The angel brought them to the hotel, the room he knew they'd be staying in. As soon as the three men arrived along with them, they all fell to the floor, gasping for long needed air and trying to recount what happened.

Dean was, believe it or not, probably best off. He arrived at the hotel and dropped Sam's wrist, falling to his hands and knees and breaking into a heavy cough. He surveyed himself briefly; still alive? Yep. Everything still attached? Yep. Broken bones? He could feel his ankle in a searing pain, more than the bruises that covered him, and his wrist in a similar, but slightly lesser situation. He winced, only now realizing the pain.

As soon as he could think straight, fell into a sitting position and cast a glance towards Sam, who lied unconscious on the floor. Dean wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep, but it may very well have been ever since they and Castiel left the warehouse. He watched him suspiciously until he could clearly see his chest rising and falling steadily. Phew. Still alive. But still, he'd just been through alot, and it was probably best that he let him sleep.

When Dean was satisfied with the state Sam was in, he turned to Sherlock, sprawled on his side and unconscious. He waited, looking to see if he was breathing, but from this angle he couldn't tell.

"Sherlock…" He asked after a moment of waiting. He peered over at him. Just as he began to worry, Sherlock gasped loudly, yanking his eyes open, and sat up rigidly. Dean let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

Just as soon as Sherlock was up, he was doubled over in pain and clutching his stomach. He hissed loudly in pain, feeling as though his gut had been wrenched around inside him. Definitely a few ribs broken. He hardly knew how he was still sitting up.

The angel took a step closer, a serious look on his face, and reached out his hand. "Here, let me-"

"No…" Sherlock managed out through a groan. "First… did it work?! Is Lucifer caged?!"

Castiel nodded. "Yes. The plan was successful." Sherlock sat for another moment panting, and looked up softly at the angel. His voice got slightly quieter.

"And Moriarty?" he asked. Cas looked away and mournfully shook his head.

"My apologies." He said. Sherlock cast a look at the ground and slowly shook his head.

"Oh… well, I guess you can't have it all…" Carefully, he pulled his arms away from his stomach and said through a wince, "Have at it." Castiel gently touched him on the chest, making him gasp slightly in pain, before sighing in relief. He rolled his shoulders back and rolled his head to either side, immediately feeling rejuvenated. "Thank you," he said briefly. Castiel just nodded and shifted his eyes to Dean.

"And you and your brother, are you physically injured?" He asked. Dean shrugged.

"Little bruised, little battered." He said gruffly. "Couple broken bones, but I've had worse."

"At least let me heal the broken bones." Castiel offered, slight hints of worry in his eyes. Dean sighed. It would be nice. He gave a brisk nod, allowing the angel to step up to him and sequentially heal his wrist and his ankle as he gestured to them. As soon as he touched it it burned a little inside and out for about a second, before the entirety of the pain vanished, leaving him feeling as though that part of his body was new. He sighed in relief.

"Thanks," he said.

"Of course."

"No really." Dean added, looking up at him. "I know you're an angel, and you didn't have to get us all out of there, or wait for me and Sherlock. I appreciate it." He said genuinely. Castiel looked away and nodded, not letting it show that he was rather touched by the human's words. He stood fully back up, nodding curtly at Dean.

"You're welcome," He said. "Anyway, if you three are well off, I must be returning to heaven."

Dean nodded in understanding. "Well, feel free to pop on back whenever heaven needs a favor." he offered. Cas nodded.

"I appreciate it." Then Dean blinked, felt a gentle gust of wind in his face, and the angel was gone. A moment passed as both Dean and Sherlock looked at the place he used to be before Sherlock spoke, not looking forward at Dean.

"I suppose you'll want to be going your own way, now that all this is over." He said.

"Right now I want to sleep," Dean said, and as he said it he knew it was the truth. His body was physically barely able to move, and his mind could barely process any of the day before him. "It's been pretty much the longest day I've had ever. I don't even care that it's like, one in the afternoon, I'm taking a nap."

Sherlock nodded as Dean followed through. He carefully stood, wobbling on his first try, then pulled Sam gently up, unwaking onto his shoulder. He put Sam's arm around him and shuffled into the bedrooms, most likely putting Sam on one of the beds and collapsing on the other. It didn't seem like such a bad idea. In fact, the more Sherlock thought about it, the more tired he felt he got. He carefully pulled himself up off the ground just long enough to make his way over to the couch, then flopped down face-first upon the cushions. He was on the verge of falling asleep when a voice he knew broke his peace.

"Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a moment to process the voice and phrase, before letting out a heavy sigh and propping himself upon one elbow. He squinted up at his brother, irritation in his eyes.

"Can't you go back to actually being dead?" He asked him.

"That's actually the matter on which I came," he explained, still smiling softly the way he did. "One matter remains unsolved and it's the fact that I'm still here. You haven't burned the coat yet, Sherlock."

He groaned, letting himself fall back down onto the couch. "Sleep first," He insisted.

"Sherlock-"

"Sleep!"

Mycroft gave an annoyed sigh and flickered away into the air. Sherlock waited several moments. He must have been… really gone. He sighed in relief, and almost immediately fell off to sleep.

It was dark out when Sherlock awoke.

He blinked his eyes heavily, sitting up and looking around at where he was. He tried to recount all the events that happened the day before, as he rested his head on his hand. Moriarty possessed Lucifer… rose up… but then… something…

No… he didn't have enough brain power to process it. Although, something he did remember that hadn't really occurred to him before as the fact that Dean had rushed out from fairly far away to pull him out of that red-black smoke. Interesting, he thought. Just moments earlier, he had sent him a message threatening to kill him and hunt him down, and yet nearly the moment just after he was putting his own life at risk to save him. For what reason? If he wanted him dead, wouldn't it be so much more convenient to let him die there.

Sherlock sighed. He could never understand other people.

He threw his legs over the couch and stood up, figuring he would need to burn his coat and send Mycroft back before he began to get vengeful. His hand rubbed across his eyes, still barely awake. Figuring Dean didn't have to be roused, he grabbed a lighter and some oil that he had and turned the handle to the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock turned around to see a tired, disgruntled Dean standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

"It's a long story," he said. Dean shrugged casually, drifting forward a step.

"Tell it," He recommended. "I'm well rested." Sherlock sighed. At this point, it would seem like he was hiding something and it would be easier just to explain.

"My brother, he came back as a ghost to help me keep Lucifer caged. He locked himself onto the trench coat I bought, so I have to burn it." He explained. Dean took a moment to process, before he nodded his head in understanding.

"Where you gonna do it?" He asked.

"The warehouse seemed to have served us well thus far."

"And you're just gonna light it up?"

Sherlock looked away briefly and nodded. "I intended to."

Dean gave a slow shake of his head. "No way, man. He's your brother, we gotta do it right. I'll get the wood and see if Sam can come help." he turned to step back into the bedroom and wake Sam, before Sherlock stopped him.

"Do what right?" He asked.

Dean turned back to face him. "A hunter's funeral." He told him obviously.

"That's really not necessary-"

"Too bad, we're doing it anyway. What with your screwed up brain, you could stand to do a little proper mourning."

"Can't mourn something you don't miss."

Dean smirked. "Come on, you'll miss him." He insisted.

"I really won't."

Dean sighed, shaking his head. "Fine, don't miss him," he said. "But don't leave, cause I'm getting Sam."

As Dean turned and walked back into the room, Sherlock rolled his eyes and took his hand of the door's handle, tapping his foot impatiently as he awaited Dean's return.

Sam took a little shaking and re-waking to pull him out of bed, but even after just one sleep he was doing much better. He was still about as weak as he'd be if he had a moderate flu, walking fairly slowly and getting a headache easily, but he was much better than yesterday. Dean drove out to the nearest place a forest would be and gathered up enough wood to put up the proper funeral, while Sam took Sherlock's coat and wrapped it unnecessarily in the usual body bag. Even knowing it was pointless, he confided to Dean that he had felt fairly useless the last few days what with the burns and the holy water and just wanted to be part of the process. So, the coat would be wrapped in a body bag. So be it.

As soon as all that was gathered, they crammed all they could into the trunk and other seat in the back of the car and drove out to the old warehouse. Out in the night sky, Dean loaded up most of the wood, letting Sam do the lighter pieces and feel useful. Sherlock was being a lazy jerk, as always, but today he didn't really mind. It was a beautiful night that felt like autumn during the day, with a chilling next-to-cold temperature and a crisp refreshing breeze. Every star was out. However sore his body was, it was kind of nice.

