CHAPTER 3

As usual, the scene was still the bumbling, blustering mess that the homicide squad left in their wake. As far as Sherlock was concerned it was a miracle they managed to get anything done at all, let alone without his help. Despite the surprising realization that he considered Lestrade to be his friend, he was still exasperated at any shows of incompetence that the D.I. might occasionally displayed in his field. Not that the man was a bad detective, but nobody could compete with Sherlock's aptitude for this work.

The first time Sherlock had met Lestrade he was taken in for possession and use of cocaine. Sherlock was furious at the time, not at the young up-and-comer who had caught him and several of his junkie 'friends' in the act of liberally administering the drug to themselves and paying the seller, but at himself for not seeing the signs that led to their arrest in time to avoid it. He was distracted at the time on calculations that would tell him what extent his drug use would have to be to annoy his domineering brother.

While being held, Sherlock couldn't help but notice the suspect waiting for their turn for an interview on a murder charge. The young up-and-comer, who had also bagged this sullen suspect, had picked up the wrong man, as was obvious by the scuffmarks on the back of the accused's heels. Sherlock took it upon himself to tell the youthful detective so. For whatever reason, the young detective, whose name was George Lestrade, believed him.

Mycroft, deciding to let Sherlock stew for a while in confinement, arrived a little to late to stop the landslide of subsequent events…much to his eternal chagrin. By the time he deemed Sherlock had boiled in custody long enough Sherlock had already decided to become the first consulting detective in the world.

Sherlock held the yellow police tape up for John and himself to duck under and greeted Sally Donavon with an ironic nod. She glanced at him, rolled her eyes, and hurried quickly away to talk with a forensics man emerging from the slightly shady building entrance in the back alley that the police were taping off. Sherlock smirked to himself and, after catching sight of Lestrade, hurried over to talk with the harried detective. Sherlock was about to open his mouth to state that this crime was statistically unlikely to be interesting when Lestrade cut him off mid-thought.

"I know you think you'll find this one boring, Sherlock, but you go through the same routine every time you think its not a serial killer," Lestrade lead, exasperated. "Despite your continued assertions to the contrary, I actually am capable of doing my job without you, so just assume that every time I call you the crime is going to be supernaturally weird."

Sherlock, deeming not to respond, gave Lestrade a unconvinced glance and pointed to the door that the forensic scientist had emerged from. "I'm assuming I'll find the body in there," he stated. Without waiting for a response Sherlock strode to the door and went inside, leaving Lestrade and John gazing after him.

After a long pause Lestrade huffed, "He may be brilliant, but sometimes he can be so damned infuriating."

John shot him a pitying glance. "He doesn't mean to do it you know," he apologized to the agitated detective.

"Doesn't make me want to kill him any less."

John snorted, clapped the detective on the shoulder, and trotted in Sherlock's wake. After a sigh, Detective Lestrade followed.

The inside of the dingy, backstreet hotel was parallel to any other dingy, backstreet hotel in the majority of the United Kingdom: small and dull, with wallpaper that had more disturbing stains then was usually desired by the residents. The hallway had doors lining it, and Sherlock turned, without hesitation, to the first door on the right.

This lead into a dimly lit staircase winding upward, which Sherlock took two steps at a time. John and Lestrade had to hustle after him to keep up and they managed to keep close behind him all the way up to the third landing, where he slowed. The door of the landing lead to another hallway, and this time Sherlock sauntered—a contrast to his previous pace—down several doors before turning to one on the left, which had a small crowd of people around it. They fell silent as Sherlock approached and a man that appeared to also be on forensics looked around Sherlock deliberately to Lestrade, who nodded tiredly. The crowd of people made way for Sherlock. He brushed past them, with Lestrade and John following behind.

The crime was, for lack of other words wrong. There were no huge smatterings of blood, or half-decapitated bodies. There were no cryptic notes or unidentified materials. In fact, the small apartment, that should have been at least grimy by example of the complex, was uncannily clean, tidy, and comfortable.

The corpse was sitting on a small couch facing an old-style radio. He wore a grey undershirt and slacks, with his shoes kicked aside lying on top of a nice dinner jacket with plaid lining inside. There was no mark on him, other then a slight stain of blood on the man's tidy, grey undershirt in the region of his chest. It looked no more than a scratch, and could have been days old.

It was just sitting there. It wasn't sprawled, or even in a slightly uncomfortable position. It was sitting, just as any person would, like it was listening to the radio or had just put down a good book. The freshness of the pallor of the corpse would have even given the illusion that it was sleeping, if not for the eyes. The eyes stared straight ahead in cold, contemplation of something that was just out of sight. The mouth hung slightly open.

