Sherlock was exhausted. He'd spent the last three days with no food, minimal water, and only very brief naps as he tried to find out as much as he could. About what could bring a man back from the dead -about what could have brought him back from the dead- and left a massive handprint on his arm. So far, he hadn't had any luck.

"Anything interesting?" Molly asked, bearing two mugs of coffee (black, two sugars, she still remembered).

He didn't reply, only took the bitter dark liquid from her and sipped, scalding his tongue. He scowled and went back to peering at his own skin sample into the microscope. What left that kind of scar? It was almost branded into his skin, clearly still red and healing but it didn't hurt. At all.

As Molly quietly collected old mugs and tidied his pile of papers, she still marveled over how Sherlock had turned up alive at her front door after he was supposed to be dead. And how healthy he looked. He had been given a new mystery to solve, the greatest of his lifetime: why wasn't he dead after he'd jumped off a building and been buried?

He didn't look too healthy now. Sherlock's dark hair was a mess, falling into his eyes ringed with dark circles, movements sluggish with tiredness. But sheer stubbornness kept him going.

With worry, Molly said, "Take a break, Sherlock. You need to eat. And rest."

"Minor details, Molly Hooper, very minor details." His voice cracked with disuse. "I can't be distracted now; please feel welcome to leave anytime. And don't forget to bring more coffee in… oh, two hours or so."

She was used to his rude behavior by now, but this time Molly didn't move. "I don't think so. You can't keep going like this, you'll kill yourself!"

"I can take care of myself. Thank you now, off you go." His attention returned wholly back to the petri dish.

"Sherlock Holmes! Stop it!" Molly's voice raised a few octaves.

"Really, you're being absurd-"

"NO!" Molly flinched at the sound of her own yell, but it was enough for Sherlock to look up, an eyebrow raised. "Sorry, I'm sorry. I just meant… when was the last time you went out?"

"You know when I did." He said, eyes narrowing.

"No, I really don't. I can't remember. I just remember going out to get your groceries and equipment and making strong coffee." She insisted.

"What's the date?" Sherlock asked.

"The 25th."

"That's ridiculous. I haven't been inside for a week... Oh," Sherlock trailed off when he saw the look on Molly's face. "I guess I have. It's not unreasonable."

"Is it because you saw him? At the cemetery when you went to look for clues?"

When Sherlock didn't answer, Molly knew that was the reason. "Why don't you just tell him?" She asked softly.

"I can't until I know the reason I'm still here. Aren't you in the most fantastic shock of your life to see a dead man in your house, drinking and talking and thinking?" He demanded. "I can't do that to John, not until I know why I'm here myself!"

At the mention of his name, Sherlock's voice rose, almost in anger. He was frustrated that he couldn't go see his partner, no matter how well he normally tried to hide it. Every time the thought of John Watson passed over Sherlock's mind, he drowned it out with research lest the cloud engulf his entire being.

Molly leaned forward and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder (which he struggled not to shake off). "I insist you eat and get some air."

Sherlock rose abruptly, Molly's hand falling off. She withdrew it hesitantly. "Did you get the supplies I asked for?"

"Yes. They're in the next room." She murmured, subdued.

"Great! I've got a killer appetite, perhaps you could make some dinner while I get ready for a stroll?" He asked enthusiastically.

Molly could not get her head around this man, his moods nearly as difficult to keep up with as his strange requests. "You mean lunch? It's noon."

Putting a hand on the dark, thick curtain he'd placed on the window, he opened it with a long elegant move. He nodded his observation, "So it is." He turned back to her. "Well, I'll just be out after a shower." He said brightly, and disappeared out of the room.

Molly stared after him, then shook her head and went off to cook.

An hour later, Molly set the table for two. She heaped mashed potatoes and spaghetti and bread into a plate for Sherlock. Judging by the sounds, she figured he was almost out, and he would be undoubtedly starving.

Smiling at the completed task, she turned to get the water pitcher and spotted a tall shadow. As the figure came into view, Molly Hooper let out a long shrill shriek.

"Sherlock! HELP! THERE'S SOMEONE IN-"

The figure rushed forward and covered her mouth with his long fingers. "Oh, Molly, stop being so dramatic. It's me." The figure snapped.

Molly gaped in astonishment as Sherlock's voice emerged from under a thick red moustache, substantially long nose, slicked back hair, and small narrowed eyes. "Is that…?"

"Yes, it's Sherlock. I've disguised myself. Can't have all of London wondering why the world's only dead consulting detective is wandering the streets. Especially when I don't even know why. Now, where's the lunch? My stomach is digesting itself!"

"You did all that with putty?" She asked wide-eyed.

"Yes. I also borrowed a bit of make up from your kit. Might I add, the shampoo in your shower is not actually made of real vanilla bean, no matter what the label says." Sherlock strode past Molly to the table and sat down. He began to vigorously eat, hardly pausing for breath.

"Wow, it didn't seem like you…" Molly studied him.

"Yes, yes. The subtle difference between 'seem' and 'is'."

"Erm, of course. So where are you of to now? See John?" She asked.

Sherlock paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "No."

"But-"

"No."

Molly pressed her lips together. When Sherlock had told her he thought he would die, his main concern had been requesting her to keep an eye on John. To make sure he didn't drown himself in alcohol like his sister, to get him a job at the clinic, to drop by and keep him from getting too lonely. She had done everything he asked… but now he was denying himself. And that seemed wrong.

"He's your best mate, Sherlock."

