Chapter 3

The Prophet

London, January 20th, 2012

"Now, Chuck, this is a professional business and I don't want-" he rolled his eyes, looking over at John who was putting up the kettle for yet another cup of tea.
"I'm not kidding, Sherlock please. Without you," Chuck took a deep, shaky breath. "Without you hell is going to take over, Crowley will have his way. Humans enslaved, cities burned, everything, everything ruined. You need to help them, help the Winchesters, help the Doctor, please," his voice was shaking and breathless, terrified. The type of terror you couldn't fake. Something inside him said to help, nothing factual to go off of or truth that lead him to think this way, just his gut. This was new for Sherlock. He always went off of evidence, facts. This was, a first.
"What can I do?" he whispered into the phone as if someone was around listening.
"I'm in London, I was brought here to talk to you, to warn you,"
"By who?" Sherlock interrupted.
"The angels," he let out a sigh, "I am a profit of the Lord. I know, I know that sound stupid but just trust me on this,"
"Prove it," he snapped.
"Your friend John, he's watching the kettle boil, he's thinking about you. Wondering if you're thinking of him. You? You're sitting on a kitchen chair with a wobbly leg, staring at a scratch in the table you put into the wood while cutting up the body parts you got yesterday from the morgue. Now you're thinking I could be looking in through the window but even if I were how could I know what you were thinking?" Sherlock looked up from the cut in the table, John was staring at the kettle intently, cheeks flushed a light pink and casting quick glances over at him. He stood quickly, the chair wobbling beneath him.
"You have my attention, Chuck. Come over now," Quickly before Chuck could respond he set the phone back onto the receiver. "John, we have a case, and an interesting one!"

Sherlock paced the floors of the flat again as he did this morning only this time he had no intentions in shooting any plaster. It seemed like ages since the call. John sat in his chair snuggled up against the arm sipping from his tea cup. He seemed so peaceful, soft, warm. There was nothing more Sherlock wanted to do than-. The rap on the door was short, timid and soft but to Sherlock it was bells chiming down from the heavens as loud as any war.

"Come in!" He shouted. The knob jiggled, stopped, then twisted to the left in a fast turn, stopped again, jiggled then slowly turned back to the right. John looked up from his comfort to laugh at the struggles of this so called profit of the lord. "Peasants," Sherlock muttered under his breath. He clapped his jaw shut firmly making the muscles in his neck firm within the collars of his black shirt. John couldn't stop staring. Behind the door a small, meek man stood. Beard short and ruff speckled over his dull ashen skin. The clothes he wore were ill fit and those of a teenager who was incapable of working a washing machine. Doesn't look like a profit. John snorted in his mind, as did Sherlock. "Chuck," he nodded his head as he lead himself back over to his chair. The profit stood shy within the door frame unsure of what to do.

"Why don't you come, sit down," John stood gesturing over to the third chair placed in the room.
"Uh, thanks, sure," Chuck shuffled over to the chair and sat down.
"Now, tell us everything,"

Airport, January 19th 2012

"Dean, this is crazy. Since when do we take cases outside of the country?" Dean parked the impala and shut off the engine.
"Since now. Now, shut your pie hole and lets go," Dean sat there a minute and caressed the steering wheel, "Don't worry baby, I'll be home soon," he muttered to the car. Together, they got out of the car and began walking over to the airport. "I got a lead from Cass," He sighed. "He said there was something in London that needed to be taken care of and if Cass thinks it's important than it is," Sam let out a deep breath, Of course, Dean is running to whatever Cass wants him to do.
"Do you know anything about it? You can't just go off Cass said so," Sam stopped in his tracks and turned to Dean.
"Crowley. He has something planned. I don't know what, but if this gives us the chance to gank that son of a bitch I'm all ears to what Cass has to say. Lets go,"