A Study In Blood (5/?)
Sherlock opened the front door carefully, as quietly as he could. Unsurprisingly, it creaked a little bit, but it was soft. Moriarty wouldn’t have been able to hear it unless he was standing directly on the other side. The room was pitch-black. Sherlock pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and let the small light from the screen glow, illuminating the area about a foot in front of him. He stood, frozen, listening. The only sound he could hear was of the wind howling through the cracks in the walls.
Sherlock pivoted, holding his phone out in front of him. He still saw nothing of import. There was a faint glowing coming from the far corner of the room, illuminating an ascending staircase. He approached it and looked up the stairs, fully expecting to see Moriarty standing at the top, arms crossed, grinning that Cheshire-cat grin that Sherlock had come to despise.
But, thankfully, he wasn’t there. Sherlock reached the top of the steps and scanned the large floor. The moonlight pouring in from the windows made most of the room visible. It, too, was empty. Sherlock went up to the third floor, then the fourth, then the fifth. Nothing, nothing, and nothing. He was getting nervous now-only two floors left, and there wasn’t a single sign of Moriarty’s presence. As he climbed the staircase, he paused. There were voices coming from the sixth floor. One of them was Moriarty’s.
“I still just…I can’t believe this.”
Then the other voice spoke. It was an American speaking, male, and his voice was calm and gentle-almost loving.
“I know,” the man said. “Jim, no one is going to blame you for that.”
Jim?
“I’ll never lie to you,” the voice continued. “I’ll never hurt you. And, Jim, your reward-” he paused to chuckle-“your reward will be unlike anything you can imagine. Think you’ve got it made now? Jim-you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Jim spoke up. “Yes. All right then.”
Suddenly a blinding light filled the room, forcing Sherlock to throw his arms over his eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it came. Sherlock lunged up the steps and his eyes darted around for Moriarty. The man was nowhere to be found. Sherlock’s gaze settled upon a body lying on the floor, face down. Sherlock dropped to his knees beside the man and rolled him over onto his back. He was in his early forties, with gray-blue eyes and a stubbled face. His clothes were dull and wrinkled, his hair unkempt. Sherlock checked the man’s pockets for a wallet, an ID, anything, but, of course, came up empty-handed.
He heard someone running up the stairs-John, by the sound of it-but he didn’t have time to react to it before an intense jolt of pain surged through his head. Sherlock gripped his head in his hands, as if that would help to stop the pain, but it doesn’t, not at all.
John grabbed onto his arms and shouted at him. Sherlock ignored it.
“Sherlock! It’s me. It’s John.” John shouted as his friend sank to his knees. “Sherlock!”
Sam held the phone away from his head as a long string of obscenities escaped from the earpiece. Understandably so, Bobby Singer had not been thrilled to hear that Lucifer was released from his cage.
Castiel had still been sitting in the chair by the window, but when Sam started to glance over at him and whisper into the phone, “He…uh…he doesn’t know”, he stood up and began to slowly pace the length of the room. He’d seen humans do it before, and even though it looked ridiculous, it did appear to help them calm down.
“I don’t want you to do anything about it, Bobby!” Sam said, exasperated. “Dean and I just wanted you to know. He’s doing research now. No. No. Oh, what, and you think we do?!”
Dean rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the laptop computer in front of him. He didn’t even know what to search for. What should you do when the Devil comes to Earth? How to defeat Satan? So the Devil’s out of his cage-now what?
When he heard Castiel hissing in pain, followed by a loud thud, Dean jumped up and ran to the angel’s side. Castiel had dropped to his knees and was holding his head in his hands, his body bent and strained. He was moaning loudly, and Dean thought he even caught the tail end of a whimper escape from Castiel’s throat.
Sam had dropped down beside him, too, but Castiel didn’t notice the brother’s concerned expressions or their hands on his shoulders.
It was as if he was looking through someone else’s eyes. He saw a moonlit room, dusty, deserted, and empty for all but one person.
“Sherlock!” the man said. He came into sight-a short, thin man with thinning sandy blonde hair and a worn, simple face. “It’s me. It’s John. Sherlock!” he repeated, seemingly staring directly at Castiel. “Are you all right? What the bloody hell happened? What was that light?!” His voice carried a heavy British accent and an authoritative tone.
The view shifted a bit to reveal another man, this one lying on the floor. Castiel recognized him immediately-Nick. Lucifer’s former vessel. Now he was lying on the ground, not moving.
“Cas! CAS!”
Castiel’s body jolted, and with the intense motion, brought him back to reality. He raised his head and looked into Sam and Dean’s worried faces.
“Jesus,” Dean breathed. “What the hell was that?”
Castiel stood abruptly. “I’ve found him. Someone named Sherlock.”
Dean and Sam exchanged looks of disbelief before looking at him again. “What?”
