We're finally here guys, after nearly a year of writing on my part and patience on your part. We've finally reached the end.

Enjoy.

Lestrade didn't know what to think about the situation. This whole night had been a mess. First, Sherlock had called him, losing his wits about two serial killers who hadn't been even alive. Then, after for some reason he had decided to trust the consulting detective and aid him in his search for the two dead criminals, Mycroft had shown up. Mycroft, of all people. The older Holmes who liked to play in the shadows, pulling the strings while Sherlock enjoyed the spotlights. If you thought Sherlock meant trouble, then you hadn't had to deal with Mycroft.

The older Holmes brother kindly asked him to refrain from answering Sherlock's plea for help, and after he had seen Lestrade hesitate, he had simply ordered it. Lestrade, being one of the few people that were aware that Mycroft didn't have "just a job with involving the government" had no choice but to comply. He had dismissed Donovan, who had sent him a confused look but didn't argue.

As soon as Donovan had disappeared Mycroft started to speak, his half smile melted right of his face and was replaced with a slightly worried look. Meaning, knowing the Holmes, that he was sick with worry and fear.

'Is your weapon fully loaded, detective?' Mycroft asked as he turned back to his car.

Lestrade frowned.

'It rarely isn't.'

'Excellent, let's hope it's still fully loaded by the end of the night.' Mycroft had almost whispered, and he had invited Lestrade to join him in the car.

It had been quite a ride. Lestrade didn't really know if the chauffeur had been a really good driver, or a really bad one. They sped through the streets, ignoring every speed limit as they waved trough the traffic. However, some crazy odds caused every streetlight to be green for their favour. But, thinking about it, it probably wasn't luck that had caused that.

Silent Lestrade's unlikely companion had pulled out his gun from some hidden compartment and loaded it, carefully inspecting every bullet, looking for flaws and imperfections, before he slid them in the barrel of the gun. It was when then that Lestrade realised something, something that he would never think about again but had struck him as odd that moment. Because the bullets Mycroft had been loading in his gun hadn't been ordinary bullets, the bullets had been made of pure silver.

After Mycroft had put his gun away again Lestrade had started to get annoyed. Mycroft was even worse than Sherlock. At least the younger brother would hint at what he was about to do, like some twisted game of sorts the younger Holmes laid out hidden clues as to what his plan was, clues Lestrade had only managed to solve once, but nonetheless, the clues had been there. With Mycroft, it was different. Mycroft didn't feel the need to prove his superiority anymore, at least, not to somebody as simple like Lestrade himself. No, Mycroft was silent and seemed quite comfortable not telling the detective in the car a thing about what they were about to do.

Lestrade crossed arms and leant back in his seat.

'You know, I always wonder with you Holmes, you always have to make it so darn difficult. If you are so worried about that brother of yours, why not let me bring back the back he wanted?' Lestrade wondered out loud.

Mycroft didn't react, didn't' look at him. Lestrade started to wonder if he had even heard him at all, but then started to speak. His voice was soft and what Lestrade mistook as annoyance, was actually angst.

'This is no case for the police, this is no case for us two, let alone somebody for somebody as labile as Sherlock.'

Lestrade had shaken his head. You only waste your time if you try to make sense of the Holmes brothers.

Finally, they arrived at their destination. It was some kind of deserted factory that Lestrade had vaguely recognised. They weren't alone. As their car sped through the open gates Lestrade could see a few black vans scattered around.

Mycroft had practically jumped out of the car in a hurry and immediately a man in squad gear had rushed to him.

'Sir!' He had shouted. 'There has been another gunshot, this time, located in the middle of the building. Only thirty seconds ago, sir.'

Mycroft had walked straight passed him and with a stiff motion had ordered Lestrade and the man in black to follow him.

'Repeat the orders.' Mycroft had barked while staring straight ahead. It was only when the other man started talking that Lestrade realised Mycroft hadn't been talking to him.

'Sir, after the you enter we wait for 6 minutes and 10 seconds. If we haven't gotten the signal by then, we will enter, locate, and execute. If before the time is over we receive the signal, we shall dispatch.'

Mycroft curtly nodded and before Lestrade had figured out what was happening they were already inside the building.

