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Chapter 5: Sherlock is a Girl's Name

When I woke up in the morning at around 7, I went through all of Kevin's records. There were many familiar names but a lot of Beatles and Elvis. The record player itself was a little rusty but I got it working after a few tries.

After laying around and listening for an hour or so I got up and left my room quietly. I crept down the stairs and stumbled upon the kitchen while I was wondering. On the fridge, which was huge and silver, there was a yellow sticky note with mine and Sam's name on it. It read:

Dean and Sam, help yourselves to anything in the fridge.

I opened the fridge to see about a dozen beers. I said a silent thanks to Kevin for being so thoughtful and took two. One for me, one for Sam.

I strode back upstairs to Sam's room and walked in. He was sitting at a desk in the corner and there were books all over the room.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Taking notes," He replied.

"Huh, OK. So Castiel said that this Sherlock Holmes guy was at the center of all this. Maybe we should go talk to the guy," I suggested.

"Sure, but who as? We can't go as British FBI, if there's even such a thing, we don't have the accents or the badges," Sam responded.

"We could go as reporters. For the 'London Times' or something," I laughed.

"I don't know. If I were him right now I wouldn't want to have anything to do with the media."

"OK. You're the genius. Come up with something!"

He thought about it for a minute, "We could go as American agents. What if we were investigating Moriarty because he was a suspect in a bunch of, I dunno, genocides or something?"

"That is how it's done, Sammy," I smiled, handing him a cold beer.

"Are you sure? What if he doesn't believe it?" Sam asked.

"Where does he live?"

Sam pulled our laptop out of it's bag beside the desk. he quickly googled 'Sherlock Holmes address'.

"221B Baker Street. It's a flat," He said and looked up at me.

"I'm pretty sure that's British for apartment building," I said.

"No, I know that. But how are we going to get into a flat, that could be harder than a house."

"We could talk to the person who owns the place," I suggested.

"Mrs. Hudson?" He said, quickly reading about the landlady that rented out 221B.

"Ya, I bet she's gullible," I said and took a sip of my beer. Sam took a sip of his too, as if suddenly remembering that he had one.

"Before we go in there we're going to need to plan every detail," He said.

"Right. Pick a number," I said.

"Uh, three?"

"Great, so 3 massive genocides in America and he's the prime suspect,"

Sam laughed, "Massive genocides?"

"What?"

"It's just funny," He said. "So three massive genocides in America. Where?"

"I have no idea."

He rolled my eyes, "You're going to need to participate in this."

"I did. Three massive genocides, that was all me!"

Sam sighed, "Alright, I have no idea either. If we say it's classified then they can't research directly and prove us wrong. There have been a lot of genocides in American lately if you count the ones that we've had to deal with, so if they research genocides in America then they can't prove us wrong."

"This is why you're the researcher," I commented.

"You could be just as good if you paid a little more attention," He said. I ignored him and he continued, "He's really good from what I've heard, and I mean really good. He once figured out how a man was murdered by his ice cream cone or something."

"We're not ice cream cones."

"My point is, he can do this crazy stuff that you would never even think of," Sam sighed. "If we do this wrong, then our entire investigation is at stake. If he finds us out and calls the cops for impersonation, we're screwed."

"So how do we do that?" He asked.

"We'll have to be smart about it. If it happens then there's no way to avoid it, he'll want us to be honest."

"So we spill, just like that?" I said in disbelief.

"We don't tell him everything," Sam said. "But he can tell whether we're lying or being honest."

"Then why are we even lying?"

"How else are we supposed to get in? Just go up to his landlady and say 'hey we're demon hunters and we think Moriarty might be this thing called a trickster and we'd like to come inside your house!'"

"Alright, alright, I get it," I said, taking another sip of my beer. "But let me get this straight. We trick the landlady into letting us in, then we get up there and tell him that we aren't actually FBI but demon hunters?"

"No, Dean, pay attention! We go in as FBI and we stay FBI unless he discovers us, then we are honest with him. We just don't tell him everything," He explained.

"OK."

"Got it?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Sammy."

"What?"

"You're a genius."

He sighed.

"So, what were you writing?" I asked after sitting in silence for a few minutes, every once and a while sipping from our beers.

"Kevin has this whole collection of books with real hunter notes in them. This is stuff I've never heard of," He told me.

"Are you writing in Dad's journal?" I asked, seeing that he was writing in a journal similar our father's.

"No, this was on the desk with this pen. It's completely empty, so I thought, why not?" He said, looking at it funny.

"Are you sure it isn't his?"

