Meanwhile, Sam was just making his way out of the hospital. Dean was clearly pissed, but he still took care of him like always. It just was less… sugar-coated. He had him kneel in the car (that they stole). He had them take the shortest routes. Neither of them spoke to each other the whole way there. The silence seemed to tear at Sam's heart and rip up his body… or maybe those were just the burns.

He came back to the hotel to a rather concerning sight. Everything was the same, aside from the fact that there was no Sherlock. He would have thought he had been late, but, well… he was Sherlock. He wouldn't just be late for no reason, he would have calculated.

"Wasn't he supposed to be here by now?" Dean asked.

"Yeah…" Sam answered nervously.

Sam searched the hotel room, and Dean went out to check the parking lot and other rooms, et cetera. Sam looked everywhere, every room, every hiding spot. He checked the bathroom last, cause why the Hell would he be in there?

Well, Sam was wrong. He walked into a rather odd sight, actually. Sherlock was sitting fully clothed in the bath, trench coat and all, water coming up almost to the very top. His fingers were pressed together and his eyes locked on his computer, which was propped up on the counter, beside the sink.

"Um... Sherlock, what are you doing?" Sam asked him, confused.

"I'm badly burned, I had to think of something," He answered briefly. "Now hush, this is important."

Sam walked around to see what was on his computer, to find it was a newswoman in front of the white house (or what was left of it, it looked more like ruins now) talking about how it was destroyed and what plans of action would be taken.

"Dude, you were there," Sam began.

"Hush!" Sherlock insisted. They both sat and watched the newswoman.

"The police are not sure how the bomb got in, or why it was set off, but they do know it has caused catastrophic damage. Nearly the entire white house, aside from a few bedrooms. We're just lucky that the current president was safely in camp David, on vacation. However, many people were killed, including British official Mycroft Holmes and many guards on post at the time. Little can be found at the scene of the explosion. One note was found, however. How it was not burned by the flame is still not known, but it remains seemingly untouched. Written on it are the words 'Johnny's on Broadway with full moon eyes' with three exclamation points. So far nonsensical, but we can't be sure-"

"Pause it," Sherlock told Sam. He took a step forward and did so, freezing the woman in her tracks.

"Oh, he's not even trying anymore," Sherlock said, a hint of a smirk behind his lips.

"What's that mean?" Sam asked. "Johnny's on Broadway? Who's Johnny?"

"Not a person, a place." Sherlock explained. "Johnson road. It intersects with Broadway street about 20 miles from here, where assumedly, I'll have to go. Full moon eyes; the moon is most visible, and could be described as most full at midnight." He explained. "I have to meet him on the intersection of Johnson and Broadway at midnight tonight."

"Who?" Sam asked.

"Moriarty, of course," He responded. Then, in a single motion he stood up and exited the room, walking dripping wet and leaving a trail behind him.

Sherlock was cooped away for the rest of the day. He had only made such an exit to gather materials, but he ended up going straight back in and back into the water. The burns hurt like Hell, and this, so far, was one of the few ways to dull the pain ever a little. He made sure all the guns were loaded and everything was set. He hadn't met with Moriarty for so many years… he barely even knew if he was ready. He sat there the entire day, not eating, not sleeping, (he was already in a bathroom) and making no sound whatsoever.

Things outside weren't much more active. The Winchesters barely even spoke to one another, or recognized each other's presence at all. Sam knew this couldn't last. He was sat cross-legged on the floor, as it hurt too much to sit on the couch. His shirt was off; it hurt to even have the gentility of his T-shirt brushing against him. His marks were like Sherlock's, only even more aggressive, some of the marks forming a full ring of red all the way around his chest. He hardly wanted to move. Dean was sat on the couch, a book on his lap. He wasn't paying attention to what his eyes were skimming over, but it was some excuse not to look at Sam.

"Dean." Sam finally began. He had to say something. It had been hours. Dean didn't respond, his eyes strictly fixed to his book, ignoring him as well as he could. "Dean, I can't help what I've done, but I'm trying to fix it!" He said rapidly.

"Oh, yeah, cause that fixes anything!" Dean scoffed sarcastically, flipping the page.

"I know it doesn't but…" Sam looked away. "Sherlock told me about the cure," He mentioned.

"Okay, it's a cure, what else do we need to know? You're taking it," Dean said.

"Yeah, but…" Sam stopped in his tracks. It physically pained him to lie to Dean, yet again, but if he knew he'd only stop him. This was for the best. If he didn't know, Sam would take the cure. He'd lock himself up and if he lived he'd come out a healthy man.

That scared him nearly more than he could take. He felt like a little kid, and he didn't want to go through this all alone.

But it was for the best. "Yeah…" He finished finally.

And then, the day went on like nothing changed.