'Come, follow me and keep you gun ready. Shoot anything that isn't human' Before Lestrade could ask him what that last statement meant he was already gone, the detective had to hurry if he didn't want to lose him.

Together they quickly made their way through the building and Lestrade became determent. He didn't know what was going on, He didn't know why Mycroft was so worried and he didn't know what was awaiting him, but he sure as hell knew that he was ready for it.

It was not long after that Mycroft had led him to the door of the factory hall that he had been wrong. The first thing he noticed was Sherlock, standing in the middle of the room looking pale, almost grey. It was like he had just witnessed a murder, only, murders don't shock somebody like Sherlock anymore. Before Lestrade could start to think about what Sherlock must've seen to make him so shocked, he heard a voice from before his feet.

'We can explain!'

Lestrade's eyes widened as he John and a stranger laying on the filthy ground. Their clothes had been torn and almost ripped to shreds, it actually looked like they had fought with a grizzly bear and barely managed to escape. Blood slowly coloring the remnants of their clothes red.

'What in the bloody...' He muttered as his eyes locked with that of the stranger, and somewhere int he back of his mind he got the vague feeling he had seen them before.

But that was when Sherlock started to speak again, boy if Lestrade had thought he had ever seen the consulting detective angry he had been mistaken. It looked like the only reason why Sherlock wasn't attacking his brother at the moment was that because John was laying in the way.

Lestrade glanced at Mycroft, who's attitude had completely changed again. His shoulders weren't tensed anymore and the worry had melted completely from his face, replaced with his unreadable half smile, A smile which fooled everybody, everybody except Sherlock.

'What the hell did you do?' Sherlock finished scowling.

Without hurry, Mycroft tucked his gun away, seemingly not at all impressed by his brother's murderous look.

'I think you are forgetting your etiquette little brother, you haven't introduced us yet.' Mycroft said, sounding like he was an amused parent talking to his child who had forgotten to say "thank you"

'Ah, seems I have to deal with that myself then.'

Mycroft extended a hand to the man that had been laying on the ground.

'Sam Winchester, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm terribly sorry for any trouble that my brother has caused you.'

Lestrade saw confusion and surprise flash across the bleedings man face, but after a few seconds of tense silence, he accepted Mycroft's extended hand and with the help of the older Holmes brother he was on his feet again. Meanwhile, Lestrade helped John get up. It was then, when he actually thought about what Mycroft had just said that something clicked. Winchester. This man was the guy Sherlock had warned him about earlier that evening.

'What in the bloody hell happened?' Lestrade asked John, who just helplessly shrugged in response.

'Sam, if you ever say "I'm Fine" you better make sure you actually are, or God help me I will kick your ass!' Another man emerged from the shadows. His clothes weren't in a horrible shape, but he showed clear signs of having been in a fight recently. Lestrade could see the early signs of bruises form on his throat, but the new guy didn't seem to be worried about those. No, the only thing on his mind seemed to be the man who was now standing next to Mycroft. Dean's eyes seemed to be blazing and the fact that he was carrying a gun in one of his hands didn't help him look any friendlier. Lestrade had difficulty deciding who looked more terrifying; Sherlock, who was still glaring at his own brother, or Dean, who was walking with big strides his brother.

Sam, however, didn't seem all that bothered.

'I'm Fine.' He said without blinking.

Even Sherlock took his eyes of Mycroft to stare at Sam, who was everything but fine.

'Okay, That's it!' Dean threw his hands in the air and if John hadn't stepped between the two brothers Lestrade was pretty sure that Dean would've made his threat reality.

'It seems that we all need some time to take in all that has happened tonight.' Mycroft said sounding like he was the only one that actually knew what was going on, which of course, he was.

'Dean, give me your gun.' It wasn't hard to guess why Sherlock wanted a gun. The way he was scowling at Mycroft made it pretty clear what his intentions were.

'For the last time, I'm not giving you my gun!'

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About an hour later...

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Sherlock was eyeing up his brother. Now, seated in one of the more comfy armchairs in Mycroft's office, it looked like he was calmness itself. How wrong that was. Inside, he was still burning. But it wasn't like the raging fire of anger he had felt in the factory, no, it was more similar to a smouldering lake of lava, on the surface it looked calm yet it was even more deadly and more fierce than any other fire.

