It seemed like vampires only ever camped out in old warehouses.

Because nonetheless, Sam and Dean found themselves in another spooky old warehouse that smelled like piss and didn't have lights. It was a little irritating, but it was worth it, saving lives. Their guards up, the two hunting brothers had flashlights crossed over their sabers, eyes searching for any sign of movement. So far, there had been nothing.

They continued walking through the dark that seemed as thick as fog, until finally, they heard a sound. A soft pitter patter of footsteps clattered behind them. They flipped around to see it, but only found the paint-chipped walls. After looking for another moment, Sam Winchester turned to Dean. They briefly nodded at each other, then continued to investigate.

Softly, another sound began to emit from the corner of the room. A deep, low, growling. It wasn't deep enough to be some sort of animal. In fact, it sounded human. Sam and Dean pointed the flashlight, to see two vampires, teeth showing, snarling at them in the corner. Before they could do anything the two leapt for them

Two shots rang out through the warehouse. The bullets hit both vampires squarely in the heart, but obviously, they didn't stop.

"Dean, don't shoot them in the heart!" Sam said obviously.

"My gun isn't even out!" He rebutted. He raised his saber in the air, ready to cut their heads off, but he found he didn't have to. He found the vampires slowing. They fell to their knees, gasping softly, as though in pain. For a moment, they stared up, and then, one after the other. They collapsed, and stopped moving. No blood came from their hearts, but their eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. They were still… twitching.

Sam and Dean looked at each other for a moment, awestruck. A shot to the heart didn't kill a vampire, obviously, so how were they dead? Or, at least, near dead?

"How did you do that?" Dean demanded.

"I thought it was you!" He replied defensively.

"It wasn't!"

"Well, it wasn't me!"

"Then who-"

"I believe it's me you're referring to."

The heads of both the Winchesters turned to look in between them, their flashlights revealing somebody just behind them. The unknown man was out stapped out of the shadows. He had a tall, and lanky figure with a straight back, and a long, black trench coat with a dark blue scarf around his neck. His hair was raven black and slightly curly, and his eyes were sharp, analyzing, and icy greenish-blue. His skin was so pale he looked like a cadaver. He had high cheekbones and a stern face as he looked at the gun he was holding. Quickly, they watched as he put the gun back in his inside pocket, pulled out a black notebook, and began to write.

"How the Hell did you do that?!" Dean asked instantly. "Vamps aren't killed by a shot to the heart!"

"Not usually, no." Said the stranger. "These aren't regular bullets."

"What the Hell's in them?! It certainly packs quite a punch." He said.

"Holy gel, garlic root, and trace amounts of North American viburnum." He said, not looking up at Dean.

"What?" He asked cluelessly.

"Holy water mixed with cornstarch and adhesive, garlic, and devil's shoestring," He repeated, slightly changing his phrasing.

"That doesn't make any sense." Dean said roughly.

"It makes perfect sense." The man said coolly. He had a deep voice and a London accent. "Garlic is considered a folk tale amongst most hunters, but actually they only consider it that because it has no effect on contact to the skin. However, upon being ingested or injected into the bloodstream it begins with an acidic, than paralyzing effect. Devil's shoestring typically is used for warding off hellhounds, and hellhounds alone, so why would it work on vampires? Easy. Vampires and hellhounds share many of the same traits, the teeth, the savage eyes, and many similar strands in DNA, and some of the earliest lore about vampires said that, similarly to werewolves, they were infected by a large, ravenous dog. Fitting the description of a hellhound. The devil's shoestring can keep them back for a few inches, before they can struggle through it. That, however, is all it takes. If aimed correctly, the bullet, which is made of a weak tin as to break on impact, releases the holy gel as it hits the heart. As vampires are not demons but demonic, this stops them for a moment, and it adheres to the heart. The viburnum mixes with the gel, also adhering to the heart, easily able to hold back such a gentle motion as a heartbeat. Therefore, the heart stops. The vampire is still alive, but, as it is human and vaguely demon, it needs a heartbeat to continue its functions, leaving it to usually collapse within a few seconds. The beating heart can not surpass the viburnum it is coated in. Then, as soon as that happens, the garlic in the mixture is able to seep into the veins with some of the holy gel. Slowly, by gravity and pre-set current of the blood, it poisons much of the body, usually in the chest area. This process altogether slowly poisons and kills the vampire." He explained thoroughly. The Winchester brothers stared at him, totally lost and awestruck. They glanced at each other. As far as they knew, you cut the heads off of vampires. End of story. They had no clue so much science could be involved.