Sherlock looked at the corpse, not moving any muscles in his body but his eyes, which flicked back and forth taking in every detail of the body. "John," he said after around ten seconds, and John stepped forward to examine the body.

He examined it again.

He cleared his throat self-consciously and said, palely, "…This man…should not be dead…" He crouched down and began a third examination of the body, and after a brief inquiry of Lestrade, lifting the shirt to view what the old cut looked like. He found a symbol that looked familiar, like a five-point star surrounded by a circle of flames, and noticed that the cut had shorn right through the side of the pentagram. Sherlock's eyes narrowed momentarily, before his face became impassive again.

"It doesn't seem like poisoning, either," John said gruffly, as he carefully lowered the mans shirt to cover his muscular chest, "Or at least anything I can identify without proper equipment."

Lestrade twitched, after staring at the common practice with familiarity, and cut through the tense air saying, "You'll want to see this too."

He led the two friends through a doorframe with no door in it, into what appeared to be a tiny bedroom. Like the rest of the house it was neat, orderly, and cleaner then it had a right to be. Lestrade strode up to the back banister of the bed and tore removed the back of the bedframe.

"Holy crap." John stared.

There was an arsenal of weapons so large that it seemed impossible to have been able to smuggle them anywhere, let alone in the most highly surveyed city on the planet. Several styles of guns, including everything from old-style rifles to a .45 caliber pistol, were mounted on the back of the niche. Different, deadly, swords and knifes, containing a pair of lethal Katana's lay in orderly rows to the bottom right of the slot.

On the left contained several other random items, labeled neatly, with tags such as: 'holy water', 'holy oil', 'blood of a ram', and what seemed to be a completely unnecessary, in light of the crannies' other occupants, 'sharpened mahogany stake'.

Sherlock leaned closer and, bending from the waist rather then hunching his back, and said, "I'll need to examine these individually." He didn't bother turning his head to get a look at Lestrade.

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. "You know I can't let you take whatever you want Sherlock. Any information that you can get off of these items you'll need to get now. This goes to evidence." He glanced down at a plain wristwatch on his arm and told Sherlock, "We're almost out of time. Any information you have, I'll need it."

At that moment, everything fell apart.

It didn't start chaotically. The first buzz that something was wrong started with just enough noise and rising murmur in the hallway to cut of Sherlock's response and cause him to shift his weight. He was getting in a better position to hear the mutterings outside.

Though he couldn't decipher the quiet clash of voices, he didn't have to wait long to find the answer to what was going on.

The noise again fell silent—indeed even quieter than before—and there was what seemed to be a long pause, in which Sherlock didn't move, and John and Lestrade exchanged cautious glances. John's hand twitched at his side, as if he were reaching for a non-existent gun.

The door to the main room burst open, and a murmur of voices again resumed. They didn't yet seem to realize that there was somebody else within easy hearing distance, and it soon became evident that the people that they had evidently hustled away outside had not told them that their DI, Sherlock, and his friend John had entered the room a few minutes before.

"This is the third case we've had like this all week." It was a woman's voice, and it seemed too small and cute to be part of the ominous rabble outside the doorframe. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade stood very quietly, listening. They were giving in to that curious human quirk that seems determined to get people into trouble.

"It won't be the last either. We came too late." A man's voice this time: deeper and coarser.

"First hunter though." It was the woman again. "It's bound to attract the attention of the press sooner or later. We'll barely be able to cover this up as suicide….How did the cops get here so fast, anyhow?"

John glanced at Lestrade, who was looking determinedly at the doorpost, as if when he looked away the voices would die down. John also got the uncomfortable feeling that the detective was avoiding his gaze.

"This is like the rest," said a new man, who John presumed had just examined the body. "He's hopping so fast from one person to another, you'd think he had somebody after him. Or, at least, you know, an agenda." This young, sarcastic, masculine voice elicited a round of dry chuckles from the group.

"I'll go check what's through the door," said the older and deeper male. John didn't remember hearing his distinctive voice in the laughter.

Not Sherlock, John, or Lestrade made a move to try to hide as they realized what was coming. And as the man turned through the doorframe, in what seemed to the trio to be slow motion, he drew abruptly to a halt. Interestingly, his eyes fell on Sherlock, dismissing the detective and John quiet thoroughly.