After all parties had calmed somewhat, Mycroft had convinced everybody to join him at the Diogenes club. But before they followed the oldest Winchester had insisted that Mycroft cut himself with a silver knife and drink from a flask he had brought. Without even asking questions, without blinking, he did as the Winchester commanded. It only added to the mystery. If it had been any other than Mycroft, Sherlock would've been excited, thrilled even. What had happened tonight was an extraordinary mystery, a mystery that had never seen it's like before. But, Mycroft was involved, and Mycroft was maybe the only living person on earth who could keep secrets from him. At least, for a limited amount of time...

Lestrade hadn't joined them. He had excused himself saying that if nobody was in life-threatening danger, he didn't really wanted to be a part of anything both Holmes brothers were involved in. When he had left, Sherlock could swear that he heard him muttering something about dissapearing vans and needing a very big drink.

John, Sam, and Dean were at the moment in a room adjacent to where Sherlock and Mycroft were in. John had offered properly take care of Sam's injuries and Dean followed his younger brother like a bear protecting it's cub, never leaving it out of sight.

But those three weren't Sherlock's main concern right now. Now that he had assured himself that John was indeed fine and hadn't sustained any major injuries, the only thing that mattered was figuring out the truth. Mycroft seemed like a good place to start. His brother was seated across of him, legs crossed over each other and his hands clasped together in front of his chest while his elbows rested on his legs. He had an amused glint in his eyes, but that didn't fool Sherlock. He could see curiosity, fear and worry all at once. Sherlock didn't care about what Mycroft was feeling, the only use Mycroft's emotions were to him is that he could use those to pry even more answers out of his older brother.

It was time to begin.

Mimicking his brother's position, Sherlock made himself comfortable in the chair and he let out a long breath of air. His face was blank but deep down he knew he couldn't fool Mycroft, nobody could.

'What happened tonight?'

Mycroft raised a bemused eyebrow in response.

'Too broad little brother, you need to be more specific than that if you ever want to figure this out.'

Sherlock's emotionless look vanished and was replaced by a glare.

'Fine, if you want to play games, then play games we shall.'

'Oh, but my dear Sherlock. This is not a game. It's an art, a craft. A mystery, I wouldn't want to rob you of the pleasure of figuring it out your own.'

'You're a terrible liar.'

'Am I? Then why haven't you solved the mystery yet?' Mycroft shot back without hesitating.

'What happened tonight?' Sherlock repeated unblinking.

'Too broad.'

Silence.

Sherlock cocked his head to the other side, his hands now high enough to cover his lips as he thought about his next question. There were a thousand question Sherlock wanted to ask, what would be his first? If he wanted the truth from Mycroft, he first had to prove that Mycroft indeed knew what was going on. That were the rules of their little game. He first had to pin him down. He decided on his first question.

'Why did you cut yourself with the Winchesters knife?'

It was a perfect first question, Mycroft couldn't deny that he had cut himself with the knife.

'Because he asked.'

'Why did you comply?'

'Because otherwise there would be no way they would've agreed to come.'

That was interesting. That answer revealed two things to Sherlock. Mycroft had just admitted knowing about the Winchesters, and in such degrees that he knew what he needed to do to persuade the two. Interesting indeed. For a second Sherlock considered asking about the Winchester, but he realised he actually hadn't solved anything yet. Why would Dean want Mycroft to cut himself with a knife, how would that proof to him that Mycroft was trustworthy.

'Why did Dean ask you to cut yourself?'

'Ah, yes, good question indeed. Why would he do that?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

'That's the question.'

Suddenly, Mycroft's attitude changed slightly. His everlasting half smile was replaced with a more irritated look.

'Think, Sherlock. You aren't a child anymore. What are the facts? What have you seen?'

Sherlock held his breath for a moment. He realised then that Mycroft wouldn't give him the answers that he desired that easy, no, he had to work for them first. The silence lasted for another second, and then Sherlock started.