"So… are they dead?" Sam asked finally.

Sherlock hesitated for half a second before his spoke. His eyes darted over Sam for a moment before he continued as though nothing had happened. "Not yet. Will be, in a few hours." He replied.

"Uh… wow…" Sam chuckled lightly, looking at the twitching vampires. "You're a genius." He stated bluntly. "Who are you?"

"The name's Sherlock Holmes." He said, a slightly confident smile crossing his face, as he stuck his notebook back in his pocket. "Best hunter you two will ever find." And with that, he turned around, pushed open the door, and was gone.

Sam and Dean left the warehouse physically together, but that was where the similarities ended. Their thoughts were in totally different regions.

Dean walked out actually slightly angry at what the man had said. Well, more than slightly. Trying to recount all the science and technical terms made him feel like an eighth grader failing his science test again. All that science… he was good at chopping off heads and stabbing through hearts. It had never been so complex. Science in hunting… he thought angrily to himself. There isn't any science in hunting!

Sam, however, was focused on something else. The way Sherlock looked at him just before he spoke to him sent a chill down his spine. He knew it was probably nothing major, I mean, he had just met him, and most people look at the person they talk to, but the way his cold blue eyes followed him from head to toe. It wasn't a natural look, it was sort of like…

A scientist observing their specimen.

At the same time, the two of them got into the impala. There was a moment of silence between them before Dean spoke.

"That was… weird." He said, looking forward.

"Yeah…" Sam said. "I mean he was a hunter, but like, also…"

"Yeah…" Dean agreed. "I think I'm gonna call Bobby."

Sam nodded in agreement. "Yeah." He said. Dean pulled out his phone and pressed the contact, putting him immediately on speaker. The phone rang three times before Bobby answered the phone.

"Yeah?" He said gruffly. Dean spoke first, as usual.

"Bobby," He said. "We just passed this hunter, we wanna know if you know him." He said.

"Got a name?"

"Um, Sherlock Holmes," Sam said, recalling his name. Bobby replied almost instantly.

"Don't go anywhere near him, boys." He said gravely. "He's not just a hunter."

"He certainly seemed like a hunter," Dean replied obviously.

"Well, he let go of that path a long time ago," Bobby explained. "You know, most hunters do what they do cause they wanna save people, like you and me and Sam,"

"Well, yeah, why else would they do it?" Dean interjected.

"Just listen to what I'm saying, idjit," Bobby replied. Dean shut his mouth. "But he ain't motivated like a regular hunter. This guy only wants to solve the puzzle, and he knows about half a hundred ways to kill half a hundred creatures."

"So?" Dean asked.

"So, he doesn't care about the people in his way. He's probably murdered innocent people just for his experiments."

A chill ran down Dean's spine. That was horrifying. Sam shifted in his seat, admittedly somewhat scared. Is that what that look meant? 'I'm going to experiment on and/or kill you'?

"Well, that's really creepy." Dean confessed. "Thanks Bobby, we'll make sure to stay off his turf."

"Alright boys." He said. With that, Dean hung up the phone. He clearly shivered, but he still seemed fairly casual about the matter.

"Jeez," He said, putting the keys in the ignition. "He certainly sounds like a freaky son of a bitch." His eyes were fairly wide. When Sam didn't speak, he turned to face him. "You okay?" He asked.

"U-uh, yeah." Sam replied. "Just drive."

Humans aren't given enough credit as far as seeing the future. People say it's coincidence, or a hoax, or nonsense, but they're not really aware how apparent it is. I mean, it's not like Sam had a vision of how he was going to die with all the details and a side of french fries, but he never really stopped feeling uneasy that night. He was thinking of Sherlock, and rubbing his eyes, and thinking something bad's gonna happen, I just know it.

