When he woke, John was standing over him.

There was a fog in Sherlock's brain, graying his memories and his focus. He saw John was wearing a flannel shirt, jeans, and his hair was a mess. He couldn't bring himself to care about them, couldn't think past it.

He thought he was back at Baker Street. "How are you feeling?" John asked him.

"Fine," Sherlock said, and meaning it. He didn't know why he was so glad to see John. "Groggy."

"That's to be expected," John said. "Cas' finger touch tends to pack a punch."

The name 'Cas' took a few long seconds to sink it. Sherlock blinked, suddenly remembering with frightening speed. He sat up so quickly, John jumped, nearly knocking the chair he sat on over.

Sherlock immediately checked his side. His shirt was bloody and there was a large tear in the fabric, but there was no wound. He turned to John. "How-?"

"Calm down, you're going to give yourself a headache."

He couldn't calm down. He'd finally found John after nearly two months of searching and despite that, there were still more questions than answers. His mind was scrambling to put the picture together and none of the damn pieces fitted. Sherlock glanced around, confirming he was upstairs in one of Robert Singer's spare rooms.

There was a knock at the door. "John?" Came a voice from outside. The door opened a peek and Sam Winchester shyly poked his head in. "Hey, I have a few sandwiches and, uh, coffee, if you want it."

John looked at Sam, to Sherlock, then back at Sam. He sighed. "Yes, Sam, thank you."

Sam pushed opened the door with his shoulder, carrying in a tray with food.

Sam Winchester. Mother died in a fire when he was six months old. Went to Stanford University on scholarship, straight A student. Girlfriend died when apartment building caught fire. Sam disappears off the face of the map. Been accused of murder, kidnapping, and grave desecration. Declared dead by the FBI.

"Hi," Sam said, placing the tray down. He briefly wiped his hands on his jeans, then offered one to shake. "You're Sherlock, right? John's said you might find him."

Did he now? Sherlock casted a curious glance at John. He looked back at Sam.

Sam was fucking huge. Sherlock knew from the files the younger brother was 6'4, but the long limbs and well developed muscles made him look much bigger. He could kill a man with one hand.

Sam washed his hands recently, Sherlock could smell it. Hadn't changed out of his clothes, based off the lingering scent of sweat, and there was dirt underneath his fingernails. He'd just came back from burying the girl, Sherlock assumed. "Sam Winchester," Sherlock finally shook his hand. "Your FBI file says you're a serial killer."

Sam pulled away. He laughed rather awkwardly. "Yeah, well, it says a lot of things."

What a strange reaction to being called a serial killer.

"He's not," John insisted. "Sam, could you give us a few more minutes?"

"Yeah, sure."

"You knew I would find you?" Sherlock said once Sam left the room. "If you knew, then why did you bother to hide?"

"I didn't hide. I left. Big difference."

"Same question."

"Sherlock-"

"Don't you dare," Sherlock hissed. "You knew damn well I would follow. And it insults me that you actually believe I wouldn't be able to follow you."

John stared at him. He slowly cracked a smile. That was odd. "Sherlock, you… what gave it all away? What clue brought you here?"

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Castiel."

"Cas?"

"I saw his face, he left fingerprints on the chair downstairs. The fingerprints gave me a name, Jimmy Novak. The name Castiel gave me an alias, and with Mycroft's help-"

John snorted. "You went to Mycroft?"

Sherlock scowled at him. "Once I knew you left the island, I had to get help from someone with larger resources."

"Wow… you must've really hated that."

"I did," Sherlock said snidely. "Which I feel gives me the right to do this!"

He slapped John across the face. And then did it again, just because one time wasn't enough.

"Fuck!" John hissed, rubbing his cheek. He groaned. "Feel better?"

"A little. Once I got Jimmy Novak's name, it led me to the Winchesters. The Winchesters led to Robert Singer. Robert Singer led me to you."

John grinned widely. "Fantastic," he said, still rubbing at his sore face. "I can't believe you tracked me across the world from using only a fingerprint."

Sherlock turned his head and tried not squirm under the warmness of the flattery. He hissed in a breath. "What the hell is going on, John? I was stabbed in the lung. I was drowning in my own blood. I should've died, and yet here I sit, with no wound to show for it. Can you explain that for me?"

John shrugged. "You were touched by an angel."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John-"

"Look," John reached over, touched him on the knee. "I know how this feels. It's all very confusing-"

Sherlock slapped his hand away. "Don't patronize me. I'm going to ask questions and you're going to answer them. No more, lying John. I'm sick of it."