'Dean Winchester carries many knives on his person, he has a collapsible one in the left pocket of his jacket. That one is easier to reach, but he didn't give you that one, instead he wasted time and energy to give a specific knife, a knife he kept safely hidden in the pockets inside his jacket. It was not a new knife but not a terribly old knife. Atop of that, the knife wasn't made of ordinary materials. It was a silver knife.'

'Exactly.' Mycroft said. 'But those weren't the only things you saw.'

Immediately, Sherlock continued. 'No, he also insisted you drink from his flask. But, the flask wasn't really interesting, and what I judged from your expression, it hadn't anything foul or pleasant tasting in it. The most obvious choice would be water then.'

'Not just water, little brother, from what I know about the Winchesters I can safely assure you that what the oldest one gave me was Holy water.'

'So, Dean wanted you to cut yourself with a silver knife and drink holy water.' Sherlock concluded, not quite sure how these facts would help him find answers.

'Holy water, silver, doesn't that ring a bell brother? If not, you may consider retiring because you are getting sloppy.' Mycroft said taunting

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. 'Silver, holy water, unless they wanted to exorcise a demon I see no use of those things.' Sherlock scampered, ridiculing his brother.

Mycroft only cocked his head and remained silent, carefully observing his brother.

First, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then they widened as revelation hit.

'No...'

He unclasped his hands and stood up from his chair. He didn't care that he broke his uncaring act and started pacing back and forth. He paid Mycroft no heed as suddenly, a theory started to form in his head. It was a ridiculous theory, he was even ashamed thinking about it. But when he tried to find another explanation, another theory that would clarify the things he saw. But nothing fit, nothing held up. It couldn't have been drugs, it couldn't have been some kind hallucination, it couldn't have been a panic attack.

This night, Sherlock had been attacked by an ancient creature; A Sphinx. The Sphinx had been living in London for sometime, tricking in people trying to solve her riddles and killing them. Only, one time, the Sphinx had picked somebody who had been friends with the Winchesters. Sam and Dean, after not being able to contact their friend, had come down to London to investigate the disappearance. So, after the Winchesters had managed to escape him in the alleyways, the had gone off and continued their research. They wanted revenge on whatever had killed their friend. Meaning that when they were actually solving the mystery, he himself had been left chasing shadows and red herrings, and while had been following death leads, he had become the Sphinx next target. John, God knows how, had managed to figure out what had been going on before Sherlock had, and had tried to find the Winchesters. And all of those facts had eventually lead to tonight, the night Sherlock had run into Dean had been attacked by the Sphinx. How did the Winchester know where to look? Simple, they had done this before. Many times in fact, the man at the airport had told him that. He hadn't been lying. Monsters were real.

It was a ridiculous, laughable theory. But, as Sherlock quickly began to realise, it was only plausible one.

'No...' He repeated softly. If that theory was true, if Sphinxes really did exist, what else was out there? Which myths were true? Were werewolves real? Vampires? Ghosts? Demons? Dwarves and Elves? It almost was an overload of information.

'It can't be the truth.' Sherlock breathed as he let himself sink in the chair again.

'Yet, it is.' Mycroft's voice was different, softer, kinder, Sherlock even thought he could detect a hint of pity.

'You knew.' Sherlock said as he looked at Mycroft with eyes void of emotion. It hadn't been a question.

'I can't afford not to know.'

'How did John know?'

'He figured it by himself actually, only came to me to confirm his suspicion.' Mycroft didn't see why he would try and hid the truth.

'How? How could he have known?' Sherlock held his hands through his face.

'It's his sister. She seemed to have taken the same profession as the Winchester brothers.'

'It's a profession now? Hunting leprechauns?' Sherlock scampered.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

'If it weren't for the Winchesters, you wouldn't be alive.' Mycroft said slowly, making sure that Sherlock would get every word he said.

For some time, Sherlock didn't answer, lost in his thoughts, thinking about everything that had happened the last few days. Days, it had only been days. It felt like weeks, months, years had passed since the first time he had seen the mangled corpse outside the abandoned factory, wondering what had killed him. Then he thought about the Winchesters, how Dean, despite his grudge against him, had tried to shield him from the beast, knowing very well that he could do little more against it then Sherlock could've. He thought about Sam, how the younger brother had held the beast in place, despite being severely wounded, while John had buried the glass shard deep in its neck.