In the background, a dim, "What's going on, Harry?" resonated through the air from the woman's voice.

Harry responded, his eyes still glued to Sherlock's with a quite encompassing and brilliantly diplomatically stated, "Shit."

Sherlock did not respond, but glanced up and down the man quickly. Then, he then met the man's eyes, having to crane his neck to get a good look of the tall, bristly, lanky strangers dark eyes. The pools of twinkling light in them lessened his ominous look only slightly. As an aside to John and Lestrade he said, "Their MI5." He continued staring at the man. Addressing him directly this time, he shifted. "You're Mycroft's men." He let his gaze slip off of the man like water off of plastic and directed his eyes to the rest of the crew, which had assembled curiously in the doorway. He nodded to the two women standing, craning their necks over the lanky man's shoulders to get a look at what was going on. "And women." Sherlock said flatly.

Lestrade stared at the five of the MI5 agents and said, echoing the man's words right back at him.

"Shit."

His exclamation had an underlying awe in it, however, which the taller man's had lacked.

The accumulated group in the doorway were a motley bunch, contradicting each other nicely, and not at all what you might have expected from the secret service. Aside from the tall, dark man there was a short, five-foot-nothing woman that might have looked more at home in a cheerleading squad, if not for the catlike stance that she held herself in. There was a boyish, almost boisterous looking young man, who carried a case under his arm that might have held forensic supplies. There was a short—though not quite as short as the blonde woman—dark man who leaned casually on the wall behind the doorframe and seemed to not be surprised by any of the trio standing in the bedroom. In fact, he looked completely unfazed. Finally, there was a tall woman, her height amplified by painfully tall heels, which wore her hair up in a bun and gazed sternly down on the assembled, variegated bunch.

"Mr. Holmes will love this one." It was the short woman, her voice giving her away to be the woman that they had overheard. Both Lestrade and John had a slight double-take, having been so used to, likely because of Sherlock's influence, calling the patriarch of the United Kingdom Mycroft.

"What should we do?" The tall woman had a much deeper voice than seemed natural, and only Sherlock, of the guilty three, looked unsurprised.

Sherlock casually interceded as the four of the five agents shifted uncomfortably, "I suggest you let us go." The four faces of those standing in the doorway slid back to Sherlock, staring at him in a kind of dazed, awe. John was surprised. He considered working with Mycroft to be much more awe-inspiring then Sherlock, once you got past the occasional urge to strangle the man. Just then, the man leaning in the back of the four, the only one who hadn't spoken so far, started to laugh.

If he had pulled a gun the reaction would almost have been less strong. All but Sherlock jumped and six hands went to where a gun would be holstered, though only five were carrying. The short, blue-eyed, cute, blonde was likely glad that she was well trained enough to be able to pull her punches. The man was again unfazed. He continued to laugh.

"Gabe?" asked the tall, lanky man.

"Well, he's right isn't he?" chuckled the man, "We can't hold him here. Mycroft would throw a fit, and we can't do any of the usual procedures, unless any of you don't fancy your jobs too much. Plus, he briefed us on leaving the D.I." he nodded at Lestrade, "and his friend," another nod at John, "out of the equation. We already failed at avoiding them all together. I say we bump this one to someone else who Mycroft can incinerate."

Sherlock's face, for an unnerving change, showed a flicker of surprise at the man's casual use of his older brothers name. Not only did these men and women seem surprisingly unprofessional for Mycroft's tastes, but they also seemed too low on the metaphorical food chain to deal with his brother personally. His eyes narrowed, and his friends could see him begin to reevaluate each of the agents.

"I say we take this into the next room," said the young man, shifting his case from one hand to the other. "And perhaps even keep our voices down." The gangling man, who despite the unexplained flippancy of the dark-skinned joker seemed to be in charge, nodded, and led the team into the next room.

"Huh," said John.

"Shit," repeated Lestrade.

"Mycroft," Sherlock deadpanned to his two friends.

John and D.I. Lestrade stared at Sherlock. Sherlock grinned wickedly at the two of them, in that almost disturbing happiness John had witnessed when the detective had come to Sherlock in, as John's blog named it, "A Study in Pink." He looked around at the hidden cash of weapons and directed his eyes to the hidden scene behind the doorframe—the five agents huddled up, discussing what to do with Sherlock—while the unexplainable body lay on the coach, its hateful eyes staring straight ahead.

"Lestrade," he turned to the detective, older now then when he met him, and much more experienced with dealing with the genius maniac facing him, "I have decided that I will take your case."