John leaned back, clasped his hands together. "Alright," he said.

Sherlock hated this type of questioning. Part of the fun of deduction is using his abilities to the fullest, breaking everything down until there was nothing but hard, cold facts. But this whole situation contradicted itself, kept contradicting itself and now Sherlock wasn't sure he could rely on the information before him.

"How did you meet the Winchesters?"

"They saved my life," John said simply.

"When you came to America," Sherlock said. John confirmed with a nod of his head. "Not for a road trip, I double-checked. You came because you wanted to look into the medical schools they offered here. You had appointments with at least five schools. But you only made it to two."

"My God," John giggled. "It's amazing you can find information that old."

"Your sister was no help. You never told your family you were planning to study overseas."

John hissed through his teeth in frustration at the memory. "I just wanted to get away. The whole, rebellious teenager routine."

"Then you met the Winchesters on your way to your third interview."

"My car broke down in the middle of fuck-road-nowhere," John explained with no hesitation. Sherlock had thought he would have to fight John, use every single skill he had to get his flatmate to confess, but John wasn't lying to him. In fact, John seemed quite relieved to finally explain all of this. "It wasn't the car's fault, though. It was the ghost."

"Ghost," Sherlock repeated flatly.

"Yeah," John suddenly frowned at Sherlock's tone. He then rolled his eyes. "Oh for- are you telling me after everything you've seen, everything you've learned, you're still a skeptic?"

"John, I am a man of science. If you think I am going to entertain the notion of the supernatural-"

John turned his head towards the door. With a bellowing yell, he said out loud, "Cas! Could you come here for a moment?"

Sherlock, despite himself, nearly jumped a foot into the air when Castiel suddenly appeared next to John.

First there was nothing, and then there was Castiel, standing there like he had always been standing there. John gave a slight blink in surprise at the man's arrival, taking it in stride. He then turned towards Sherlock, raising an eyebrow in silence. Well?

"Hello again," Castiel said in that same deep tone. He was still wearing the same clothes he wore when Sherlock first saw him in the apartment so long ago. "John said you would find him."

"I never said-! Oh, never mind…" John waved him away, scrunching his eyes in irritation. "Thanks, Cas."

Castiel nodded his head once, then disappeared.

"Impossible," Sherlock hissed, still staring at the space where Castiel stood.

John shook his head. "Clearly possible, because you just saw it. That was an angel of the Lord."

Sherlock snapped his eyes back to John. Even now, as dumbfounded as he was, Sherlock's mind ran rampant with the information given to him. Pieces of data slotted together, gaps within the information were filled, and within a few seconds, Sherlock knew almost everything he needed to learn.

"You were attacked by a ghost," he said slowly, trying out the word. It still felt wrong. He would get over it. "The Winchesters saved you. Fascinated by what you saw, you stayed in America for two years, hunting, learning the tricks of the trade. Then you came home- you had to come home, of course you would. Being an American outlaw in America is one thing, being a British outlaw in America is another. You came home not because you miss your family, but because you still wanted to become a doctor.

"You kept in touch with the Winchesters over the years, clearly by the extended days you took every time you came back to the States for medical conferences. You stopped communication with them when you were deployed to Afghanistan; that explains the five year gap. But why the sudden reconciliation? If the angel of the Lord has anything to prove, it's something big. You left because you clearly do not believe you were going to come back alive. It must be the Judo-Christian apocalypse.

Well, John? Are you going to step in and tell me I'm wrong or are you just going to sit there and stare?"

John gaped at him.

"T-that… you…" he fumbled with his words. "You're incredible! I can't believe you can- wow!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Once I accepted what was in front of me, everything began to make sense."

"Oh my God!" John laughed, still amazed. "And here I thought I was going have to go through step by step with you."

"You may have to. There's still a great deal of information I do not have and I have many questions I want answered. But what irritates me," Sherlock seethed. "Is that I have never been exposed to this before. In a city as large as London, you would think I would eventually run across a ghost or a witch or something! Why I haven't is a mystery."

"Um," John said almost sheepishly. "Sherlock, you have to understand this is not a life people come into willingly. And once you're in, you're in for the rest of your life. I tried to get out, but even when I was back in England, just trying to be another medical student, I was burning bones and killing zombies. I stayed away from my family because it was the only way I can keep them safe."

"John, I don't see-"

"We would do anything to keep our families safe. Even if it means lying to their faces."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes the emphasis. Then it clicked for him.

And suddenly he'd never felt so angry in his entire life.

"Mycroft," he hissed.