Sherlock took a breath and looked outside the window, within only a few hours, the sun would rise; A new day would begin, a new day with a new reality.

'I suppose you're right.' Sherlock whispered so soft that Mycroft almost missed it.

And so together, they sat for a long while. Sherlock, wondering about what he actually knew about the world, and Mycroft, wondering how ever he could keep his younger brother safe from the monsters in the dark.

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A few days later

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It was late in the afternoon when the four of them walked to the airport. It had been a few days since the incident in the factory but it seemed like months. Despite John's best efforts Sam's wound had gotten infected and they had to wait for several days before he was deemed fit to travel. Mycroft had graciously offered for the two brothers to stay in the private quarter of the Diogenes club, where their every move would be monitored 24 hours a day, but of course, they wouldn't know that. After Mycroft had taken the two brothers aside and explained a few things, they agreed, albeit a bit reluctantly

Sherlock took full advantage of the situation. After the first shock had died down, curiosity began to grow rapidly. He would be damned before he went to Mycroft again for his answers, and besides that, he very much suspected that his brother only knew the theory. No, the brothers held all the answers he needed.

But getting them had proved a bit of challenge. He quickly became to realise that despite their adventure in the factory, Dean still wasn't too fond of him. And although it proved a rather funny and amusing activity bantering with the older brother and seeing which buttons he needed to push before Dean ordered him to leave the room, it also proved to be a rather fruitless activity, and to be honest. Dean's tongue proved to be sharper than Sherlock had anticipated and the Winchester quickly learned how to set off Sherlock himself, who often found him leaving the conversation while gritting his teeth and cursing Dean's name.

So his other option was the younger brother, but alas, for the first day, he spent almost the whole first day sleeping off his affection and his brother was never far away, ready to butt heads with Sherlock. As time progressed, the consulting detective started to suspect that Dean was enjoying trying to provoke Sherlock.

But after the first day, Sam seemed to do a lot better. Sherlock managed to get into his room under the guise that he wanted to apologise for that what happened in the alleys. Dean, however, followed him inside. Naturally, the two of them started to quarrel. Sam, still tired, quickly became fed up with the two. As Sherlock had predicted, Sam lashed out against his brother instead of him. Sherlock had come to apologise, after all. After a short but heated argument, Dean left the room, muttering a large array of curses on his breath. But he left, and that was all that what mattered. Now, Sherlock could ask all the questions he wanted.

And that he did, Sam had a little difficulty keeping up with Sherlock's pace but try to answer the questions as best as he could. He even showed his father diary to the man, a book that greatly interested the consulting detective. At first, Sam had been a bit hesitant while answering, but he quickly had realised that Sherlock wouldn't back down.

Dean, after leaving the room, had bumped into John. Dean had been grateful for the doctor to patch up his little brother, and John had a few questions of his own, so it wasn't before too long that the two of them found themselves with a bottle of whisky in one of the richly decorated rooms of the club, talking about everything and nothing. As the alcohol started to loosen their tongues they started to exchange more personal stories, and soon they realised that they had more in common than either of them had thought possible.

In the other room, Sherlock had started telling Sam about the basic facts of deducting and Sam's admiration grew. Sherlock noticed that although his brother had the sharper tongue, Sam possessed the sharper wit of the two. Sam soaked up all that he told him. Sherlock decided that he liked Sam better than he liked Dean.

So it was that when the time had come for the brother to return to the US. Sherlock and John had decided to join them on their walk to the airport. And it was lie if Sherlock said he didn't feel a little bit smug when he noticed that Dean had become more nervous when they came closer to the airport, afraid of flights then.

The four of them halted in front of the airport, around them the crowd flowed in the airport and paid little heed to them.

Dean hoisted his bag on his shoulder.

'Well, guess this is it then.' He said as he turned to John.

John smiled.

'It was a pleasure meeting you.' and the two of them gave it's other a handshake only soldiers can give.

'Don't get in trouble.' John added.

'I don't make promises I can't keep.' Dean grinned.

'I highly doubt that, to be honest.' Sherlock said casually, and as in afterthought he added.

