmly and turned back to wall, "Moriarty is alive. I need to know how, why, and what his endgame is."

John sighed, "Sherlock. Just relax, will you?"

But Sherlock was not listening, having blocked John out as he usually did when it came to cases. He was alone with nothing but his mind and a series of questions to which he had no answers. "How was he able to fake his death? How did I miss it? How did he get his face on all the screens across the country? OH GOD!" Sherlock pressed his hands into his eyes and groaned, "I hate not knowing!"

"Sherlock." John tried again. He reached out and tapped Sherlock gently on the arm, and the taller man tensed, having not noticed John's migration across the room towards him. "Listen. It's been months. You need a case. Moriarty hasn't done anything, so why don't you just do the one Mycroft...suggested." He awkwardly tacked on the last word.

Sherlock peered at John for a moment before looking back at the wall. He was quiet for a minute or so, contemplating what John had said, turning it over in his mind, until at last he said, "No. It's tedious, pointless, and probably oblivious." He stubbornly fixed his eyes on the wall and refused to look at anything else.

John just raised his eyebrows at his friend, "Probably?" He echoed. Since meeting Sherlock, over four years ago, he'd picked up a few deduction skills of his own, often under the guidance of his friend who inadvertently mocked him by saying things like "you missed everything important" and 'that's good, but it hasn't got anything to do with this.' However he knew a few tricks from before he met Sherlock - as much as Sherlock liked to believe that John simply hadn't lived since before they met, and he just sort of 'happened' - during his time in the war, and one of them was to pick up on what people said and the particular tone and expression they had while speaking. It's because of this that John could often read a little more into Sherlock than others could, or even would. "Meaning you don't know because you won't even think about it." John continued, folding his arms, "Why? Because Mycroft suggested it."

"Excellent deduction, John, but you missed out the oblivious detail."

Here it comes, John thought. He pressed his lips into a tight line, clearing the back of his throat, and waited for Sherlock to continue.

"I have thought about the case." Sherlock admitted, pressing the tips of his fingers together and tucking them under his chin in his usual 'thinking' position. He reminded John of some otters he'd seen in the zoo, but decided not to mention this, and actually pay attention to what Sherlock was saying, "There have been several hundred disappearances over the south of England – all victims seemingly unconnected except by the way they went missing. All of them, when out in the open, either in a group or on their own, but the second they disappeared they were isolated, perhaps in their homes with the doors locked, or somewhere safe."

"How did you work that out?" John asked, but then a thought occurred to him, "No, don't tell me…Was it your Homeless Network?"

"They keep a watchful eye out." Sherlock avowed, with a thin smile, "So - since they were isolated, there was no possible way for a kidnapper to get to them. Also there was no evidence at any of the crime scenes to suggest that they had been taken by someone. And yet, they're gone – but why would a kidnapper take so many victims? There's probably more than one of them. An organisation, perhaps, but why so many victims, and why those ones?"

John blinked at him, and then asked sarcastically, "So you're not on the case, then?"

"Nope." Sherlock said, popping the 'p'. He was serious. "I was just passing the time." He continued his scowl at the wall, as if it was insulting - which, to Sherlock, it probably was - before he suddenly cried, "Why hasn't Moriarty done anything?! He announces his return and then – nothing!"

"You're bored." John concluded, after a long pause.

Sherlock sighed, "Yes…" He pulled his hands through his curly hair, tugging the curls in front of his eyes. He murmured, "So very bored."

"Why don't you just take the case?" John asked with an impatient huff. Sherlock could be such a child sometimes! "Mycroft said it was of national importance." And let's face it, last time he said that, Sherlock and John almost got blown up along with Parliament.

"He always says it's of national importance." Sherlock bemoaned. He put on a whiny voice to represent Mycroft, "Sherlock, Sherlock, please take mummy and daddy out on Saturday instead of me. It's of national importance." Sherlock cringed, returning to his normal voice, "It's ludicrous!"