"I wasn't burned, that much is certain. It's an organic sort of burn, perhaps internal. But I can't be too sure until I x-ray myself. And not to mention the shape of a hand is quite distinct, that's no coincidence. The more important question is how was I revived? A science experiment, I would suppose, but none that I've ever heard of save those of Dr. Frankenstein." Sherlock avoided the John-issue with his thoughts on his research, speaking fast and low under his fake red moustache.

There was silence from Molly. Finally, she pursued a different topic. "I need to leave for work in an hour, Sherlock. And I won't be back for a while. What're you going to do, I have to know."

"I have a key to your apartment. Obviously." He muttered.

"What? How?" She gaped.

"I made a copy when we first met at the morgue. You kept all your files on your laptop back then and I needed access to them." Sherlock continued eating.

"You broke into my house?" Molly's voice was suddenly shrill.

"I didn't break anything, let's just be accurate for a moment." He told her, and he was the one who looked affronted. "And actually, now seems to be a good time to be off." Sherlock shoveled one last bite into his mouth and stood, heading for the door.

"Wait- Sherlock!" Molly called.

He stopped, hand on the doorknob, but didn't turn to look.

Molly blinked and looked down at her scuffed shoes, not even wanting to look at his back as she said the words. "I'm sorry. About all of this."

"Acknowledged," and Sherlock left.

There was only one woman behind the bus station today. Finding her had been quite lucky, actually. It was getting dark and Sherlock had arrived here only after visiting several other places. Sherlock had already wrapped two 50 pound notes (borrowed from Molly Hooper without her knowing- yet) around a list which read as follows:

-Find out what John Watson of 22B Baker Street is up to.
-Inquire after Mrs. Hudson of the same address.
-DI Lestrade- who are his moles on the street?
-Rumors of men coming back from the dead? What's the general word?
-Branded hand prints appearing on skin? Has anyone heard of this?

He smiled as he approached the woman. "Care for a cup of tea on my expense, miss?" He asked.

The woman looked surprised. Her face was streaked with dirt, hair in messy dreads. She pulled her small grocery bag of belongings closer to her and shook her head. "Who are you? I don't do business. Go away."

"Oh, I apologize if I don't look familiar." Sherlock leaned closer to her and whispered, "Disguises are quite useful, aren't they? Tell me, how's your brother doing? Is he still carrying that blanket I left with him?"

"I don't… oh! Is that you, sir, Mr. Holmes?" Recognition dawned on the woman's face.

Sherlock straightened. "Please. Voices have a tendency to carry quite a distance, don't they?" He held out the money and list.

The woman took it discreetly and smiled. "Three hours. Train station, platform 3."

Sherlock nodded and continued walking. He felt almost self-conscious walking about in a city that had rejected him as a liar and traitor. As if everyone's eyes were now looking at him with suspicion. They would see through his disguise. Sherlock had faith in himself that he was physically altered beyond recognition. Nevertheless, it's hard to revive a broken ego.

As he walked, his eyes fell on a strange sign on the opposite building, directly in his line of sight. He paused in the middle of the street, staring at the piece of red graffiti: a star filled in with symbols. All his attempts to place it fell flat. But it was something he'd seen before. And most compelling was the arrow above it.

Almost on a hunch, Sherlock decided to follow the arrow. It pointed down a side street. Sherlock entered the slightly darkened street and there was another sign. This time, instead of following the arrow, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and ran through the symbols in his head. He blocked out the sounds of cars and pedestrians and then his eyes flashed open.

He'd seen those symbols in a church before. He'd been there investigating the murder of a vicar, and those had been in one of his ancient books. Sherlock didn't know what they stood for, he'd only glanced them in passing. Who were they for? And what about the arrows?

Intrigued, Sherlock took off in a jog behind the arrows. He found two more symbols, each leading him to more obscure and darkened places. Feeling for the gun in his back pocket he'd acquired earlier in the day, he briefly considered returning after his current mystery was solved. But he couldn't turn away.

The final symbol led him to a doorway in an abandoned alley. The metal gate was covered with several more of the symbols, some of which were clearly of Christian origins, other Gaelic and Celtic. Trying to interpret did no good. They were absolutely foreign.

Grasping the gun in his hand and keeping it hidden under his coat, Sherlock nudged the gate open with his boot. It creaked and Sherlock flinched. He froze, listening for any sort of sound. When there was no reaction, he slipped through the crack he'd created.

Inside, the warehouse (and Sherlock deduced accurately that's what it was) seemed empty. There was a single light on, a bare bulb that cast the interior of the building into sharp shadows and monotone color. The filthy windows were caked with dirt and years of dust masked Sherlocks footsteps as he made his way deeper in.

Sighing relieved that the place was empty, Sherlock relaxed. He let his senses calm.

Just as he did, a sharp high pitched noise started. Sherlock pulled out his gun wildly and pointed, but he was unsure where he should point. There seemed to be no origin to the noise. It increased in frequency and volume until all the windows shattered and Sherlock dropped the gun, falling to his knees and covering his ears with trembling hands.

"Agh! Make it stop!" He roared, helpless and (despite his best efforts) slightly frightened.

As abruptly as the keening started, it died off. Sherlock warily raised his head, grabbing for the gun. With as much delicacy as he could manage, he stood up. His mind still vibrated with the noise, his thoughts feeling scrambled.

Collecting himself, Sherlock suddenly realized there was a figure standing directly under the bulb. He pointed his gun at the man; Sherlock was sure that's what he was. The light washed out the features of his face, but he could still make it out. Within a second, Sherlock placed him to be about 35, 5'11, a natural brunette, and unafraid.

"Who are you?" he demanded harshly. "Speak! Or I'll shoot!"

The man, in a tone that was immediately both detached and authoritative, said "Hello, Sherlock Holmes. I'm Castiel, the angel who raised you from Hell. I need your help."