'And can I have my gun back?'

Dean's grin even grew broader and a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes.

'No.'

'You can't possibly think you can bring it with you, you have to go through several securities measure which each have 97% detection rate.'

'What? Dean, I thought you had disposed of it?' Sam interfered wide-eyed, but Dean ignored him.

'Watch me.' Dean said grinning as turned away from them and started making his way through the entrance.

'Wait, Dean!' Sam shouted sounding rather alarmed. As of last thought shortly smiled at the pair waiting for them.

'I'm sorry about the gun Sherlock, I'll make it up to you!' Sam said before he ran after his brother.

'Dean! I swear if...' The rest of the sentence was lost in the murmur of the crowd. John and Sherlock silently watched as the two brothers disappeared in the mass of people, Dean grinning and Sam waving his arms like a mad man. They didn't look any different than the other people in the mob of humans, but John and Sherlock knew better.

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The two friends walked in comfortable silence back to their home. Both of them lost in thought. John was thinking about his sister. He had learned a lot of things from Dean, and they didn't bode well for Harry. He would make sure to call him as soon as they got home, they had a lot of things to catch up. But his sister wasn't the only thing on his mind.

'So, what are going to do?' John asked while curiously watching his friend.

'Isn't that obvious, my dear Watson? I'm going to do what I'm best at. Solving murders.' Sherlock answered with a half smile.

John squinted.

'You're going to hunt now? Is that what you mean?'

Sherlock looked at him.

'What? No, I'm not going to "hunt". I solve murders. That's what I do.'

'You mean, this doesn't change anything for you?' John wondered out loud, quite surprised actually.

'Now you're just being foolish John, of course, it changes things a bit. Everything changes things a bit. This revelation has opened a lot more possibilities, a lot more explanations. But to solely focus on only supernatural cases would seem quite boring. What I have gathered from Sam is that most Supernatural creatures work in a certain order, you only have to find the pattern and you already have the suspect. Childs play, but with humans; That's a different story. Humans act on emotions, are irrational, don't make sense to the casual observer. Trying to figure out the human mind is a lot more challenging than just simply looking at the whatever creature fits the description of the murder.' Sherlock explained.

John was silent as he thought about what Sherlock had said. To be honest, he should've known. Sherlock wasn't a crime fighter, he didn't see himself as the hero that needed to save the world. He solved crimes, murders, mysteries. Sherlock didn't feel the need to kill off every monster that goes bump in the night, he rather longed to expose them. But nonetheless, it wasn't an answer John had expected.

Meanwhile, they had arrived home. While Sherlock started to speak again he unlocked the door and went inside

'Now, I'm sure there are enough people to deal with the supernatural, but a competent police force this city seems to lack. That reminds me, I got an e-mail from some woman in the northern part of the city. Her daughter was found death yesterday evening and her eyes were completely burned out of her sockets! She isn't the first by the way! She was is the fourth to be found the way she is. I suspect a new sadistic serial killer who...'

John wasn't listening anymore. Sherlock could ramble for hours if he found a case that had piqued his interest. It seemed that indeed, despite all the things that happened the last few days, life would continue like normal for them. Well, as normal as life could be when living with Sherlock Holmes.

While Sherlock packed his things, John absently scratched the new tattoo on his chest, a pentagram encircled in flames...

The End

What a wonderful ride! It's finished, done, over! Right after I have updated I will change this story status to 'complete.' Who would've thought, could've thought this story became as popular as it did!

For the last time, I want to thank everybody who invested his time in this story. Without you guys, I really doubt I would've finished this piece.

Originally, I wanted to include a list of everybody has reviewed this story, but it would simply be too long. So, believe me, when I say thank you for a last time.

I will stick around and work on this story sometime, you know, re-reading the chapters and try to eliminate the stray mistakes, but there won't be any major changes. (Changing death to dead and vise versa, and changing Backerstreet to Bakerstreet :P )

If you have any questions, have discovered any plotholes I forgot about, feel free to PM me/review and I will gladly explain!

Thank you for your support, kind words, your input, and for the time you took to read this story (Yes, even thanks to the lurkers!). It means a lot.

Thank you, and of course; Peace out and party on xxx