Dean didn't notice until he was finished that Mycroft himself was waiting a good few yards away from the group. It was odd seeing it, Mycroft thought. Someone setting up the materials for your funeral. It was something you never really think you're gonna see. At that point you'd be in heaven or reincarnation or whatever you believed would happen. But here Mycroft stood, watching the preparations for the aftermath of his own death. His own passing. The very event was made to help people who were gone, but he was still here.

Interesting, he thought.

When it was all set up, Mycroft took a few steps forward, just beside Sherlock. Sherlock didn't turn his head, even after he saw him. Dean briefly passed his eyes over Mycroft before doing an awed double take, lighter in his hand.

"Whoa." he said. "Forgot you were... right." He said.

"No offense taken," Mycroft responded with a gentle nod. Sam gave him a look for a few seconds, clearly as taken off guard as Dean was, before turning his eyes back to the pile of sticks. Dean coated the sticks in oil and flicked on the lighter. One stick, dripping with oil stuck out farther than the others, and he held the flame to it. With a mighty whoosh the gigantic pile lit up in flames, brightening the night sky and projecting smoke high into the air. It gave off a radiant, comfortable heat.

Not at all like Hell fire, Sherlock had thought.

In his hands rested the coat in the body bag. The brothers figured that he should be the one to do it; after all, it was his brother he was sending to Heaven (or Hell, I suppose, the Winchesters didn't know). At this point, all eyes were on him as he stared down at the coat in one hand, the other in his pocket. His face gave no clues to his expression, but his mind was racing. Mycroft was an aristocratic snob and a power-hungry arsehole, he knew that. But for some unknown reason, the very few memories he had in which Mycroft was actually being a decent person came to his head. Memories when they were younger, being taught how to deduce. They used to sit on the curb for hours telling all they could about the people in passings cars. Mycroft asking 'what can you tell?' and Sherlock doing his all to impress him. Little did Sherlock know why he was thinking of this now, after all these years. I guess his mind was trying to tell him something: he's your brother.

"You good, Sherlock?" Sam asked him. Sherlock ignored him.

"Come on, don't tell me you're hesitating now. So sentimental," Mycroft sighed. Sherlock only waited another moment before putting on a fake smirk and scoffing.

"Don't be outrageous," He said. "I like this coat, that's all. You couldn't have attached your spirit to something I liked less?"

"You'll miss me a little," Mycroft predicted.

"Please," He scoffed. "I've wanted to do this for years."

"I can see right through you, Sherlock."

"Can not."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "I'm not rebutting, you know!" he shooked his head. "You have always been such a child."

"And you've always been such a loser," he said childishly. It confused Sam and Dean even more then, when the two brothers gave a brief smile to each other. Little did they know that it was not only a stupid comment, but a gift from Sherlock to Mycroft. If the last thing in your head when you die is your own brother, before life had hurt him and messed him all up, back when he was innocent and nothing more than a child as Mycroft could sometimes still see Sherlock, you've died a good death. Mycroft knew it was one of the kinder things his brother had done in his lifetime.

"Anyway," Mycroft said in a breath. "Enough stalling. I've been here so long, it's a surprise I haven't gone vengeful already. You better light up that jacket, Sherlock." He looked upward to the stars and lowered his voice, whispering more to himself than anyone in particular. "I think it's high time I was heading out."

Sherlock cast one final glance at his brother, his hands in his pockets and his eyes to the stars. Then without another moment of hesitation, he threw the jacket onto the fire. Slowly, an orange flame flickered in Mycroft's chest. He remained totally still as it grew around his body and transformed him into little ashes like raven flower petals. They drifted up into the sky and flickered away like tricks of light until Mycroft was gone.

Dean waited about twenty seconds in anonymous respect before he spoke. "Ready to pack up, Sherlock?" he asked. Sherlock thought for a moment, an idea sprouting in his head. No, he thought. I can't…

"Sherlock?" Dean asked again. Sherlock swallowed, confirming his idea and staying where he was. But I have to…

"Not yet," he said. He took in a heavy breath, the fire he was staring at flickering behind his eyes. "I have… unresolved matters to attend to."

Sam cocked his head, but Dean understood. "What do you mean?" Sam asked, turning to Dean. Dean didn't look at him, but kept his eyes on Sherlock.

"Do it," he encouraged him. "You can't do it wrong, just say it from the heart."

"I've been told I don't have one," Sherlock mumbled softly.

"Would he say that, you think?" Sherlock averted his eyes, before taking a full breath and letting it slowly out, bracing himself. His eyes locked onto the fire as he imagined the body burning inside. Finally, he said the start of something he should have finished so many years ago. Finished properly.

