"I'm telling you Bobby, there's not a trace!" Dean said, furiously pacing back and forth in the hotel. His heart was starting to race. His brother wasn't exactly obedient, and Dean could recognize the patterns of when he ran away. This didn't match, even a little. If there was anything scarier than Sam being gone of his own free will, was Sam being gone not of his own free will.

"And honestly, you were just asleep?" Bobby asked, on the other end of the phone. "I mean, you're not exactly a deep sleeper, and you're never still asleep so late as when you called me." Dean shook his head. He was right. He had just gotten up at about 10 o'clock.

"I don't know, I think I was drugged!" He responded.

"What do you mean, you think you've been drugged?! You can't tell by now?!"

"Well, I mean, I know it wasn't natural, but it didn't feel like roofies, chloroform, anything I've ever had a nasty headache from."

"So, what'd it feel like?"

"I mean, it didn't hurt, but it kinda just felt like my dreams wouldn't give up. If that makes any sense."

"Sorta like you kept being dragged into sleep and didn't have the willpower to wake up?" Bobby suggested.

"How did you know that?" Dean asked.

"I been knocked out by that before, but only once. It's some sort of… hallucinogenic mixed with a knockout drug in some combination. There's only one guy I've ever known who knows how to make it."

"And who's that?!"

"Do I really have to give you the answer to that one?"

Dean's face went dark, and he stopped pacing. "Sherlock," He knew.

"You know it." Bobby said seriously. "And I bet you he's already used some intricate context-clues to figure out that Sam was different, and every second he's got him he's running another…" He cleared his throat for a moment, looking for the least disturbing word he could find. "Test…" He finally said. He hesitated, and his voice was dark. The way he spoke made it sound like it was the most important thing in the world.

"You go and find him, boy."

Without another word, Dean hung up the phone, crammed it in his pocket, and hurried out of the flat.

As he stormed out, his pace on the verge of a run, he heard something crinkle beneath his feet. He stopped, looking back. Paper… not a big shocker there, but still. He went back and picked it up, and he immediately knew what it was. A page had fallen out of Sherlock's book. The writing was neat, but quickly written and slanted in dark pencil. Tulpas, it was labeled. Curiously, Dean read ahead.

Tulpas

Methods of killing

Destroy all occurrence of the host myth - this leaves it without a form. Then, shot with iron.

Present a model of its current form - upon learning that it's host myth is no longer a myth but a real occurrence, it will cease to exist.

Dean's eyes widened. My God… that was brilliant. The page was small, and already, about half of it had been taken up. Still, he kept reading.

Present the tolpa to at least 100 people, out in the public - once a myth has been realized to be true with enough witnesses, it is no longer a myth. Left without a form. Shoot with iron.

Beheading - If the tolpa's myth involves a reptile, the metaphor "cut the head off the snake" still applies.

What, seriously? Dean thought. He could barely believe what he was reading

Cut off original thought - whoever had the original thought powers the tulpa. Erase memory (see page 35 on human hypnosis) or in more dire cases, kill the source of the original thought.

Dean swallowed. Both of those things were immensely creepy, but he didn't know which was worse. The fact that Sherlock was so casual about killing humans, or the fact that he had an entire page dedicated to how to hypnotize them and erase their memories. Both notions, however, brought him to one conclusion:

He had to find Sam.

He crammed the page in his pocket and hurried out to the impala.

Quite obviously, the first thing he did, as he started driving, was call Sam. He was certain no one would pick up, but it was his first instinct. That's why he was so startled that he almost dropped his phone when a voice on the other end responded.

"Ah, Dean." It said. It wasn't Sam. No, that deep, British voice was someone he'd met more recently. "Off to rescue little Sammy, I take it?" He sounded incredibly confident and cool with this conversation, almost exasperated. It was like he knew how everything was going to play out.

"What the Hell have you done to him?" Dean snarled in response.

"Oh just a few… experiments. I haven't killed him, if you're wondering, I find that rather unnecessary. In fact, I think I'll keep him alive, just because."

Dean was a little taken aback, as he thought Sherlock was totally heartless. "You… what?"

"Mm, yes." He said. "What with his ability to exorcise things so easily, I see no harm in not killing him. Doing good for the human race, and all that. Of course, it also helps me personally. I try not to murder if I can help it… people tend not to like that and I can't do much in prison."