"I was just thinking about that. It's completely empty so I don't think so," He said, "I-I don't even remember thinking about it, I was just writing in it,"

"Anyways," He said, "We should get ready to go."

"Do you have the suits?" I asked.

"Oh, ya," He said, going over to my bed and pulling out one of our bags with all our undercover clothes in them. Sam pulled out our suits and handed me mine.

"Thanks," I said and left the room.

I stared out my window at the little blue box on the street and the man that kept going in and out of it. He'd been doing it all morning. Going in for some time, then coming out and circling it, as if he was trying to fix something on the outside, from the inside.

"Sherlock, we're supposed to be investigating," John said as he walked into the room with a cup of tea in each hand. One of which was extended to me. He was right, I was getting too distracted. I took my tea gratefully, my hand brushing his as I took it.

I turned away from the window and jumped onto the sofa where all the information we had on Moriarty was pinned to the wall above it, which wasn't much. We had everything from the Taxi Cab driver case to the day Moriarty was buried. Though that was only what we knew. John and I still had to go out and question everyone that had ever laid eyes on Moriarty.

"What have you got so far?" John asked, taking a sip of his tea.

I whipped around, climbed over the coffee table onto the floor and collapsed in my chair, "Not enough," I said as I sipped my tea.

John sighed, "Alright so what have we got to do to get more information? You can't just sit around here all day, Mycroft brought you back so you could solve this."

I sat in silence and continued to drink my tea. Thoughts were buzzing through my mind. Mycroft hadn't been able to track where the feed was coming from because of some technical thing that I didn't care about. So all I knew, and I really didn't like knowing so little, was that Moriarty was back. He wouldn't have sent out that message if he wasn't.

"Boys, there's someone here to see you!" Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs.

I opened my eyes to see John sitting in his chair with his laptop, probably blogging. When did he get like that? When I last saw him, he was standing in the middle of the room holding his tea. Now his tea was no where in sight. I checked the clock to find that it was 20 minutes past when I was watching the man and the box from the window. God, I hated when I did that.

"I'll get it then," John said, looking at me and setting his laptop on the table so he could stand up. I watched him leave the room, and as soon as he was out of sight, I picked up his laptop. I was right. He was blogging. Typical John Hamish Watson.

I read what he had written:

Hello again. Turns out Sherlock isn't leaving after all. Remember Jim Moriarty? Well he's back. You probably saw it already but Moriarty appeared on every TV screen everywhere at 11am yesterday and it continued for and hour. I don't know if it was broadcast just to London or the whole world. We're still trying to find out.

So Sherlock Holmes is back on the case. As he would say: the game is on! He's working hard at it and by that I mean he's sitting across from me, staring into space. But this is how he solves most cases and I have confidence in him to do well on this one. (I smiled, of course I would! I always do) We will start questioning later today, as soon as Sherlock gets dressed. Hopefully by the end of the day we will have more information than we do now.

As for the baby, we just found out that it's going to be a girl! Mary and I are thrilled, though Sherlock is a little disappointed that we won't be naming her after him! (beside that I added: But I suppose Sherlock can be a girls name.) She's due in 3 months, but no exact dates yet.

That's where it ended. Where the title was supposed to be written, it was blank. I heard John coming back up to the flat so I quickly typed Sherlock is a Girl's Name then put it back exactly as he'd left it.

"Sherlock, these two American FBI agents are here. They say that Moriarty is a suspect in 3 massive genocides in America. They could help us," John said as he walked into the flat followed by two men.

I immediately knew that they were fakes. Their suits were cheap and had been sewn up in the shoulders and underarms, clearly the only suits the two of them had. If they were really in the FBI, they would have had plenty enough money to purchase new suits when needed. Secondly, the lack of a bulge around the waist area showed that they weren't carrying any weapons. If I were going into a man's flat who had just murdered another man, then I would be carrying a gun, especially if I had ordinary minds like they clearly did. Thirdly, the taller one was the man that I had run into the night before. He had been walking with the second man and another. They all had the same beat up look. They were walking away from Baker Street, which either meant that they had been looking for me, or they had come from there. If they had been looking for me, they would have been dressed like they are now, and Baker Street was no where near any airport or train station. Therefore, they had been looking for me. Lastly, if there had been 3 massive genocides in America in my lifetime, then I would have known about them. But I decided to play along.

"What can I do for you?" I asked a little too politely.

They flashed their badges, which were fake by the way, and the shorter one started talking, "Hello, we're Agents Hetfield and Hammet. We hear you've dealt with James Moriarty before and we were wondering if you could answer a few questions."

"Stupid people are dangerous."

-Suzanne Collins