Everyone, at some point in there life, is told to listen. Really, they are given the wrong advice. As human beings people listen all the time—to air, to background noise, to small talk, to advice—but they do not retain. It is the retaining that is important, and the learning to think while retaining. With that skill someone would be hard pressed to outthink their opponent, or be more persuasive than their tongue. It is the fact that so little people practice the skill that makes it such a dangerous weapon.

The demon sat, as many of its counterparts had before him, facing the faces that gave monsters nightmares. Of course he would be tied up and trapped.

And of course they would have knives. Lots and lots of demon hurting, salt covered, blessed knives.

One of the things about demons is that they're not really huge on the whole self-sacrifice trend. It was one of the things that made them so easy to break.

"Would you like me to repeat myself?" asked the haunted face before him, leering closer and reaching out to grab the other hand of his dead meatsuit to do something the demon didn't quite want to know with his fingers, hands, and arms. The torture, at first, had all been holy water, thanks to the gruff man in the back. Then the demon had attained the, in retrospect idiotic, idea that the pain might stop if he answered that one question that they were asking: 'Is the vessel alive?' It turned out that they had more questions.

A lot more.

And for the life of him, he didn't know the answers.

"I know…I know…I know I'm in the court," he stuttered, adding some extra quiver to try and will the two hunters to understand that though lying was his business, he wasn't lying about this. "…but it's impossible. Give it up," it came out as a whisper. "Give it up," it came out as a challenge. "GIVE IT UP," he screamed into the man's unshaven face. Then, just for affect, he started mumbling, "giveitupgiveitupgiveitupgiveitupgiveitup." It did seem to unsettle the two men enough to give the demon a small ounce of satisfaction.

"I don't think he knows Dean," said the man in the back, cautiously, as if afraid of what the man's reaction might be. The demon didn't blame the man's care.

"No," Dean said, and burst out into an almost unsettling grin. "I don't think he does." He smiled at the demon, and asked with a frightening, hysterical calm, "But do you know someone who might?" And then the knife was wedged into his eye. It hurt. Someone should really look at the fact that the demon can experience the vessel's pain, no matter what the reason.

"London!" he screeched. "He's in London!" The knife came out and the demon felt the trickle of cold blood drip down his face. With his good eye he glared at the men, smiling. "Or at least Mictian's bones are."

"What do his bones have to do with it?" It was the gruff man speaking, the one interested with whether his meatsuit was alive or dead.

"You bUrN them," the demon sing-songed. "Haven't you heard?"

The man stared at him. "You're lying," he said at last.

"Why would I be?" the demon smiled like a megalomaniac. Which, to be fair, he was. "What do I have to lose?"

The man stared at him, unsettlingly, which kinda pissed him off since he was the one who was supposed to be unsettling. The he said, emotionlessly, "He's useless, Dean, start the exorcism."

The man looking for the way to raise his brother from the cage he trapped Lucifer in, the man who had killed thousands of demons before, and the man who, though it taxed him to admit it, scared the hell out of him (which was saying something) nodded at the old guy.

He began:

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…"

The demon tuned out the rest when he started screaming, the bastards. At least he could be sure Mictian would kill them.

It served them right.

The next thing he knew he had a shoe on his throat. And it was an expensive one.

A polished British accent floated down to him, and he casually noticed he was in a lot of pain.

"Now, you might consider reporting," said the voice, "but if you don't I'm sure I could find a use for you…" a long pause, "…somewhere."

It didn't take the demon long to decide. He rushed, "The Winchester boy is still looking for his brother, unaware of his brother's…situation. The angel is in the wind, but he had an old man with him, one that I didn't recognize." The demon chose not to tell him the slip about the bones. "I sent them to Mictian."

"Excellent," said the posh accent, "you've done well." This, as well as the removal of the boot and the offered hand gave the demon quite a lot of hope for his future. It was crushed when as he tried to take the hand, he received a boot to the head. Damn. Well at least he knew he would have something to do for the next fifty years.

"Take him to my…special… torture room," ordered the voice above him, and while he was being dragged away he heard through his daze. "And let that be a lesson not to deal with the Winchesters. I have plans for them yet."

"…Unless, of course, you want to end up like him."

As the murmur of voices began to rise, the demon blacked out.

Long live the king.

A/N: I would apologize, but it would get peoples hopes up for future quickly posted chapters. I sorta write really really slowly... Anywho love ya'll and I'll keep writing till my fingers break, so do not lose hope. We'll see what happens.