John just smiled, shaking his head fondly and chuckling. As he shook his head, he noticed something thin and gleaming in the corner of his eye. He turned and saw Sherlock's harpoon – he never bothered to ask why he had one – standing up against the bookshelf. Its silver metal was shining in the orange light of the fireplace, but it was coated in a layer of bright red, were the light of the flames created an orange dance on its red liquid surface. John frowned at it, and was disturbed when he realised it was covered in blood. "Oh God, Sherlock, what have done, now?"

"You know, I'll think we should go to Scotland Yard, after all." Sherlock said. He abruptly turned from the wall and bounded past John to grab his long black coat. He slipped it on, turning up the collars, and then grabbed his purple scarf and looped it round his neck. "Come on, John."

John was put off for a moment, then he shook himself and glared after his friend. "Sherlock!" John cried, but his friend was already half-way down the stairs. John hurried after him, grabbing his coat and blundering down the stairs as he tried to catch up. He managed to reach Sherlock as the man waved down a taxi, and he demanded, "Why does your harpoon have blood on it?"

"I was bored." Sherlock said defensively.

John stared at him, "Oh. Dear. God."

When they arrived at New Scotland Yard ten minutes later, Sergeant Donovan was already waiting for them, since Sherlock had called ahead while in the taxi. Even though she was curious about why Sherlock had suddenly taken an interest in the Wester Drumlins case, she was more concerned about the reports of a mad man harpooning an escaped pig on the 200 bus this morning. Talking soon turned into yelling, and it took a joint effort from John and Lestrade to settle everything down. Lestrade then proceeded to interrogate Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock had insisted it was for a case. Apparently a farmer had asked him to do it for 'the good of the nation', although John suspected the farmer had actually said 'it's good for the bacon'. It also made him chuckle at the fact that Sherlock would do something for the 'good of the nation' if anyone but Mycroft suggested it - and it had to be a suggestion.

Mycroft would not be happy about any of this. After all Sherlock was a celebrity around London and had an international reputation – even if he was only known as 'The Hat Detective' to most people – and he couldn't afford to be harpooning pigs on buses. John inwardly groaned when he realised that this meant he'd be getting another visit from Mycroft, cautioning him to keep an eye on his brother. No, Mycroft, John thought, practising his response in his head for when Mycroft kidnapped him next, You will not pay me to spy on Sherlock, even though he says I should so we can 'spilt the fee.'

Actually, on second thought, that was probably not the best thing to say.

Do you know what the funny thing was? John actually thought this would be the strangest part of his day, but that all changed when those two Americans walked into the room...

If looks could kill, the glare Dean was giving the wall would definitely have destroyed it. Dean was, in a word, livid.

It wasn't just because Sherlock Holmes had blown their cover, and then proceeded to intrude and wipe his dirty boots all over their lives - who does he think he is? No, it was after he'd thrown the first punch, and he'd gotten punched back in return. Hard. Now, Dean wasn't a cry baby. Not in the least. He understood that he probably deserved a little punch. But now he had the most ugly purple bruise on his cheek, and there was a hot burning pain in front of his ear. Dean spat out a little blood and groaned.

"Don't worry." John had said, tense and angry around Dean, as he and Sam were forced into the small room by Donovan and Lestrade, "It's only fractured. Trust me, I'm a doctor."

Dean tenderly poked his jaw line, wincing as he did so. He tried to sigh but that hurt too. In fact, opening or closing his mouth was difficult. Dean would have thought it was broken, but he'd seen broken jaws on movies: they hung down like lifeless clothes on a line, and could swing right behind the ear; but that didn't mean that Dean was grateful or anything - he still got punched.

Sam was sat quietly beside his brother, since they were both cuffed to the table. He hadn't said anything for the last twenty minutes they'd been trapped there. He'd just sat, staring across at the wall, with his brooding, pensive look. He wondered what Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan were doing. Maybe they were watching them through the camera in the top right corner of the room. He wondered how he and his brother would get out of this predicament. At this thought, he glanced up and noticed Dean poking his jaw and he said quietly, "Try not to move it."

