The blood proved to be… something.
Sherlock pulled back from the microscope, almost disgusted. The blood was definitely human, but there was a strange substance mixed in that it took Sherlock nearly an hour to figure out what.
Sulfur. There was sulfur in the blood.
Why though? Mixing sulfur with the blood would have done nothing. Sherlock had seen Singer's cupboards. The man had much more useful poisons in his home.
Sherlock looked down upon the several photographs he took. Oh yes, Singer and the Winchesters were highly superstitious, weren't they? To them, this wasn't sulfur, it was brimstone.
Still didn't answer how John was involved in all of this.
So it begged the question: Were the Winchesters murderers?
John wouldn't be with them if they were. But Lord, there was so much evidence. There were witness accounts, bodies, video; one woman said Dean Winchester strapped her to a chair and tortured her.
Sherlock was missing something. Something big. The Winchesters and Robert Singer were smart, hellishly smart. When they came into a town, killings stop. So… they kill the true murderer.
Heh, so Sherlock was right. They were bounty hunters.
But why do they kill their bounties, their victims so dramatically? Decapitation, burning them alive… shooting them in the head was quick, painless, and less messy to clean up.
Suddenly Sherlock had the image of John, hacking away at a random man on the ground, blood splattering and chunks of flesh flying.
Sherlock dismissed the image quickly. Even if it was Moriarty, John would never submit the man to such a death.
The detective didn't want to entertain the idea he could be wrong about John.
()
The worst stakeout Sherlock had ever endured was when he was nineteen, forced to sit in a sewer for nearly five hours waiting for a drop-off between two drug cartels. It took a whole week worth of showering to get the stench off his skin.
This was worse.
Waiting for Sam, Dean, or Singer to come back to the house was hell on Earth. Sitting there, in the car, waiting hours and hours for God only knows how long. (Four days, seven hours and fourteen minutes.)
Sherlock had a clue where they might be. Newspapers reported two cases of strange deaths occurring at the moment- strange enough to fit the typical Winchester MO. The only problem was both cases were in opposite directions of each other. Sherlock didn't want to risk missing the Winchesters because he was in another state, following a wild goose chase.
So he sat, in an abandoned car in Singer's junk yard, waiting for someone to come home.
And after four grueling boring days, a van pulled up into Singer's property.
Sherlock was surprised he could still move. A seat spring from his chosen hiding place had dug into his lower back until he was nearly numb from pain. Despite that, he propped himself up with enough space to watch the van pull right up to the porch.
The driver side door opened and Robert Singer stepped out. He was much older looking than the picture the FBI provided.
Singer walked to the back of his van, placed on hand on the door handle. He took a cautionary glance around his property (in which Sherlock ducked) and pulled the back opened. Sherlock looked back up and saw Singer pull a woman out, her hands tied behind her back, and a black bag draped over her head.
Damn! Sherlock had planned to only observe and gather data, but now it was a hostage situation.
No, not a hostage. This woman was most likely going to be tortured, then killed.
Sherlock hurried out of his hiding spot. He stayed low to the ground as he dashed across the yard, coming to the back door near the kitchen. He pulled out his set of pick-locks, and nearly dropped them when a scream echoed from within the house.
"Stop! Stop!" Came the woman's voice.
Sherlock acted quickly. He unlocked the door with quiet precision, opening it slowly to access where the noise was coming from. The living room.
He quietly closed the door and sneaked behind the table to watch the scene unfold in front of him.
The woman was young, perhaps only twenty-two. She was tied to a chair, her wrists bound to the arm rests, her ankles to the chair legs. Her clothes were wet for some strange reason, and she was gasping for air.
Singer had his back to Sherlock. In his hand he held a silver-colored flask and he stood menacingly in front of the girl. "Well?" He said in a gruff voice.
The girl caught her breath and hissed out, "Screw you."
Singer then doused her with the contents of the flask. The girl screamed and writhed in the chair as her skin turned red and steam rose with a hissing noise. Was he dousing her with some kind of acid?
It didn't matter. Sherlock pulled the gun out from his waistband, straightened and pointed it at Singer's back. "Hands on your head."
Singer turned around. He stared at Sherlock, gaping at him. "First of all, who the hell are you? And secondly, that's the worst Southern accent I have ever heard."
Sherlock didn't comment, but he dropped the accent regardless. "Put the flask down, hands on your head."
"You're British? Are you-"
Sherlock fired off a warning shot. Singer flinched and Sherlock pointed the gun back to him. "I'm not going to ask again. Hands on your head."
"You're going to get us both killed," Singer hissed, but he placed the flask down, then folded his hands behind his head.
"Please!" The woman begged as Sherlock moved forward. He pushed Singer onto his knees, into a corner. "Help me!"
Sherlock pulled out a knife from his boot, and with one hand, cut through the ropes of the girl's right wrist. He gave the girl the knife to free herself, wanting to keep his eyes on Singer.
The girl cut through her ropes quickly. Once she was done, Sherlock hissed, "Get out, now." The girl was most likely going to call the police. Sherlock needed the five minute window he had here to interrogate Singer about the Winchester's whereabouts, and in turn, John's.
The girl stared up at him, frightened and confused. Was she in shock? "I said, run, you idiot-"
She blinked. Her eyes turned black.
Sherlock didn't have time to gasp in surprise as the knife was suddenly shoved in between his ribs. It was not a fatal wound, he knew that, but the sharp pain of his lung pierced was a sensation he wished to never relive again. His knees buckled beneath him.
The gun was promptly grabbed out his limp hand. The girl pointed the barrel up, shot once, splitting the wood, destroying the intricate line drawing on the ceiling.
Devil's trap, Sherlock's mind reminded him from the research he did days before. Designed to trap and hold demons.
He didn't dare pull out the knife in fear of bleeding out. Every breath he took felt like the wound was getting bigger, pain so great he could barely focus.
"Bob-by!" The girl said in a sing-song voice, stepping over Sherlock. "Where did you go?"
Sherlock blinked through the pain. Singer had disappeared from where he was kneeling.
The girl sneered from the lack of response. Without rhyme or reason, she began shooting at the walls, at the furniture, perhaps guessing where Singer was hidden. The gun clicked empty and she tossed it aside.
She looked down at where Sherlock was curled in on himself, and stepped over to him. He didn't know he'd had enough air to cry out until the knife was rudely ripped out of his side.
A hand gripped his hair tightly and the bloody knife was pressed against his neck. "Bobby!" The girl cried again, in a much more vicious tone. "If you don't come out, I'm going to gut this Brit like a fucking pig!"
The unmistakable sound of a hammer being drawn back was heard behind them. Sherlock twisted his head, risking nicking himself with the knife, just so he could watch as Singer pointed a pistol- Colt Paterson, 1836. – at the girl.
"Idjit," he huffed and fired.
Sherlock was grateful the girl didn't fall on him when she died. He only got a quick glance at her corpse- why were her eyes flashing like that?- before Singer rushed over, pushing Sherlock onto his back.
Singer pressed his hands down on the wound, slowing the blood flow. "What the hell did I say? I told you you were going to get yourself killed!"
Sherlock wanted to know what the hell just happened. Why did the girl's eyes turn black like that? The only explanation given was demon, demon yes, because all the information Sherlock kept finding pointed to demon. The devil's trap, the sulfur- but he was not about to entertain the notion of the supernatural. There had to be an explanation, something-
His eyes started to darken. Crap, he was dying.
Singer pulled out his mobile phone. Was he calling an ambulance? How was he going to explain the dead girl on the floor?
The person on the other line picked up. "Cas?" Bobby said urgently. "I need you here."
And that was all Sherlock heard before he blacked out.