"John," he said firmly. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. When he opened it again, he actually managed to speak. "I remember… messing up your best man speech so far as to make it unsalvageable. Thus was the reason I was afraid to give this eulogy. I said marriage and death were alike and I meant it, John. When you got married, I was forced to see you separate from me and I felt I couldn't do anything to retaliate because you were happy where you were, and who was I to be so selfish? I don't see much difference now. But… I'll try to make this right. You were… not a great hunter, not a great detective… but a great man. The greatest actually. The greatest I've ever met. I know you saw yourself as something like my sidekick or assistant, but in truth that is the situation backwards. You proved you were fine without me, for two years you were fine without me, but it's been nearly the same time and I am… a killer, a madman, an emotionless mess, and barely even able to hold myself…" he trailed off. He could feel tears welling up in his throat and brimming his eyes. He let out a shaky breath and swallowed, calming himself down. "Anyway…" He whispered. "You didn't deserve to die. And yes, I'm going to say it, and I'm not going to contradict it. You didn't deserve the fate you got, and you shouldn't have gotten the fate you got, and you have… no idea… how many times I wished your fate could be mine. For your sake, for my sake, and for the sake of just about everyone else on this planet." He straightened his back, his eyes clearly now glistening.

"I'm about to do something, John." He said. "It won't fix everything, I'm… beyond salvation at this point. But maybe it will counteract something I did wrong along the road and maybe you'll see me after I do it and… not be as disappointed as I know you would be now." Then Sherlock stopped, his eyes directed to the ground.

"What are you going to do?" Dean asked him curiously.

"I'm going to make a call," he told Dean. "Can I borrow your phone?" Dean didn't question what happened to his, and immediately pulled out his phone and handed it to Sherlock. He still remembered the number, and he dialed it up as soon as he could. Holding it to his ear, he waited and prayed for an answer. Dean and Sam waited too, until finally, he began to speak to the other side of the phone.

"Hello?... Holmes, Sherlock Holmes." A gentle smile crossed his face, a genuine one. It was almost odd to see as he listened for a long time. "Yes, really me… I know, I'm sorry, I've been working… I'm fine… Actually I was calling on a matter of business… I was wondering if you'd sold 221B Baker Street?... The very same…" His eyes lit up as the person on the other side of the phone spoke. "Really? Fantastic… I'll be there as soon as I can… I'm in America, so it may take a while… Can you reserve it…?... Oh, wonderful… Okay… Okay, I can make my first payment in cash, when I get there… Yes, permanently…" He chuckled softly, a warm smile on his face. "Alright… It was good talking to you too, Ms. Hudson… I'll see you again as soon as I can." Then he hung up the phone.

"What was that?" Dean asked. Sherlock smiled down at the ground the warmest smile he thought was possible for him to give.

"I'm going home," He said softly, a tone of relief in his voice. He stepped forward, handing Dean back his phone, which he tucked back in his pocket. He smiled, too.

Sherlock took in a breath as he looked up at Sam and Dean, one by one, and then spoke.

"So long Winchesters. I think I can hear a cab coming down from a ways away I intend to catch." He nodded. He already seemed altogether lighter. "It was good knowing you," he said. And it sounded genuine.

"You too," Said Sam.

Dean nodded. "Of course." Then Sherlock nodded and started off towards the road, the eyes of the brothers following him. Just as he guessed, the glowing headlights came soon around the corner and stopped as Sherlock waved. His hand was on the handle when he turned back and shouted back to them.

"Oh, and one more thing!" He called. "They're at 45 Jefferson Alley, Springfield, Pennsylvania!"

"What are?!" Dean called back.

"My books! Use them as you will, Dean Winchester!" Then, saying nothing else, Sherlock swooped into the taxi and drove off. Dean was left awestruck, his jaw dropped and his eyes lit with excitement.

"The books!" He whispered eagerly. "I forgot about the books…" A grin replaced the look of awe on his face and he fist pumped the air in triumph. "Ha ha! Yes!" He cried. He waved after the car and shouted after it, "Thank you, Sherlock Holmes!"

Sam stepped up beside him, a confused smile on his face. "What are his books?"

"Dude recorded everything he knew about monsters and all those crazy nerdy shortcuts on how to kill 'em in books!" He told Sam eagerly. Sam's jaw dropped.

"Really?!"

"Yeah!"