"Shut up." Dean tried to say, but it was painful. He groaned loudly, and swore venomously, "I am so getting him back for this."

Sam's look of sympathy turned disapproving, "Dean!" he scolded, glaring at his brother for a moment, but Dean showed no reaction. Sam turned away, mumbling, "You shouldn't have hit him."

"Hey, I didn't know his midget was standby!" Dean argued, wincing again because of his jaw.

"I'd probably do the same if someone hit you." Sam admitted with a careless shrug, and Dean just stared at him, unsure whether to be insulted that Sam wasn't taking his side, or pleased with the fact that his younger brother was protective of him. In the end, he settled on being pleased, but it didn't do much to lift his mood.

Sam knew Dean was going to punch Sherlock long before he did it, but this still didn't give him enough time to stop his brother's lightning reflexes. Dean punched Sherlock in the nose, and that was it: Everyone exploded into action like something from Chuck Norris movie. Sam jerked backwards, out of the way of John who'd shot forwards in a whirl of rage and horror, and found himself restrained by Donovan. John had moved so quickly from the door to Dean that he managed to punch Dean in the jaw as Lestrade restrained the other Winchester and cuffed him. Sherlock just rubbed his nose, looking slightly peeved, but otherwise he didn't appear to be at all fazed by what just happened. He just narrowed his eyes, straightened his collar, and said, "Touchy."

Sam gave a long heavy sigh and asked, "So, how do we get out of here?"

Dean huffed through his nose. "I dunno…convince them to let us go?"

Sam grinned enthusiastically at the idea, "Oh that's great, Dean!" the façade dropped, giving Dean an unimpressed look, "How, genius?"

Dean tried to wave his hands in a defensive fashion, but all he could do was yank the chain of the hand cuffs.

The door to the room suddenly swung open and Inspector Lestrade came in, holding the 'Wester Drumlins' file in his hand. He put the file down in front of them and braced his arms against the table, glaring down at both of them. "So…" Lestrade said as a long-drawn out word, "Who exactly are you? And don't lie!"

This wasn't the first time Dean and Sam had been locked in a small room together, face by an integrator, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Mostly, they were locked up because the FBI thought they were mass-murders – but come on, it wasn't their fault a couple of shape shifters took their form and went on a murdering spree – and before that, they'd been hunted down for credit card scams. Each time, they had escaped by sheer luck, or 'cunning' according to Dean, and Dean was determined that they'd get out this time, most likely by lying. However, Sam was not so sure. He'd seen the look Lestrade gave them when Sherlock revealed they were fake - betrayal - something he'd seen on Dean's face before. He felt ashamed, and realised that it was because he quite liked Lestrade. He was unlike other policemen they'd met; not just your standard 'good' cop, but there was a darkness inside him. Sam found he could relate to Greg Lestrade, and though they'd only known each other for a few minutes, he'd bonded with him.

Now, the fact that he lied to him and was meant to keep on lying, Sam found he simply couldn't do it. Sam could only lie for a certain length of time before it weighed down on him like a cannon ball chained to his ankles. He wasn't like his brother in that respect, who could lie to everyone, even himself, because it was the truth that weighed Dean down, not the lies. So, Sam did what he eventually did with everyone. He told the truth: "I'm Sam. This is my brother, Dean."

If Dean was betrayed, he didn't show it and he just nodded to Sam to say he was fine with telling the truth this one time. Of course they could never tell the whole truth – who would believe them? So when Lestrade asked about their occupation, Sam said simply; "We're hunters."

Lestrade raised an eye brow, "Hunters?" he questioned, sceptical. "And what do 'hunters', if that's what you really are, have to do with the Wester Drumlins case?"

Sam and Dean looked at each other. Dean turned to Lestrade, meeting his gaze with a hard steady one of his own that held no lies, and said, "A hunting buddy of ours went missing."