Of course, as most of the world does think that future-vision is coincidence, a hoax, or nonsense (including Sam Winchester) so he assumed he was just sleep-deprived.

"I'm heading in for the night." Sam said through a sigh.

"Dude, it's like, 9:00 at night." Dean said. Sam shook his head.

"Yeah, I know. I dunno, I'm just kinda tired tonight." He argues weakly. Dean shrugged.

"Suit yourself." He said casually.

Sam felt like an idiot that night, what with the checking the mirror behind him, seeing what was behind the shower curtain, turning on the lights, but he couldn't help it. Something was off.

He was tired, or so he thought, but as soon as he laid down that thought seemed to give up there and then. His eyes remained open as he saw Dean go to sleep. 11:00… 12:00… finally, as 12:30 neared, he shut his eyes and sank into a shallow sleep, where his thoughts were muddled and he could have woken up at any time.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he was awoken with a start. Out of the misty darkness, a hand clasped over his mouth and a dark figure swooped over him. He tried to scream, but the figure before him interrupted.

"Don't try that." He warned, and Sam was compelled to believe him. His eyes darted to the side as his hand flung out to reach his gun (which he kept on the bedside table) but he found he was smacking wood.

"I've already removed every threat to myself, your knives, your guns, even your brother." Sam's heart was racing at this point. Not only was he immediately questioning what he meant by 'he removed the threat of his brother', but he knew that voice. "You're coming with me, Sam Winchester," He said. Sam tried to struggle, but he found his head aching and swimming. He blinked heavily as his muscles got weaker and his world faded into black.

Sam awoke slowly, lights blaring in his eyes. He winced, the light burning, and his head throbbing. He tried to move, to find his skin colliding with tight rope, constricting him to a chair. He was tied up, he realized. He had to get to his senses. He looked around him, but his vision was blurry. Finally, he was able to focus on the lean, dark figure, and he knew it was the same that had kidnapped him. And as he looked up, he could see piercing through the mechanical white light two icy round points; his cold glaring eyes.

And he knew it was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

His vision grew clear as he fully woke up. He struggled against the rope, but it was thick. He winced as it touched his skin, slightly burning when he pushed hard again, like it had spikes in the middle of it. Of course. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't just use normal rope.

"Hello, Sam." He said coolly.

"What do you want with me?" Sam snarled. "Where's Dean?"

"Dean's not important." He responded. "You, on the other hand are… tremendously interesting." He said. A sickening grin spread across his face as he pressed his lean fingers together.

"What the Hell are you talking about?!" He demanded. Sherlock began to pace back and forth.

"You know, there haven't been many people in history who've gotten addicted to demon blood, Samuel," He said. Sam's eyes widened. "The obvious reason is that most people aren't stupid enough to literally drink the blood of the enemies. You, however, seem to be different."

"How did you-" Sam began.

"I knew it as soon as I saw you," He said. "You've got the nervous ticks and agility of an addict, but when you saw me in the shadows I had started eliminating. No known stimulants have exactly that effect, and besides that, there was a little on the top of your shirt you had tried desperately to wash out. Now in a position like yours, blood stains are not odd, yet still you insisted on washing them out very similarly to how a cocaine addict washed out his pockets several times just to make sure. Conclusion: you were on a drug, a very unusual one; demon blood." He explained. "A careless, positively ridiculous decision, but I'm not going to shame you for it. It has after all provided me with a lovely opportunity." He said.

"Opportunity?" Sam asked, trying to keep his voice steady. The man smiled again, looking like an honest-to-god serial killer as the shadows crossed his face.

"For research," He said. Slowly, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a large syringe full of a clear liquid that looked like water, but Sam knew it couldn't be. Sherlock held it in the air and smiled up at it for a moment, squirting out a small amount onto the floor. He glanced murderously back over at Sam. Sam swallowed, trying to curl away into the shadows. He shivered as the man spoke. "Let's start with the basics, shall we?"

And Sherlock was lucky he brought Sam to a place in the middle of nowhere, because there was no one around to hear his screams.