"Wait, what?!" Dean demanded, ignoring most of what he said. "Of course he can exorcise demons, you can too, all hunters can!"

"Yes, but I'm referring to…" Sherlock stopped in his tracks. A grin spread over his face, and even though Dean couldn't see, he could practically feel it like a shiver down his spine. "Ah." Sherlock said softly, leaning back in his chair. Dean didn't know. "On the other hand, do come over. It should play out rather interestingly. I need to get entertainment some way, you know, and the tele is ever so predictable." He said evilly.

"What?!" Dean demanded, clueless as to what he was talking about. "What the Hell are you up to, Sherlock?!"

"The address is 221B Baker Street." He said. Before Dean could say another word, he hung up the phone.

Clearly, it was a trap, Dean thought. But what other lead did he have? He tried Sam's cell again, but to no avail. So, with no other hope and Bobby;s words ringing in his head, he found where 221B Baker Street was and started off towards it.

His heart was racing as he pulled in. The drive was only twenty minutes long, but it felt like hours before he finally got to the old abandoned flat. He could see, behind the curtains, the silhouettes. They were barely visible, but he knew they were the right ones. He got out of the impala, his hand in his coat, on the trigger of his gun, and started inside.

Every step seemed like torture. Very carefully and suspiciously, he climbed the stairs, gently walked through the hall, and then, his heart racing, opened the door.

Everything was there. Against the wall, in a chair, sat Sherlock, grinning as though he were entertained. Dean looked behind him. In the corner was a shadow, but he could still see through it. It was Sam, but the way he was, he wasn't even happy to see him..

He looked weakly up at Dean, but didn't speak. His breath was heavy, his body limp, and his face a cloudy pale. Up his forearm ran linear cuts (probably seeing what metals would hurt him) and above that, the rest of his arm was practically polka-dotted with places needles had been. The other arm was hooked up to an IV, leading to a container of Dean didn't know what.

His heart dropped. He never wanted to see Sam like this. Never. He took a step forward.

"What the Hell have you done to my brother?!" He asked softly, his question sincere.

"Whatever needed doing to get the information. He's proved to be almost totally human so far, but I know, of course, there must be something different." He said.

"You son of a bitch," Dean growled, fury in his eyes. He marched over to Sherlock, grabbing him up by the collar, but he didn't even flinch. His expressionless face remained the same. In a flash, he reached into his coat and withdrew a small patch, slapping it onto Dean's arm. It stuck to him, and immediately he released his coat collar and fell to the floor. He growled, trying to claw the patch off. He could feel his skin burning beneath it, like he was on fire.

"For the sake of your ignorance, I won't take the time to explain what that was. I'll just say it's an acid patch." Sherlock said coldly, dusting off his coat. "Anyway, I'm the one who kept your brother alive, you could at least show me some respect."

Dean hissed in pain, struggling to get it off. He was horrified to see his own skin coming off even more easily than the plastic it was made of. He looked up at Sherlock. "Fine." He growled. "Your terms."

Sherlock smirked. "Say please." He said smoothly.

Dean growled with fury, but he was going numb. He looked down, despising the word. "Please," He spat.

Sherlock smiled, pulling a small bottle from his coat and roughly grabbing Dean's arm. He let a single drop fall onto the edge of it, and it easily spread around the whole circle and the entire thing slipped right off. He panted, the pain slowly duling. He looked at the mark on his arm. It was like a cigar burn, but bigger and more raw. He looked up toward Sam, giving him a pitying look, (although he barely saw it or was aware of anything) and then turning with a scowl to Sherlock.

"What do you want?" Dean snarled.

"Not much," Sherlock admitted. "I did the majority of the experiments already, the most important of which is happening right now."

"What are you doing to him?"

"Well, since I found him, I have cut him with 12 different types of metal and wood, and to no effect, had several things ingested, also so far ineffective, and several things have been injected. I got a few results, but nothing shocking. Not until I began injecting him with, of all things, holy water. Thus, his current state. Interesting, I think. My guess is that he as demon blood in him, and such blood would involve demon chromatin. This would be mostly the same, aside from the ideas of certain threats. It is likely that they would see any holy liquid as a threat to the body, therefore attempting to create antibodies against it. Of course, antibodies can't fight water, and they would end up getting confused, and piling up, doing nothing. A defense is thought to have been taken up, but in truth the holy water is very slowly burning him internally. Not enough to even leave a mark, but it would make his internal body temperature," He put his hand briefly on Sam's forehead, before quickly withdrawing it and shaking it off. "Very hot. This also leaves the mind with the illusion that he is under attack, but the cells under the illusion that it's in control."