Lestrade's eyes bore down into Dean's for a long, long moment, and then they softened, before he turned his head away. When he spoke, he voice was quieter and less harsh than before, "So, you decided to take the law into your own hands?"

Suddenly, Lestrade was lost in the past, reminiscing of a time when he sat where the brothers were now sitting as a rebellious, determined young man. Although his case was different to these boys, he couldn't help but relate to how they were feeling. It was frustrating to sit and wait while nothing seemed to be getting done, and sometimes people wanted to do illegal things to make progress. He sighed, mumbling,"Jesus Christ."

That was it. He'd made his decision. Sherlock would sham him for 'letting sentiment distract him', and Donovan would be peeved that she was doing this again. But Sherlock was no trouble, and Donovan was loyal to Lestrade. With this in mind, Lestrade turned to the camera and made an odd hand gesture: his index finger laid over his middle finger and his little finger reached over his palm to his thumb.

Sam and Dean looked at each other in confusion. Lestrade turned back to them and, abruptly, he slammed the file close, making the two boys jump a little and spin back to him, "Okay, boys, I'm going to make you a deal."

Dean blinked, leaning his head forward, thinking he'd misheard, "What?"

"I recognize a bad guy when I see one." Lestrade explained, "You two are not bad people. So, I'll make you a deal, and God knows I could lose my job for this, so you two better be worth it."

"Why?" Sam asked.

"You're missing a friend, and decided to actually do something about it. I can relate." Lestrade paused. He looked sad for a moment, but then he shook himself and said, "Not to mention, I've never done things by the book, myself, with Sherlock and all. So, how about this: I let you go with a warning – let's pretend you gratified a bus stop – and you go on your merry way and never come back."

Sam blinked at him, "Really?"

"Really, really." Lestrade said, smiling, "But do me a favour; I should be arresting you for fraud and for attempted theft and for assault." Dean looked sheepish at this, "So if you mention this to anyone, both of you are getting thrown in prison."

Sam pointed up at the camera, "But what about…?"

"I told you: Sherlock and John aren't exactly in the rule book." Lestrade said, "And Donovan is wiping the security cameras as we speak. Just don't get arrested again. This is a one-time only offer."

"We'll take it." Dean and Sam said at once. They looked over at one another, partly out of relief, partly disbelief and partly of out of awe.

Lestrade unlocked the handcuffs and escorted them out. As the left, they noticed that Sherlock and John had vanished, and Donovan was stood on the other side of the room. She was drinking her coffee, looking up at the roof, clearly pretending they weren't there. Lestrade practically pushed them to the door, but Sam quickly turned and thanked him again before the brothers left, disappearing into the busy London streets.

Lestrade turned to Donovan, who was now looking at him with a raised eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

"I was hoping I'd never have to do that." She told him, angrily. She shook her head with disbelief, "What were you thinking?!"

Lestrade ignored her question, and asked, "Did you send Sherlock and John after them?"

"Of course."

Dean and Sam took a Taxi to Newport. It was about an hour drive, and almost all the way, Dean was complaining that they'd left his beloved 1967 Chevrolet Impala 'Baby' behind. Soon, Sam was sick of it and chose to distract Dean by discussing the plan of action – not that anything ever went to plan for them, but it was worth it to be prepared. Of course, they left out details such as 'spirits' and 'demons' because of the driver, who was fairly large and looked as though he should be boxing rather than driving, and he may have been tempted to knock some 'sense' into them. The basic plan was to scout the area around the house first, to see if there was any signs of the supernatural and maybe question the locals about what they'd seen or heard. After that, they planned to go into the house, hopefully with a clearer idea of what they were after.

An hour later, the taxi dropped them off a street away from Field Park Avenue, and the driver turned to them, pointing up the at the street with his thumb.

"It's up there." He said gruffly.

Dean frowned at him. They'd paid for the journey - sort of - why should they stop before their destination? "Can't you take us all the way?"

