Sherlock, Grab the Salt

The Pool

       Sherlock's conversation, if it could even be called that, with Mycroft had proven to be entirely ineffective. In the few short minutes that Sherlock had spent demanding to know what was going on, Mycroft had given away very little. This frustrated Sherlock to no end. Although he was perfectly aware that Mycroft could hide things from Sherlock better than most people, which isn't saying much, Sherlock could typically at least get an idea of what his older brother was planning. This time though... Sherlock needed a cigarette. His mood had only soured further by the time he arrived back at the flat, as he had spent the entire trip fuming and coming up with increasingly creative ways to get revenge on Mycroft. Weight gain supplements in his morning tea? Surely Anthea could be convinced to— Sherlock opened the door to the flat and paused, scanning the room. Something was wrong. A nearly imperceptible shard of John's favorite mug lay on the too clean floor underneath the kitchen table. The cushion on the living room chair which had been permanently creased by John's use now held no proof that he had ever sat there. Sherlock made several other deductions that on any other occasion might indicate that John had just gone out to get more milk. This was not the case though, not this time. John had been taken, and someone had been very careful to make sure Sherlock didn't know. Not careful enough.

       Sherlock stormed down the stairs to flat 221C and was pounding on the door before he could even rationalize why. All he knew was that John was in danger and the Winchesters knew how to shoot. If it later turned out that the American brothers were involved in John's kidnapping, which Sherlock dismissed as extremely unlikely given how delicately the act had been performed, then he would just have to take care of it later. Violently. The door opened and Sherlock barged past a very confused Sam. He attempted to maintain his composure as he knocked on what he decided was the door to Dean's room, although he could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears and could do little to control the flush on his cheeks.

       "What the hell?" Dean said when he opened his door, looking to Sam who only shrugged.

       "I require your assistance. John has been kidnapped. Bring your guns." Sherlock said, glad that his words came out evenly.

       "Um, what?" Sam said, obviously taken aback and just a little annoyed at the unusual demand from someone he hardly knew.

       "How do you even know we have guns?" Dean accused, and Sherlock took a deep breath.

       "While I would love to go into detail about how unbelievably idiotic you both sound right now, it doesn't really seem the time as, like I said, John has been kidnapped. Will you help me or will you continue to make me sorry for even fucking asking?" Sherlock hadn't meant to curse, but his patience had worn unbearably thin and time was of the essence. Dean bristled at the words, but Sam held out a hand to stop his brother's retort as Sherlock's words about John's kidnapping sunk in.

       "We'll help." Sam said, and Dean's protests went unheard as he continued, "Just give us a second to grab some stuff." Sherlock nodded and tapped his foot impatiently as the Americans went into their rooms to gear up. He observed from the corner of his eye that the brothers had returned with several more weapons than anticipated as he read the text he had just received:

                        Unknown Number: I'm bored. Let's pick up where we left off ;)

       "Earth to Sherlock, where are we going?" Dean said, waving his hand. Sherlock looked up and knew by the expressions on the brothers' faces that fear was now coming off him in waves. So much for maintaining his composure.

       "The pool, apparently."

~~~~~

       Thankfully, Sam and Dean didn't ask too many questions as Sherlock waved down a cab. Or maybe they did. Sherlock didn't care either way. The detective's mind was racing as he evaluated the possible outcomes of the night. He suppressed a shudder when the idea of losing John crossed his mind, but he forced himself to consider it anyway. He couldn't help John if he didn't fully prepare, and emotions would only get in the way. The three men spent the majority cab ride in silence (maybe), and Sherlock only turned to address the others when they were nearly to the scene.

       "Be prepared for anything. The man who I believe has John is incredibly dangerous and likely already knows that you two are with me. Don't shoot anything or anyone unless I say so, and if god forbid you screw this up I will personally see to making the short remainder of your lives very, very miserable." Sam and Dean exchanged a look, both understanding that Sherlock couldn't possibly know what "prepared for anything" meant to the two hunters, or how miserable life could truly get for men like them.

       "We're here." Sherlock said before either brother could formulate a response, and the men exited the car, all effectively entering battle mode. Sherlock didn't bother to check if the Americans were following him as he strode with purpose into the building. He shook off the uneasy feeling that tried to settle on him as the memories from his last encounter at the pool resurfaced. He hadn't been able to maintain his stoic facade in front of the brothers, who had indeed followed him inside, but he would be damned if he let it slip now.

       Unlike the last time, John was already standing by the pool, and Sherlock felt a burst of pride as he took in the doctor's brave composure. He saw a relief flicker in John's eyes when the man noticed his presence, followed by confusion when he spotted the Winchesters, but his expression quickly returned to resemble that of someone who was mildly inconvenienced.

       "No bomb vest this time." John joked, and the men shared a small smile while the Winchester's shared their millionth exasperated look.

       "So where's this so called dangerous man?" Dean said loudly, very much done with the situation and wishing he had been allowed to sleep in peace. He had been craving some action mere hours ago, but was starting to see the truth in the phrase "be careful what you wish for". The sooner this was handled, the sooner he and Sam could finish what they actually came to London to do and get the hell home. If things kept going like this, they would be out of town for the next damn apocalypse. The silence that had settled on the room after everybody had ignored Dean's question was broken by a high-pitched giggle. Sherlock, who hadn't broken eye contact with John since their arrival, sighed loudly.

       "If you would do us the pleasure of getting on with it, that would be lovely." John's grin grew despite himself at Sherlock's words. The Winchesters watched as a mousy looking man stepped into the room, wearing a suit and looking far too pleased with the situation. Sam realized that the man reminded him in some of ways of Mycroft: if he were anyone else, he would be less than intimidating. But where Mycroft's air of power had been what dispelled that notion, what made Sam wary of this man was his obvious lack of sanity.

       "I see you brought guests! How nice, I do love a party." The man spoke in a drawn out, sing-song manner that sent shivers down Sam's spine. Dean shuffled uncomfortably and drew his pistol from the back of his belt. Sam copied the motion. Only Sherlock and John seemed unaffected, though their shared gaze had grown heavier as soon as the mysterious man had entered the room. A few beats of silence passed and the man scowled.

       "Oh come on, not even a hello? That's not very nice Sherlock. I just want to talk." He drew out the word "talk" in the way that a toddler would say "play" when whining to his mother. Dean's pointer finger moved towards the trigger of his gun. He was ready to end this, Sherlock's warnings be damned, and even Sam was wondering how much longer this situation could last without at least one casualty. Before the brothers could make any moves, though, Sherlock finally tore his eyes from John's to look at the other man.

        "Hello Moriarty."