Dean stood up, looking at Sam, his eyes full of amazement and pity. He had only actually picked up a little bit of what he said, but he wasn't a big enough idiot not to figure out that Sam wasn't doing so good. "Sammy…" He whispered.

"Wake him, withdraw the needle, and see him, if you'd like. I believe he'll have something to tell you when he comes to his senses." Sherlock said coolly.

Dean didn't listen to the 'something to tell you part', but just fell to his knees in front of Sam, pulling the needle from his inner elbow. Wake him wasn't really the right term. He was awake, his eyes were open, but vacant towards the floor. He didn't really hear or see any part of his surroundings, he was focusing a lot more on what was happening internally. Dean shook his harshly by the shoulders. "Sam!" He cried, terror in his voice. Oh god, please say it was temporary. Sam didn't respond. "Sam!"

Slowly, Sam's empty eyes began to drift across the room before they weakly locked onto Dean. He swallowed. "Dean?" He said, barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," Dean sighed in relief. "Yeah, Sam, it's me." He pulled Sam forward, and he collapsed weakly into his arms. Dean shut his eyes, glad he was at least alive, and somewhat responsive.

"It'll wear off," Sherlock said casually, as though it didn't really matter. "He'll wake up, and he'll be able to wash it out of his system. Then it's perfectly fine for you to take him back. I was nearly finished, but there's no point in hanging on, the rest's pretty much just logic. I've figured out a lot of things because of him. How to kill him, how to torture him, how to cure him, all that."

Dean looked up at him, with hope in his eyes. "... cure him?" He asked softly.

"Mm, yes." He said.

"How… do you…"

Before Dean could finish, a loud ringing burst out through the air. Sherlock pulled his phone out of his outside pocket (how many pockets did this guy have?) and rolled his eyes when he saw the caller ID.

"Sorry, have to get this." He said, as though he were having a casual conversation. He put the phone to his ear, leaving Dean silenced and confused.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked rapidly. He paused before he said each sentence, somebody talking on the other end. "What business is it of yours?... No, I am not- what do you want from me?... Not interested…" He creased his eyebrows in confusion. "What?... I know it's a case, you just told me-..." He stopped in his tracks, listening for a long time. For the first time, he looked truly panicked. His eyes were wide, and his hands curling slowly around his knees. His back straightened, listening intently. "How long?" His teeth clenched together, as though he were getting caught. "How?... No, I want to know, what gave it away?" He swallowed. "You're good, I won't lie." He paused. "What's the case?" he said, shifting in his seat, and seeming less panicked. "Yes… yes… But I don't know anything about them…" The person on the other end of the phone talked for a long while, and Sherlock's eyes drifted over to the two brothers. "What, seriously? Them?" He asked, disbelieving. His face soon went stark again. "Yes… yes, I understand…" As he said this, he looked forward, but with a serious face, he looked back at the Winchester brothers. "Of course I know. Compassion is a weakness, yes, you think for God's sake I don't know?!" He sighed getting irritated. "Yes… where?... Do I bring them?... alright. Alright… as soon as possible." The phone call was hung up on the other end, and Sherlock slowly withdrew the phone from his ears. He stared straight forward, considering everything he'd just heard. As he leaned back, his face returned to its regular cold, but slightly more tender. It seemed like he could expect anything, but he hadn't been expecting this.

"Who was that?" Dean asked. He didn't know why he asked, he wouldn't know him anyway.

"The closest thing I have to a friend," Sherlock responded, without turning his head.

"You have a friend?" Dean asked, rather rudely, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice at all.

"No, I said the closest thing." He responded coldly.

"And what's that?" Dean asked curiously.

Slowly, Sherlock's head turned to face Dean, his eyes stone cold, now flooding with persistence and motivation. He hesitated a long moment, the conversation still clearly running through his head. He knew that look, his life had changed. Finally he spoke.

"An enemy."