“Lucifer!” Castiel huffed, exasperated. He lifted a hand to his head and rubbed his forehead. The throbbing he had felt was dying down. “I’ve found him. His vessel’s name is Sherlock.”
“What do you mean you found him? How?”
“I don’t know. I just saw…I saw it through his eyes. It was in a dark room, and I saw Nick’s body lying on the ground. Then a man came and spoke to Sherlock, whose mind I seemed to be in.”
As he stood, Dean guffawed. “Sherlock? What the hell kind of name is that? It’s almost as bad as Jensen.”
“Yeah, well it’s an original one, thankfully,” Sam told him. “Means he’ll be easy to find.” To Castiel, he said, “Unless, of course, you know where he is?”
“I don’t. But that is irrelevant. We can’t go. Not yet, not without a plan.”
“What kind of plan do you have in mind?” Dean asked sarcastically. “It’s not like we can take down this mofo.”
Sam nodded. “He’s right, Cas. But if he hasn’t killed us yet, maybe he doesn’t plan to. At least, uh…not yet.”
Castiel knew that they were right, but, even so, it was discouraging to hear the words spoken out loud. “We need to take him by surprise,” he said. “Which…may or may not be possible. Obviously, he is perfectly capable of finding the two of you.”
And you as well, Castiel.
The angel’s face fell instantly, and all the color drained away, leaving him as white as snow. Lucifer’s voice was crystal clear, as if his estranged brother was standing right next to him and whispering into his ear.
Lucifer? Brother, where are you?
Castiel prayed to his estranged brother, but Lucifer didn’t respond. Again, his body jerked, this time from surprise when he felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder.
“Cas. What is it?”
Castiel shook his head and shrugged Sam’s hand off his body. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Sam’s gaze lingered on him for a few seconds before he turned and took Dean’s place at the coffee table and began madly typing away on the laptop.
“We need to go,” Castiel said. His voice had started to regain its fervor, thank God, after first having a hallucination about Lucifer’s new vessel, and then hearing from the fallen angel himself.
Dean, who had sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck, looked up at him. “Go? But I thought you just said-”
“Sam’s right; if he wanted us dead, we would be. We need to find out why-and how-he’s here.”
Dean scoffed. “Oh, of course. Let’s just waltz up to him and ask.”
Castiel wasn’t in the mood for Dean’s sarcasm, so he didn’t respond to the snide comment. “I don’t know who Sherlock is, but as I said, he was with another man. His accent suggests that he’s from England. His name is John.”
After almost twenty minutes of silence, each man kept alone with his own thoughts, Sam got their attention. “I think I found him,” he said, and Castiel and Dean went over and looked over his shoulder at the laptop screen. The website was a blog entitled ‘The Science of Deduction’. “This is definitely our guy. Look, someone named John is mentioned a bunch in the entries. Says he’s a consulting detective. Lives in London…221B Baker Street.”
“Seriously,” Dean said, holding his hands up in a halting gesture, “how is this going to go down? If this Sherlock guy really is Lucifer’s new prom dress, do you really think he’ll just sit and let us drill him with questions? Do you think he’ll even let us find him?”
Castiel shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were expecting us.” He dropped his hands onto the brothers’ shoulders, and, a split-second later, the three of them were standing in the middle of a small living room.
Papers and magazines were flung aside from the gust of wind that accompanied Castiel’s wings. There was a fireplace roaring directly to their right which did nothing to counter the dark, musty feeling of the room, nor did the window behind them. The place was a mess. Shoes, scarves, and socks were strewn on the floor, along with the aforementioned books and magazines. They could see into the kitchen, and Dean smirked when he saw the chemistry set that was assembled on the table.
“Geek alert,” he said to Sam. “That makes two things you have in common with this guy.”
The sound of gasping, followed by glass shattering made them all turn their heads. A man was standing there in a bathrobe, staring at them with wide eyes. A coffee mug was at his feet, smashed to bits. Tea was puddled on the floor. He was short, even a little bit shorter than Dean, and looked to be about forty-five years old.
“Who the hell are you?!” he said, taking a step back instinctively.
“Whoa, whoa,” Dean said calmly. He raised his hands to show that he was unarmed. “It’s okay. We’re not ‘gonna hurt you.”
This didn’t seem to help the man at all. He took another step back until he was pressed against the wall, but never took his eyes from the three intruders. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”
Castiel took a step forward until he was in front of the Winchesters. Naturally, he got straight to the point. “Where is Sherlock?”
The man’s mouth dropped open, but he quickly regained his composure and snapped it shut. He shook his head rapidly. “No…who are you? How do you know Sherlock? How the hell did you get in here? You just-out of nowhere-”
“We need to speak with him,” Sam gently told him. Normally, Sam’s soothing voice would help any situation, but not this time. The man had been enjoying a cup of tea when suddenly three strange men appeared in his living room, out of thin air. He looked terrified.