The driver just stared at him like he was insane, and for a minute Dean thought he really would knock some sense into him, "No. Get out." he snapped, and the brothers quickly left, not wanting to start anything unnecessary. After all, Dean already had a fractured jaw, and they couldn't risk breaking it until they found Castiel again.

With a screech, the Taxi turned and rode away in the opposite direction of Field Park Avenue, very fast. "That guy looks like he could bash his way through anything." Sam muttered, "So something's got him spooked."

When they walked up to Fields Park Avenue, they found out why the driver and gone off like he had. The moment they stepped on the street, they were hit so abruptly with how silent it was that they stopped. No birds. No wind. No cars or signs of people anywhere. It was deathly and eerie place, and the two brothers felt a familiar cold chill settle on their shoulders: the same kind of chill they got usually before they were ambushed by demons.

After a pause, they continued, glancing about cautiously.

The place was once beautiful; with little red and white houses and small, well-trimmed gardens, as well cared for and tended to as the perfection of hand embroidery. But now, the houses looked ill, faded of colour, and the gardens were overgrown with weeds. When the brothers went to check one of the houses, they looked through the window to see all the furniture that might have once been there had been cleared out, and the place was void of human interaction. It was the same with all the other houses they checked. The place was completely deserted.

As they continued up the street, the cold chill they had turned into a tingling feeling, intensifying with each step they took. Neither of them could shake off the feeling that something is very, very, wrong.

Finally, not being able to hold off what they were both thinking for much longer, Dean stopped. "Can you feel that?" he asked Sam, rubbing his arms anxiously.

Sam nodded, shivering, "Sort of a tingling inch? It's like nothing I've ever felt." He sniffed the air. It smelt of tree resin and damp soil, since it was raining earlier, and said, "There's no sulfur, neither."

"Not demons, then." Dean said. Suddenly, he was shuddering and rubbing his arms harder, "This feeling is really bugging me."

"Well, the house is just up there." Sam said pointing up the road, where tall bushy trees grew like angry giants. "Let's keep going."

They lingered for a moment. Something is very, very wrong, playing on their minds, but at last they moved on, nearing the place where the trees grew large, casting a darkness over the house they protected. There, guarded by the tree giants was the Wester Drumlins estate, and at this place, the inching chill that had surrounded the brothers was at its strongest. The two of them paused outside the gate that sealed the way in, wary, with every fibre of their hunter instincts screaming: No! Don't do it!

Sam noticed a little white house opposite the Wester Drumlins estate with a light on and pointed out to his brother. They looked at each other once, and then walked over to the house together. They noticed as they got closer that the garden was also over-grown and full of weeds, like the other houses, and the windows were dirty with scratch marks on them. The door was once white, but now it looked almost green and the paint was peeling off to reveal brown wood beneath. Sam peered in the window again. Does someone really live here? He thought: But Sam was not one to judge. He had never lived in a proper house for more than a few weeks, so what would he know? With that in mind, Sam knocked forcefully on the door.

There was silence on the other side. Sam looked at Dean.

"Maybe nobody's at home." Dean suggested. Like everyone else, was left unsaid, not wanting to remind each other that they were completely alone. Instead, Dean looked across the street at the Wester Drumlins site. He squinted, as for a moment, Dean thought he saw someone in the window, but when he blinked they were gone. He frowned, but figured it was the eeriness of the place getting to him. You're just seeing things.

Sam knocked on the door again, a little louder, and this time there was an answer.

"Wh-who's there?" a quiet, frightened voice called out.

Dean spun his attention back to the door, and Sam was just as surprised.

"Police." Sam said.

The door slowly opened a tiny crack, where a pale green eye peered out at them, and then swung open the whole way. A woman was stood there. She was about forty and looked deathly pale, with large black bags under her eyes and her blonde hair hung in lifeless spindles against her head. Her eyes were bloodshot, as she'd been crying too much, and her arms were shaking. The woman shifted uncomfortably at the door, picking the loose frays at the bottom of her white jumper, which added to the paleness of her blotchy skin and reminded them of a ghost, "You're here about the disappearances, aren't you?"

