"Is there anything I can do to quicken your contemplation?" Castiel asked.
Sherlock remained silent, eyes focused on a distance, his hands folded under his chin. The angel sighed.
"Sherlock?"
To the angel's surprise, Sherlock jumped from his seat and impatiently swept off the clutter on his kitchen table. "Pass me a map! There's one on that shelf-and a pen! Quickly!" he shouted, the tip of his fingers pressing his temples, eyes shut and teeth gritting. Castiel laid out the Map of London on the table and handed Sherlock the pen. The detective grabbed it without looking and started marking the map with lines as swift as a blur.
"Kensington." Sherlock blurted, breathing heavily as if he ran a marathon. "The bodies were found in Abbots Langley, Theydon Bois, Crayford, the river near Woldingham, Heathrow airport, Central Middlesex Hospital, Kenswood House, Wimbledon station, London City airport and Brixton. If you connect all the places and observe the intersections it forms a pentagram whose heart is Kensington."
Castiel raised his eyebrows, both in understanding and in awe. "I knew I could rely on you, brother. Do you still remember how to use an angel blade?" he asked, drawing out the gleaming short sword from his coat sleeve.
Sherlock stared at the blade and reached out to take it, the weapon cold against his fingers. The detective felt the surge of memories fill him, all those days in battle, angel blood spilling on the courts of Heaven when Lucifer took his stand. He remembered that he was the one who ripped his own brother's wings with pain in his heart. This was why he hated the mere thought of sentiment-his immense care towards his brother caused Moriarty to rebel. Sherlock knew that he didn't want to outshine his brother, he wanted to protect him in becoming a heinous manipulator and yet his attempts backfired. Moriarty wanted to break free from him. His brother felt suffocated, disgusted, unimportant-Moriarty wanted a name of his own.
And now, he is the steward of the Greater Demons.
"I believe I can." Sherlock replied, remembering how easily he wielded a sword in Karachi to save Irene Adler.
"Very well. Do you think we can find out where exactly will Moriarty be raised?" Castiel asked.
Sherlock grew silent. There has to be something. A clue. Anything.
He tried to remember the names of the victims in order of death: Sylvia Bradstreet, Elsa Meadow, Karissa Maggs, Richard Stodden, Kenneth Pittmon, Martha Todd, Bea Reed, John Roscoe, Finigan Fletch, Victoria Secker and Albert Gadwood.
A story about Kensington... And then, everything fell into place.
"The last two victims, Victoria Secker and Albert Gadwood. They represent the names of Queen Victoria and her beloved Albert. They resided in Kensington palace where the Queen had her first council and where they raised their 9 children. This is Moriarty. There's always a puzzle involved and of course, he needed a place for royalty-something he believed he deserved. Clever!" Sherlock announced, leaving Castiel confused at his last remark.
"We need a plan." Castiel replied, recovering.
Castiel transported both him and Sherlock to the palace, both of them silently scanning the area for conspicuous activities. A new moon during the winter solstice, on the 13th day of the month, is needed to raise Lucifer's stewards-it was when the forces of the dark are strongest. And tonight is that fateful circumstance.
"We can't search the entire place. We will lose time. Where do you think will it happen?" Castiel mused.
Sherlock shut his eyes and tried to search his mind palace for answers. Somewhere extravagant, welcoming... Grand.
"The Grand Staircase." Sherlock replied, heading to the hall leading to the place he just dictated. Castiel followed, both of them with angel blades at hand.
When they reached the Staircase, the room was dark except for the small flicker of fire at the right side of the higher hall. Distracted, Sherlock and Castiel was caught off guard when someone lit where they were standing and the Holy Fire did its bidding.
"You came. Lovely! I'm Jenna, by the way. Huge fan, Mr. Holmes." said a woman in her late-30s, wearing a waitress's uniform.
"You can't trap him. He's not an angel. Just deal with me and let him go." Castiel pleaded, casting an apologetic look to Sherlock, who shook his head.
"Is it safe to say that you need something from us? But then again I'm always right." Sherlock replied calmly.
Jenna laughed. "Brilliant deduction, Mr. Holmes. However, it seems like you and Castiel did not think things through. You see, 12 deaths aren't enough. A 13th sacrifice has to be made."
In one swift movement, another demon grabbed Sherlock out of the circle, screeching with pain as the holy fire fed into his vessel's flesh. Jenna smites the demon after that, having no other use of him seeing how damaged he was from the fire. Two more demons grabbed hold of Sherlock, twisting his arm to get the angel blade. The detective yelped in pain as Jenna stabbed him in the abdomen.
"Stop! Why are you doing this? This is none of his concern anymore. He is human now!" Castiel begged, seeing the trickling blood coming from Sherlock's body.
Sherlock writhed in pain, whimpering when Jenna slashed on his arm. "Just kill me if that's what you want!" he spat.
"Oh no, dear. He would want to greet you when he returns. I only need your blood and this..." Jenna replied, taking out a small flask from her apron's pocket. It was glowing white, the content swirling like pure marble.
Sherlock's Grace.
"It can't be." Castiel breathed.
Sherlock looked up, his vision blurring. He couldn't feel his legs and he felt cold and numb. Searching the room for an idea, his eyes wandered of the flickering light they saw earlier. It was moving, its bearer walking down the staircase. Sherlock tried to squint, trying to see who it was. The figure seemed familiar to him, a sensation of fear growing inside him.
When the person reached the bottom of the staircase and went to him, the figure towering over his pained form, Sherlock found himself completely in denial when he saw the face studying him, a devilish smile stretched on that person's face.
"No. Not you..." Sherlock managed to say before he the room spun in his vision, his body giving in to the blood loss, his heart and mind shutting down as he saw the face of his captor.