Sleeping was kind of hard for Sam. It was mostly the laying down, really. He ached all over, and the slightest breeze felt like the flame was only being fanned. He ended up sleeping on his stomach, on the majority of pillows they could find in the hotel. Even then, though, his eyes didn't want to shut. He wasn't gonna deny it; he was scared. Scared out of his wits. He could take pain head on, if he knew it would stab or burn or ache, but he really, truly didn't know what was going to happen. The very idea was… horrifying.

Dean didn't sleep well either. He could hardly believe how shocked he was that Sam had lied to him, again. I mean, he always did. Which was even harder to accept. When would he stop? Would he ever stop? Would he just go off into his room one day for 'research' and be dying all the while? Just because it was right? Just because he knew he'd stop him?

He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn't something he wanted to think about. He didn't really want to think about anything but the damn case.

Dean almost laughed at the irony.

He never thought Satan rising up from the pits of Hell would be the most comforting thought he had in his mind.

I guess shit is pretty bad, he thought.

I guess shit is pretty bad.

Sherlock snuck out after they were both asleep. It was 11:40. Plenty of time.

He swept out into the night, the gentle wind caressing his back, and he waited for a cab to come. It took a while, but he knew there had to be one. When one's light finally came shooting down the road, he waved for it to stop and got (kneeled, yet again) inside it.

"The corner of Johnson and Broadway. Make it fast," He told the cabbie. And he did so, really. He made it there actually three minutes early. Perfect.

He tossed some money in the cabbie's direction and stepped out, letting the light drive away. The place where he was seemed to be… a dent. He had no other way to describe it. Down Johnson road, on either way, apartment buildings and cities loomed like shadows in the night, and Broadway did the same, but in this patch where the two roads crossed, there was hardly anything. No cars were coming. No cars were going. No people were stirring. Very few lights were on.

The wind didn't even dare to blow.

All he had to see by was a single lamp-post, just beside the place where the streets met. Its yellowish light exploded into the shadowy, foggy darkness, but still left Sherlock alone in shadow.

No, he corrected himself. Not alone.

"I made it," He said to the empty air. "I made it out unharmed… or at least unharmed enough to see your little note." He smirked. "Johnny's on Broadway with full moon eyes? Come now. You're getting lazy. You know I can do better than that."

A gentle voice peeked out of the darkness, but its source was unknown. "A warm up, Sherlock." It said, the words flowing smoothly through the air. "Don't worry. There'll be harder puzzles yet."

"Why did you bring me here?" Sherlock asked. "You just tried to kill me."

"Mm, no." He denied. "I didn't kill you, Sherlock. I gave that bomb just enough time not to hurt you enough to kill you. I didn't even immobilize you. Call it kindness."

"I don't think I will," Sherlock responded. "What was the point, then? Blowing up the white house? I know you're dramatic, but that's just careless,"

"Everything I do has a point, Sherlock!" He responded with a sigh.

"And your point was?"

Slowly, a figure stepped into the light of the single, weak lamp. He was in a grey suit and blended easily with the shadow. His eyes pierced through the night like flashlights and even from here you could see the maniacal grin his mouth was folding into. "I told you I'd burn you, Sherlock." Moriarty reminded him. "Didn't I?"

Sherlock slowly shifted to face him straight on. The two looked not so different, but not so alike either. It's like when there's two sources of light and you end up with two shadows, one darker than the other. That's who they were. Neither of them were really good, one was just darker than the other, and still, after all this time, they could hardly figure out which was the darker and which was the lighter.

"Why did you bring me here, Moriarty?" He asked softly.

"Well… the plans have changed. A bit. You know just a teensy tiny little bit. Sorry!" He gave an over the top shrug and look of fake apology, his hands still in his pockets. "Nothing I'm going to tell you, obviously, but I mean, now that we're allowed to talk there's some things I wanted to tell you. Some questions I wanted to answer." He paused, giving him an inquisitive look. "Got any?"

"Well, we ought to start with the basics," Sherlock said. "Who are you?"
"Jim Moriarty," He responded. "But you knew that one."

"I mean what are you?"

"Mm, we'll get to that one later!" He whined. "You're not asking the important questions, Sherlock! What do you get if you know my race? Nothing but a page for your journal and a pensive look on your face!"

"I might know how to kill you," Sherlock mentioned casually.

"Yeah, but I won't be telling you that." He said. "Next question. Think about it this time."

Sherlock paused for a moment, thinking what question could give him the most useful information. "How are you connected to Lucifer?" He asked.

"Oh there we go!" Moriarty complimented. "Nice and thick and deep, that question! Very meaty!"

"And your answer?" Sherlock prompted.

"Well…" He began. "If the big man wants some little kiddies to run around and play daddy, he calls the knights of Hell. When he wants the real work done? He calls me. I'm his first-hand best-man if-they-can't-do-it-I-can!" He chuckled to himself. "The Puc to his Oberon."

Sherlock nodded. "And how'd you get your hands on a position like that?"

He shrugged. "The economic ladder in Hell is a lot like the one on Earth. Although it tends not to go as high. Lower starting point, I suppose."

"And Lucifer… is rising?" Sherlock reassured. Moriarty grinned.