Dean nodded.

She gave a shaky sigh, and murmured, "That's all anyone comes around here for, these days. Even the postman is too afraid to come."

"Where is everyone, Miss...?" Sam paused politely for a name.

"Sarah." Sarah replied, uncertain, as though she hadn't used her name in a long time, "Sarah Denton. And they're gone, all too scared to stay here – well except me and Mr Clark. He said he wouldn't leave without me, and I'm not leaving until I get my son back."

"Your son? March Denton?" Sam asked, remembering the boy from the file.

Sarah nodded sadly. She looked as though she was about to cry, as her bottom lip trembled.

Sam felt sorry for her. "I know this is difficult." He told her gently, "But was March acting strangely before he disappeared?"

Sarah frowned in thought, "Well…" she hesitated, "It's nothing really…"

"Sarah." Sam smiled reassuringly, "It's okay. Please, tell us. It could really help us find your son."

Sarah looked at him for a moment. She seemed to shrink further into her house, but she did not retreat completely. "He talked about monsters."

"Monsters?" questioned Dean, pretending to be professionally curious.

Sarah nodded, "I know. It's crazy, but he thought the Wester Drumlins estate was haunted, and that the monsters would come down at night and scratch the windows."

Dean and Sam looked at each other and then looked at the scratches they could see on the windows. Sarah followed their gaze.

"Oh – the cat did that, before it vanished." She didn't sound too sure, almost as if she was reassuring herself rather than the brothers. To Dean, she sounded like his mother when she told him that the monsters couldn't get him whenever he got frightened of the dark. Back then, of course, he hadn't known about his mother's secret hunting life, and now it made sense that she was a little wary - never quite sure if the monsters could get him or not.

Dean blinked at Sarah, when the statement about the cat registered, "They took the cat, too?" he asked, scandalised.

Sarah gave him a long condescending look, "…No." she said after a lengthy pause. She frowned at him, her hand bracing on the door as she considered slamming it in their faces, "No, I don't think the cat was taken. It probably just…" she shrugged helplessly, "…ran away."

Dean realised what he just said was completely ridiculous and nodded, "No – yes, I get that but, err – I meant to say that the two could be connected."

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Sam glanced at his brother and then said to Sarah, "Miss Denton, did anyone called Jack pass by here?"

"Yes." Sarah replied, straightening up with recognition. She looked almost relieved to talk about something familiar, as the question about the cat had thrown her off, "He came about the disappearances too…but then he vanished as well."

"Well, we wondering; did Jack say anything odd to you?" Sam asked.

Sarah rolled her eyes upwards in thought, "Not really." she mumbled, "He just told me to stay indoors and keep safe, and to lock my door at night – things like that. He did ask about the Syndrome, though."

Dean frowned, "The what?"

"The Syndrome – that's what Mr Clark calls it." She rubbed her arms, "Can't you feel it?"

Sam and Dean looked at one another. The Syndrome was a very fitting name for the shivers that they were feeling, as it was as though they were ill in body and mind; disoriented from the moment they stepped onto the street. Sam nodded to Miss Denton. "Has it always been like this?"

Sarah shook her head, "No. Only since people started disappearing. Mr Clark said it was physiological. That we're just spooked out, and we're imagining the silence, and the shivers, and the stillness of the air." She frowned, looking at the ground, not believing a word she said, "That's what he said." She repeated. Sarah looked up again, "He's right, isn't he?"

Sam and Dean looked at one another again, both thinking the same thing. "Yes, miss." Sam said reassuringly, "Of course, miss. Now, one more thing. If you could tell us where Mr Clark lives, we'd be very grateful."

"Number 41." Sarah replied, sticking out a thin trembling arm to point. "Just down there."

Dean eyed her arm, disturbed by the thinness of it. "You okay there, miss?"