Castiel sighed and took another step forward. “John, it’s okay. We’re not going to hurt your friend. We just need to…to speak with him.”
John’s head continued to shake from side to side, not believing what he was seeing. “How…How do you know my name?”
“It was on the website,” Castiel answered nonchalantly. He motioned to the Winchesters. “This is Sam. This is Dean. My name is…Cas. Now, where is Sherlock?”
John, his hands shaking, reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone. “I’m calling the police.”
As soon as the cellphone was in his hand, Castiel was beside him. The phone was no longer in John’s hand, but in the angel’s. John looked from his empty hand to Castiel.
“…How did you…?”
John jumped in surprise when Castiel’s body flickers, like a light bulb that’s about to burn out. He was only gone for the blink of an eye, but it was enough to scare the hell out of John.
Castiel turned to look at Sam and Dean. “Sherlock isn’t here,” he said. “This is a good thing.” He turned again and focused his attention on John. “John, have you noticed anything odd about Sherlock lately?”
Instead of trying to escape, threatening them, or interrogating them, John’s eyes widened and he simply stared at the angel. “Odd like…what?”
“Anything!” Sam said. He took a few slow, small steps closer to John. “Doing things he’s never done before, saying weird stuff, just…acting like a different person.”
John cocked his head. “What the hell are you getting at? Who are you? And what-” he jabbed his thumb towards Castiel-“is he?”
“Just answer the question,” Dean told him. “Seriously man, we’re not gonna hurt him. We just want to talk. Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” John said, shrugging in resignation. He rubbed the back of his neck, both from nerves and stress. Then, he cracked. “What’s wrong with him?”
Sam raised his eyebrows and stepped closer to John, now only about three feet away. Despite his gargantuan appearance, Sam was still the gentlest of the three, and, by far, the most sympathetic and empathetic. “There is something, then?”
John nodded. “Yes.” He walked over to the desk sitting by the window and opened a drawer. “Here, let me show you.”
Bam! Bam! Bam!
The sound of gunshots filled the small room, and suddenly Sam and Dean felt the familiar sensation of hot lead searing into their bodies. It ended almost immediately when Castiel pressed his hand to the wounds-for Sam, it was his right side; Dean had been shot in the stomach.
As the Winchester boys took slow, deep breaths, feeling their pain melt away, Castiel furrowed his eyebrows and turned to John. “Why did you want to show us that?”
John dropped the gun-his hands were shaking too much to hold onto it. “I-I shot you!” he exclaimed, pointing a trembling finger at Castiel. “It didn’t-you weren’t…”-the finger moved to point at Sam and Dean-“and them…I shot them, and you-you-you-” Suddenly, John snickered. He stopped trying to make sense of the situation, and he just laughed, almost maniacally, at himself. “I’m hallucinating.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “We don’t have time for this,” he told Sam and Castiel. “Come on, let’s just do that ritual to find Lucifer.”
Castiel shook his eyes. “It won’t work. I attempted it at the hotel while you two were sleeping.”
“Lucifer?”
The three men turned towards the source of the voice. John, who suddenly seemed to be fascinated by them-rather than afraid-asked, “What do you mean, to find Lucifer?”
Sam and Castiel both shot Dean a look saying way to go; now we really have to explain ourselves.
“Forget it,” Dean said quickly. “It’s not important.”
“No!” John argued. He stepped closer to Dean. “Please. It is important.” He lowered his voice and let his eyes dart around the room before moving even closer to the elder Winchester. “Sherlock asked me a few days ago if I believe in the Devil.”
Dean raised his eyebrows. “Why’d he do that?”
John sighed slowly. “There are these…these hallucinations that he’s been having the past few days. They sound awful. Terrible.”
“I’m sorry, John,” Sam stated. “But those weren’t hallucinations. They were real.”
John’s brow furrowed. He shook his head slowly as his eyes dropped to the floor. “No…No, they weren’t.”
“John-”
“Look, I know they weren’t real, all right? I’ve been right there with him through almost every single one. He starts…thrashing. Screaming. It’s the same one every time.”
“Is he hallucinating about Lucifer?” Castiel asked. “John, this is important. Did he see Lucifer?”
“No. No, I don’t think so. He says that he’s standing somewhere, someplace dark, and his arms are chained above his head. There’s blood-at least, he thinks it’s blood-running down his hands. There’s…there’s fire all around him. And he says he can hear screams. Lots of screams. And then he…” John took another slow breath in before he was able to continue. “He…he catches on fire.” John raised his head to look at Sam and Dean. “And that’s it. Then he wakes up.”
“Hell.” Sam mused aloud. He glanced at Castiel. “Was Sherlock seeing Hell?”
Castiel shrugged half-heartedly as he stared at the Winchesters. “You both have been there. You know he was.”
The sound of the front door being opened halted any response that Sam and Dean wanted to give.
Sherlock was home.