"Oh, he's rising alright. He's got plans for you Sherlock, big ones, huge! You're all the buzz down in Hell!" He sighed with excitement. "Oh, if you think about it it's all so… it's just so…" His tone suddenly changed and he grinned like a child. "Bo-ring!" He smiled at Sherlock's look of confusion. "Don't look like that, Sherlock, you know it's true. Oh, yes, Satan's rising. You know what that means? A boom. A crash. Everyone's dead. The end. Goodbye. No epilogue." He shrugged. "Do you remember the good old days Sherlock?" He asked nostalgically. "Back when life was more than cutting the heads off of vampires? Back when the cases were interesting?" Sherlock didn't answer, but it was definitely true. This was a job, but it wasn't exciting. It wasn't engaging. Nothing was anymore.

"Then again…" Moriarty continued. "That all made a big spin around for you didn't it? You gave it all up. Over one teensy little thing, didn't you?"

"Don't you dare," Sherlock warned.

His voice softened. "Oh, Johnny boy," He sang evilly. "The pipes, the pipes are calling."

"Shut up!" Sherlock snarled, his fists balling.

"Oof, you're touchy!" Moriarty commented. "You're not gonna react well to what I have to tell you next,"

Sherlock swallowed, ready for anything. "What?" He asked. Moriarty took a step closer. The two were just beside each other. Was one of them to walk forward, they would walk right by each other. Moriarty whispered right into Sherlock's ear.

"It was me, Sherlock." He said softly. "I did it. I killed John. It wasn't some run of the mill demon. In fact, and you ought to value this as a compliment, it was me in person who ended his measly, stupid, worthless little life. It was me who drove a knife through his hot red gut. And I enjoyed. Every. Second."

Sherlock couldn't take it any more. Faster than he could blink, he pulled the gun out of his coat, aimed, and shot him in the head. Blood spurted and Moriarty fell backward. He was lying motionless on the ground before Sherlock could even fathom what had happened. For a moment, the night was silent.

"And, scene," A voice came from the body. Casually, he sat back up. "Did you like my acting skills? Oh wait, look, I can do magic, too!" For a moment, he looked up, his tongue rolling around his mouth, before he spit a bullet into his hand. "There it is, Sherlock," He said. "But wait!" He clapped his hands together and held them both up. Now there was a bullet in each hand. "There's two!" He let the other hand fall and marvelled at the second bullet. "Nostalgic, isn't it Sherlock? This is the same bullet as all those years ago. I know it drove you insane, for so, so long. 'How could he live? How? How? How?!" He grinned. "This is how."

"What are you?!" Sherlock snarled.

Slowly, Moriarty looked up at him with a ravenous grin on his face. His eyes were a hot blood red all the way through. "Your worst nightmare."

A chill ran down Sherlock's spine. He took a single step backward, using every nerve in his body to keep himself from running away. Fear was wisdom in the face of danger. This was danger. It was all that was in his head. Danger. Every primal and thoughtful instinct told him to run. But no, not yet. He watched with horror as Moriarty stood without a care and dusted the dirt off his suit.

"I believe that's all, Sherlock," He said. Sherlock winced to see the blood still dripping from the side of his head, but he didn't even seem to notice. "Oh, but there is one more thing," He said. "Now that I told you how I survived all those years ago I think I'd like to know the same. I owed you a fall, and you still aren't dead," He commented. He smiled softly as though this was asking him his favorite color. Not a matter of life or death. "What happened there, Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed. He felt almost… in trouble. And with what he knew, it was even worse. He didn't speak.

"Oh," Moriarty sighed. "You don't know," He observed. "Ah well. Unimportant, I guess. That was so, so, so, so, so long ago. I'm afraid I've got work to do and I must-"

"Wait," Sherlock said. "I can piece most of it together, but there's one piece I still don't get."

Moriarty smiled and spread out his arms. "Lay it on me," He said.

"The note," He said. "Why write it?"

"Well, I had to get you here somehow, didn't I? I thought it was old-fashioned. Did you not like it?"
"No, I mean…" Sherlock intervened, waving his hand to stop him. "Not… that letter, the one you left before. Written in pen, on printer paper, left in the flat."

Moriarty gave a long pause, looking at him with curiosity. "Oh," He said. "Now that is interesting."

"In what way?" Sherlock asked him.

"Well… only the fact that…" He shrugged. "I didn't write a note. And you know I'm not lying, too."

Sherlock's eyes widened. He had been so sure. How could it be anyone else? How?!

"Hm," Moriarty said. "Maybe you have a secret admirer," He smirked for a moment before bursting out into laughter. "Oh, just kidding Sherlock, no one admires you." He laughed to himself for another moment before sighing with a grin on his face. "Ah… anyway. I really do have to get going. Now run along, Sherlock." He lifted his arm, smirking and touching his thumb and middle finger together. "None of this ever happened."

The last thing Sherlock saw was his eyes go red, his fingers snap, and everything go black.