Sarah pulled her arm in close, like wounded animal would, and hugged it to her chest, "It's just the Syndrome."

Sam looked her up and down, deciding that she didn't look well at all, he said, firmly, "Sarah, we will find March. Until then, you need to look after yourself. It would be better if you stayed with someone, but if you don't want to leave, then you should keep your doors locked."

Sarah nodded. "Okay." She whispered, her voice hoarse.

The brothers thanked her for her help and left. As soon as they were out of earshot of the house, a little way down the road towards Mr Clark's house, Dean cried out, "This place is wrong, wrong, and wrong!"

"Tell me about it." Sam agreed, "No wonder everyone left. Sarah should leave too – this 'Syndrome' thing looks like it's making her ill."

"You don't actually think it's some kind of mind-thing, do you?"

Sam gave his brother an unlikely look, "No, of course not. When is it ever just a mind-thing? But, I'll tell you one thing; this is something we haven't come across before."

"It's a good thing I packed never possible defence we have." Dean said, with a forced grin. The cold sensation the place was giving him was making it difficult to smile, laugh, or treat anything without bitterness or sorrow.

The brothers headed down to the address Sarah had given them. Like all other houses, the garden was over-grown and the house was in terrible condition. The only people who had remained here were too afraid to step outside, let alone do house work, and this had caused a run down of what was once a beautiful, friendly street. The Winchesters made their way through the garden. The path was cracked and had cover growing over the stones, but it was still visible, and the bushes were a big enough distance a part for them to squeeze through – not without scratching themselves on the branches, however. When they made it through the jungle, they stopped at the door.

"Dean." Sam said quietly.

Dean looked at him, and noticed the closed look on his face, "What?"

"No insects."

Dean glanced round the forest that was the garden, and noticed that his brother was right. There were no insects to be seen, and no sounds that could possibly be insects to be heard. Dean gulped and murmured, "That's just messed up."

Sam sighed and knocked on the door. There was short a moment of silence before a stout man answered, poking his round head out the door, refusing to open it the whole way. Mr Clark just glared at them, "I already have two of you in my house. How many more?"

Blinking, Dean said, "What?"

At that moment, Mr Clark opened the door wider and Sherlock and John appeared behind him. Dean resisted the urge to groan loudly. It was almost as though it had been rehearsed – as though the two of them planned to be there just to annoy him. Dean looked awkwardly at John, instinctively poking his jaw, and then at Sherlock, who he just had a staring content with. After a long while of static silence, Sam cleared his throat, as if it would clear away the awkwardness of the situation.

"It's good to see you again." Sam said, forcing a smile, "We didn't expect to see you here."

"That's all right." John said, returning the forced smile, "I suppose we should group together and share information, right?" he glanced up at Sherlock, who nodded, and the two of them stepped out into the garden. Sherlock marched ahead, onto the street.

John thanked Mr Clark for his time, who grumbled in response and slammed his door. John frowned at this, but then turned his attention to the brothers, "Sam and Dean, right? You coming?" He didn't wait for an answer but wandered through the garden to join with Sherlock.

The brothers followed shortly afterwards. Dean scowled suspiciously at Sherlock when they got onto the street. "Are you stalking us or something?" Dean questioned distrustfully, "Did that Greg send you after us? So much for trust."

"Please!" Sherlock snapped back at him, "You two aren't worth my time." Sam grabbed Dean's sleeve to stop him from marching forwards to punch Sherlock again. Sherlock boasted, "I'm a Consulting Detective. John is my friend. We're here to solve this case, so don't get in my way."

"Consulting Detective?" Sam asked, at the same time as Dean coughed: "You have friends?"

John sighed, "Listen, girls. We can stay here all night and argue, or we can actually do our jobs." He looked pointedly at Sam and Dean, "I don't trust you, but you're here for the same reason we are, so we might as well work together."

Sam scowled but nodded in agreement. Dean and Sherlock stared at John with disbelief.