Sam hesitated a moment, looking off at the end of the road, a grin of amazement replacing his look of shock. "We're set for life!" He said.

"Yeah!" Dean agreed. Sam laughed in excitement.

"Woo! That's awesome!" He raised his hand which Dean vigorously high-fived. Together, the two brothers walked back to the impala, grins over their faces and good feelings in their hearts. And after all this, it felt damn good.

I guess their thoughts were the same, because neither of the brothers got into the impala, both of them leaning against the side. They sat there for a good long time in the quiet night that was illuminated by the giant bonfire behind them, giving their faces an orange, glowing tint. Sam was the first to speak.

"You think he's gonna be alright?" he asked Dean, looking at where the cab had disappeared to.

Dean nodded. "I wouldn't have if he hadn't said all that stuff, but now… yeah, I think he'll do pretty well, really," He confessed.

"Yeah, and what was all that, anyway? Was John a friend?" Sam asked, turning to Dean.

"Yeah, pretty much his only," Dean replied. "Died on a case, and Sherlock was never really the same afterwards."

Sam turned back to the road and nodded. "Huh…" He said. There was a long pause before Dean spoke, still staring out into the night.

"And what about you, how you doing?" He asked.

Sam shrugged. "I'm better. You know, a little weak, a little dizzy." he said. Dean nodded.

"Why didn't you tell me about the antidote?" he asked him.

Sam gave a heavy sigh, honestly looking down and contemplating the answer. "You wanted me to take it no matter what. So I took it no matter what. You were already so pissed, I kinda figured that if I suffered you'd know I deserved it. And if I died…" he shrugged. "You'd move on."

Dean looked up at Sam, shock and fear in his eyes. "Don't you ever think like that, Sammy," he said shaking his head. "It doesn't matter how pissed I get, I want you safe. That's top priority. Always."

Sam looked away, chuckling somewhat uncomfortably. "Even if it was me or the world?" He asked sarcastically, casting his glance towards Dean. Dean looked up at him with creased eyebrows like it was the stupidest question in the world.

"Of course," he said.

Sherlock curled up in the side of his taxi, his head buried in the autumn air. He felt a tremendous weight off his chest - one he didn't even know was there. There hadn't been a time he felt more at peace. He actually fell asleep in that taxi cab.

He made his way all the way back to London as soon as he possibly could. When he arrived at Baker Street, he was practically a wreck. He stepped out of the cab with the weight of nostalgia threatening to pull tears from his eyes. The flat's soft warmth pulled him in, and he barely remembered walking up the steps.

Ms. Hudson's eyes lit up when she saw him. He tried to insist that she not pamper him, but I don't think she was able to help it. She grabbed his sleeve and set him roughly through the old halls into his old chair in a hurry, and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to stand and see what she was doing. She'd kept everything the same; all his furniture, all his mess, eve his chair. But, considerately, not John's. He relaxed a little when he thought of John. It didn't hurt as much anymore.

Something about the texture and the smell of the old chair made it feel like the last three years never really happened at all. Like nothing had ever changed. Just as he thought he may start to get sad, he saw something walk in that made sure to tell him that everything would be okay.

Ms. Hudson, having made a full plate of biscuits and a cup of tea.

And not a single word was exchanged about her being a landlady, not a housekeeper.

And the Winchesters? They did what they always did. Soon after Dean had spoke, they both had sat up simultaneously and went around to their sides of the impala. They swung in, and shut their doors at the same time. Dean drove. Together, the Winchester brothers rode along over the pavement of the road so far, the night sky brushing past them. Neither of them were angry or thinking about the day before. They weren't thinking about anything. They were just driving.

Almost like nothing had ever really changed, like they were actually driving away from that warehouse form so long ago, full of vamps and they'd never met Sherlock Holmes.

Almost like the bruises on their skin had vanished and gone numb.

Almost like everything was exactly the same

Almost, just almost, for one crisp clear second, like everything was always going to be okay.

The two brothers looked at each other for a good long moment, sharing one single message that for once, both of them believed.

Everything was okay.

((Whoo! And there we have it! This has been a trek, eh? Longest I've ever written by far. Anyway, I know I don't usually leave author's notes, but I thought it would be appropriate seeing as how I was finishing this major fic. So, yeah, please feel free to follow and review and feel free to tell me which one I should post more of because there are just so many fics and I have know idea what the people want. So, that's it really. Stay sharp, my hunters and detectives!))