Sherlock, Grab the Salt

The Mystery Unravels (or starts to at least...)

       "They're American, obviously, and proud of it. Especially Dean. Sam is younger despite his looks, and they are quite protective over each other. Although they have a close bond, they were out of touch for a few years when Sam decided to pursue an education, likely only coming back into contact after the death of their father. Their mother died when they were young, so they're all they have left. They have friends of course, but more through work than anything else. They work together, likely some form of physical labor. The calluses on both their hands suggest they like to hunt as well, a dreadfully inelegant pastime, and they're quite adept at handling firearms. They don't have any formal training but they know how to fight, likely learned from their father. This was the only quality time the brothers spent with him, as he was clearly lacking in fatherly affection. They're in London on some sort of business trip and don't plan to stay long, but they aren't sure when they're leaving either. They must have looked me up because they recognized me, although they were genuinely surprised when we told them what we do, so they must not have come across your blog—"

       "Wait, stop." John, who had been listening closely and looking just as impressed as ever, now looked confused. "I hadn't told Sam your name when I invited them for dinner. Precisely so that they wouldn't look you up, in fact. And they couldn't have looked me up or they would have found the blog immediately." Sherlock's eyes flicked back and forth, analyzing information that only he could see.

       "Well then, I'm sure my dear brother would be happy to inform me about why he has sent a couple of bumbling Americans to live under our flat." John blinked.

       "Sherlock, why would you think that Mycroft—" but Sherlock was already halfway out the door. John sighed for what seemed like the millionth time that day and leaned back in his chair. A part of him wanted to go downstairs and demand to know what the Winchester's were up to, but he resolved to wait until Sherlock's return. Some of us, he thought, can be bloody patient.

~~~~~

       Downstairs, the Winchesters were too deep in discussion to notice Sherlock's pounding footsteps as he left the building. Dean was working on a beer in-between frustrated sentences (despite what he told John, he really didn't like wine all that much) and had just finished his pacing to flop down onto the couch.

       "Sammy, I'm telling you man this is too weird."

       "I hear you, I do, and I don't feel good about it either. What motivation could Mycroft possibly have for setting us up to stay right below his brother?" Dean barely heard Sam's reply. He was getting more worked up by the second as he realized how much effort this was really going to take. Typically if someone found out that the stuff of their nightmares was real, the only thing the brothers had to do was make sure they didn't freak the hell out. This time, though, they were under the supervision of a benefactor who was growing more mysterious, and possibly dangerous, by the second, and he very clearly did not want Sherlock involved... right?

       "The man is a freakin' consulting detective, which I still don't understand by the way, and we're expected to babysit him and finish this case at the same time?"

       "Well," Sam replied, cocking his head, "we're kind of like consulting detectives for supernatural stuff..."

       "Yeah, except the only people we ever get "consulted" by are usually whack jobs, and we only work with the police when they won't mind their damn business. And that's not the point! The point is that we're being set up Sammy. I don't know how or why, but we are and I don't like it." Dean finished off his beer with a flourish and slammed the empty bottle on the living room table with a bit more force than necessary, as if to prove that he was indeed unhappy. Sam sighed and shook his head.

       "Well we can't just leave now. If this Agaroth guy is as dangerous as Cas says he is, then I think it's our duty to take care of it. Our best bet is to just get this done as quickly as possible and get home without pissing anyone off." Dean stood and stretched as he considered his brother's words. He nodded resolutely.

       "Ignoring all that duty crap, fine. Then tomorrow morning we go to the morgue. I don't care what Cas said, I want to get this over with and there's no harm in checkin' out the bodies."

       "Okay, agreed." Both boys started to make their way to their respective bedrooms, comforted, if only slightly, by the fact that they had somewhat of a plan. As long as they focused on what they knew, which happened to very much include dead bodies, they could finish the job with as much comfort as the situation allowed. Sam had just thrown away Dean's empty bottle when a furious pounding at the door gave him the feeling, which proved to be correct in hindsight, that their relief was not going to last.