It was late afternoon when Sam finally woke to the distinct smell of greasy food. He opened his eyes to find Dean stuffing his face.

"Dude, what are you eating?" He asked, stiffing a yawn.

"Chips," Dean said around a mouthful. He motioned to the table, where a grease stained bag was sitting, "Grabbed you some."

Sam wrinkled his nose, but smiled. "Thanks."

Dean responded by shoving another handful into his mouth and smiling around it. After finishing the surprisingly good food, Sam took a shower. Then, sufficiently suited up, they left the hotel and made their way to Scotland Yard.

They entered through the glass doors an hesitated, neither quite sure where to go next. Luckily, someone took notice of their distress.

"Can I help you lads?" A man asked walking up them. He was tall and tan, with hair that had once been dark blonde, but was just beginning to grey. He wore a black blazer over a white button up.

"I'm Special Agent Dean Schultz, FBI. This is my partner, Special Agent Sam Langley," Dean said, holding up his badge.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade," The man replied, shaking their hands. "What's the FBI doing around these parts? It's not really your division."

"We're in town visiting friends," Sam said.

"So what brings you to Scotland Yard?" Lestrade asked.

"We heard about the latest murder," Dean said.

"Yeah, bloody mess that is," Lestrade said, running a hand through his graying hair. "But then again, the serial ones always are."

"You get a lot of Serial killers?" Dean asked.

"More than you'd expect," Lestrade said with a laugh.

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Sam asked.

"Strictly speaking, no," Lestrade looked up at him with a frown. "But, if things get worse I just might give you call. Hell, we need all the help we can get."

After leaving his cell number with Lestrade, Sam and Dean left Scotland Yard and decided to check out one of the previous murder spots. After a brief cab ride, they found themselves on the end of Baker Street. The place had already been swept clean, all evidence gone, except for the tiny smudge of sulfur Sam found on a nearby window ledge.

"So we know exactly what we already knew," Dean said angrily as they walked back up towards the quaint looking cafe they had passed on their way there. "That was freaking pointless!"

"Well, at least now we're sure that Demons are involved with at least one of the murders," Sam replied. "Which is sort of a step in the right direction."

Dean's snarky reply was cut off by the sound of music drifting somewhere nearby. It took him a moment to realize that the music was coming from his pocket. His phone was ringing. He cast an annoyed glance at Sam (who had taken the liberty of changing the ringtone for Castiel on Dean's phone to "Angel" by Aerosmith and disabled the settings that would let him change it) and flipped it open. "Cas."

"Hello, Dean," The gravelly voice on the other end said, "Where are you?"

"Uh..." Dean glanced around for any markers, "We're on Baker Street in London. Outside of 221B."

"I found something," Cas said about two seconds later as he appeared in front of the boys, his cheap cellphone still held to his ear. The people walking pass them took no notice to the Angel's abrupt appearance. And the boy's took no notice of the man walking out of the flat behind them.

"Great," Dean said, shoving his own phone back into the pocket of his cheap suit.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"A name," Cas answered. "Crowley has been working with someone who goes by the name Moriarty."

Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed Cas' shoulders and whirled him around. They belonged to a tall man with a shock of dark curly hair and intense pale blue eyes. He pulled Cas closer and with a voice full of urgency, said, "What do you know about Moriarty?!"

"Hey, pal, hands off!" Dean growled, hating the look of confused panic on Cas' face.

The other man ignored Dean, practically shaking Cas, "Tell me what you know."

"Don't make me say it again," Dean warned, his hand balling into a fist.

"Sherlock!" A shorter man with blonde hair shouted as he rushed out of the same flat the dark haired man had just exited. "Good lord, Sherlock, let him go."

"I can't do that," He answered, "I believe these three are working for Moriarty."

"Working for…?" Dean started, "No no no, we're not working for anyone."

"We haven't even heard the name until literally five seconds ago," Sam said, frowning. The smaller man looked at them, seeming to consider what they were saying.

"Are they lying?" He asked. Then when he received no answer, he said, "Sherlock! Look at them. Are they lying?"

The dark haired man looked up, sweeping his pale blue eyes over each of them. After a moment he said, "No."

"Sherlock?" Sam said, his eyes widening, "Wait… Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," the man holding Cas said turning his eyes back to the startled Angel.

"Then, you must be John Watson," Sam said glancing down at the smaller man.

"I am," He confirmed, quickly glancing over at his friend before returning his attention to the three men in front of them.

"Wait, Sam, you know these guys?" Dean asked, turning to his brother in confusion.

"No! I…uh…I read his blog," He said, nodding towards John.

"Of course you do," Dean and Sherlock sarcastically said at the same time.

"Um… could you…. Let me go," Cas said, glancing down at Sherlock's gloved hands which were still clamped onto his coat. After a moment, Sherlock released his shoulders and took a step back. Cas readjusted his trench coat.

"Well, you know who we are, but who are you?" John asked, starring up at the brothers.

"Agent Schultz, FBI," Dean said, holding up his badge. "These are my partners, Agents Stillman and Langley."

"No you're not," Sherlock said, folding his hands behind his back as he looked Dean over.

"Excuse me?" Dean said, confused. He glanced at his badge to make sure he had grabbed the one for FBI. He had.

"What?" John said, looking quickly between two taller men. "Sherlock, what do you mean?"

"He's obviously not FBI. His suit is old, definitely not up to FBI standards. And it's cheap. Obviously, it didn't cost more than one hundred dollars. It's clearly been worn many times, though the lines on the sleeves and pant legs would suggest that it's generally folded most of the time. Odd considering an agent would usually hang their suits instead of folding them. Then there's his gun, a glock I imagine, not the kind the FBI usually require. Nor is the knife in his belt. There's a smear of grease on the side of his left shoe, probably left there when the tools he uses on his car brushed against it. Car, a muscle car, I'm betting Impala from the chip of black paint under the nail of his right index finger. 67 if I'm not mistaken. Not the standard FBI issued car. And then there's his ID. The FBI prints all of their badges from a very specific printer, leaves visible traces on the picture. Traces that this particular badge is missing. Also, the seal is from last month. There is no way you're FBI, so who are you?" Sherlock finished, turning those sharp pale blue eyes on Dean.

Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise and whispered, "He really does do that."

"Oh, you have no idea," John answered in the same hushed tone.

"Okay, what are you, some kind of psychic?" Dean asked, glancing down at himself. Everything the man said had been true, even the tiny chip of Baby's paint that he hadn't noticed before.

"I'm not psychic, I'm observant," Sherlock said, pulling out a gun (which surprised John as it was the same one he had slipped into his belt before they left the flat) and pointing it a Dean. "Now answer the question. Who are you?"