Chapter Text
Sherlock looked quickly over the body that lay on the floor. The pool of time blackened blood sluggishly glistened in the dusty light that fell through the window. The body had a deep slit carved skillfully into the neck as well as long cuts on each arm from the shoulder to the wrist.
John surveyed the rest of the room, quietly flipping through pieces of paper that cluttered the desk in the corner. The room itself was very bare, a desk and a bed and now, a body. John took all this in with a quiet silence, waiting for Sherlock to finish his examination of the body before he stated his own findings.
“What do you think John?” Sherlock asked as he turned the arms to inspect the cuts that ran their length.
“Could be suicide.” he answered simply.
“Why?”
John’s brow furrowed and he set his shoulders in concentration. “Well there’s no fingerprints, according to Anderson,” Sherlock scoffed, “and based on the letters and bills on the desk, it doesn’t seem like he was in a good place financially or socially.”
Sherlock gave a small nod, straightening up and looking at John for the first time. “Good.”
“Really?”
“Well, good for you John, wrong, but a good deduction based on the facts that you told me which, by the way, are completely irrelevant.”
John sighed, not surprised in the least. “Well, run me through it Sherlock.”
“Well normally I would agree with you. The letters point to suicide as well as the quite obvious cut across the throat however, the cuts on down each arm are illogical for a suicide and coupled with the fact that he’s wearing cologne leads away from suicide. Obviously, a man of his financial situation would not usually waste his money buying a cologne. So why would he buy it? Based on his clothing, semi-dressy, we can conclude he had a date-” He cut off in irritation as the single door leading into the room opened, reveling two very tall men in sleek suites.
“I told them to leave us alone. Leave.” Sherlock said closing the door on them. “As I was saying, it makes no sense-”
The door opened again. The shorter man stepped forward, “F.B.I” he stated and both he and his partner held up their badges.
Sherlock glanced at them, “Congratulations” he said attempting to close the door on them once more but this time, the shorter man caught the door and held it open.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m Agent Bristol and this is Agent Filler. We’re here to investigate the death of Phil Hartman.” He said, pushing himself into the room, his partner following.
The two of them dwarfed John and Sherlock in both height and stature. Both were well muscled and had looks about them that reminded John of male models. The shorter one had blonde, brown hair that was cut short, almost army style, with green eyes straight from a fairytale. Agent Filler’s hair hung around mid-neck, deep brown along with his eyes.
After a few seconds of silence, John realized Sherlock wasn’t about to make any introductions.
“I’m John Watson and this is my partner Sherlock Holmes.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” Agent Filler said holding his hand out to Sherlock before dropping it awkwardly when Sherlock made no move to shake it. He cleared his throat, “Anyway, if you wouldn’t mind clearing the room so we can get on with our investigation.”
John steeled himself for Sherlock’s cutting retort and was surprised when all he uttered was a demure, “Of course” before leaving the room. John followed confused as ever, gritting his teeth as he heard, “Freaking psyco” just before he closed the door.
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“Pretty stable E.M.F. rating.” Agent Filler, i.e. Sam Winchester, commented as he walked around the room.
Dean, Agent Bristole, knelt down by the body, “Alright, so what are we looking at? Vengeful spirit?”
“Makes sense to me.” Sam said giving the body a once over. “I’ll go back to the hotel room and check out the hotels history, see if there’s anything vengeful spirit material.”
“Sounds good. I’ll talk to his family, see if they know anything.”
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“Sherlock, what are we doing?” John hissed exasperated. He and Sherlock had been hiding behind the apartment where the suicide took place for the past half hour.
Sherlock, who had kept a careful eye on the traffic in and out of the house, refused to say anything, ignoring all of John’s questions.
“Sherlock, I refuse to stand here like a criminal. Now, either you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on or we’re going to go home-” Sherlock’s hand whipped out, placing a single, light finger over John’s lips, silencing him.
“Those men in there were fake.” He said, turning back to the front of the house.
“What? Who? The F.B.I. agents?”
“No, the suicide, turns out he was killed by ghosts. Yes, of course the F.B.I. agents!”
“Then why on Earth didn’t you say anything? They could be destroying evidence.”
“What, on a suicide case, no point.” He said as the two ‘agents’ walked from the house and toward on old 67 Chevy Impala that was parked down the road. Sherlock grabbed John’s sleeve, dragging him out to the road and catching a taxi, it seemed to be a skill of his, and shoving him into the cab.
“Follow that car,” he told the driver, “ The Chevy”
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Dean loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first button on his shirt as they drove away.
“You heard from Cas lately?” He asked Sam.
“Nope, it’s been a good month without contact, either Heaven’s a mess again or he’s deemed us unworthy of his attention.”
Dean grimaced, “Little bastard’s been too quiet. It’s making me uneasy...keep an eye on that cab will you?” Dean asked, glancing up at his center mirror.
“Why”
“I think it’s following us.”
Dean rolled up into the parking lot of the hotel, sliding into the nearest parking space.
“What happened to interviewing family?” Sam asked sarcastically as Dean got up out of the car.
“Nah,” he said looking across the street to a bar and then up at the darkening sky, “it’s getting too late.”
Sam simply shook his head, grabbed his bag, and headed into their room.
Dean looked around for the cab once more, they had lost it a few turns back, before straightening his jacket and making his way across the street to the bar.
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“Stop here please.” Sherlock said, paying the cabbie and stepping out onto the sidewalk, about two blocks from the hotel where the Chevy had turned in. He and John made their way down the street, turning a corner just in time to see ‘Agent Bristol’ duck into a rundown bar across the street from a hotel.
“What now?” Asked John.
Sherlock looked around for a moment before turning to him. “Fancy a drink?”
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Her name started with an ‘M’, that was all Dean remembered but, to be fair, it wasn’t really her he was interested in but the friend she had come with. She was nice, if you liked girls who went to a bar in a cat jumper and nervous laughter was your thing, thought Dean, taking another sip of his beer.
She had stopped talking and was looking at him expectantly.
“Yeah.” he said with a little laugh, having no idea what she had just said.
She gave a small laugh, her brow furrowing afterward, “You’re not,” she laughed, “you’re not listening are you?” He tried to make up some excuse but she interrupted him before he could get the first word out, “No it’s fine,” she said with a sad smile on her face, “God knows I’m used to it.” She gave a sad little laugh before, without looking at him again, getting up and walking out of the bar, smiling sadly and shaking her head.
Dean watched her go feeling like a jerk and desperately trying to remember her name, more to make himself feel better than to call her back. Just as she reached the door, it came to him.
“Molly.” He said to himself, turning back to his beer. “Molly Hooper.”