"John!" Sherlock hissed, but John just waved a hand at him. Grudgingly, Sherlock mumbled, "Fine. Just don't get in my way."

Dean pulled a face at him, "Trust me. I'll be as far away from you as I can get."

It was nearly sunset by the time the four of them reached the house. Dean and Sherlock walked ahead, shooting glares like daggers at each other, and trying to push in front of the other. Neither of them were in a rush to reach Wester Drumlins, but both of them wanted to be in front of the other, as though it held some kind of royalty and respect to be in that position. John and Sam walked behind, and Sam was smirking, shaking his head.

"They're like children." Sam said, and that he suddenly realised how awkward it was to make conversation with people you didn't particularly want to be around.

Yet, John surprised him by saying, "No, they are children." and the two of them laughed appreciatively.

Sam glanced over at John, feeling as though he should speak more now that the silence had been broken. "So…" he began, a little hesitant about making conversation with the man who fractured his brother's jaw, "What exactly is a Consulting Detective?"

"Sherlock invented the job." John explained, "We basically solve crimes when the police don't have a clue, and Sherlock is fantastic at it. He can see through anyone and anything – of course, you already knew that."

Sam laughed nervously, "Yeah…It was amazing that he did that." He paused and frowned in his pensive, troubled way, looking at his shoes on the gravel, "John don't take this the wrong way, but I thought Sherlock was..." Sam was so distracted that he didn't notice that Sherlock and Dean had stopped in front of him and accidentally walked straight into Sherlock. Embarrassed, Sam mumbled a quick "Sorry."

The four of them were standing in front of the Wester Drumlins property, stood tall and looming, the darkness creeping in around it like a cloak. The silence had brought back the forgotten chilling sensation and although everyone was eager to break it, it felt forbidden in front of the glaring house. The four of them exchanged glances with one another, before Dean inched towards the gate. Sherlock, not one to back down from adventure and always having to be first, first, first, bounded ahead of Dean, throwing himself against the gate. Dean scowled, scrambling after him. Suddenly it was a race to the top.

Sam looked at John. John switched on his torch, as the darkness was becoming more apparent, and pointed at the wall, were there was a man-sized hole leading to the gardens. Or rather, it was man-sized for John, but Sam was much taller and would have to bend down a little to fit through.

"Don't suppose you'd fancy going that way?" John asked, all polite as though he was offering a cup of tea.

Sam smirked, "Not at all."

They met up with Dean and Sherlock on the other side, who were still glaring at each other, before Dean looked away and rubbed his arms again. The inching sensation that stalked them was worse the closer they got to the house. It would be an agony to bear once they were inside. All of them were silent, unsure, hesitating. Sherlock was chewing his lip. Dean was shivering. John looked on with wide eyes, and Sam gulped loudly. In front of them, the house was a looming door to uncertainty, and from the top floor window, two eyes watched as the four of them entered it.

Chapter Notes: Wondering about the spelling of 'sulphur' or 'sulfur'? The traditional British spelling is 'sulphur' but the American spelling is 'sulfur' and I thought it'll be best, since the brothers are American, to spell 'sulfur' that way, and when the British characters speak, I'll spell it as 'sulphur.' Also, Google Maps is my best friend. I went on it to look at Fields Park Avenue and help me describe it. It's really useful if you can't get somewhere yourself. Oh, and fun fact about Google Maps for those of you who don't know already: There is a TARDIS that you can enter and explore around! It's really cool, but you can't go anywhere but the console. Honestly, I wish we could see more of the TARDIS to help us build an image of what it looks like beyond the console…but wouldn't that ruin the point of it being impossibly big?

Speaking of TARDIS's, we're heading into the more Whoy (?) part of the story. As you can tell, the Weeping Angels are one of the monsters I'm using (Cliché for SuperWhoLock, I know, but they really are the perfect monsters to start off with) but I'm also going to use other villains from the series, but they won't be the ones you expect!