Fic: Crossroads - Moriarty (5/7) (Sherlock BBC)

[keep_counting]

Title: Crossroads 5/7 - Moriarty
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, Mycroft, Moriarty
Rating: PG13
Warnings: AU, selling of souls, a bit blood, dead people, temporary character-death, resurrection
Genre: Crossover/Drama/AU
Word-count: 1,373
Disclaimer: I don't own anything in relation to this.
A/N: Crossover with Supernatural, though it is not necessary to have watched the show: I am merely using the mythology to fill a plot-bunny made by fueschgast and me: the wonderful banner is also made by her!
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is twelve years old when he meets his first demon.

Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four // Part Five // ...

Moriarty

Every fairy-tale needs a good old-fashioned villain.

~

Sherlock Holmes is twelve years old when he met his first demon.

It was by pure chance, stepping into the bar with a determination a twelve-year old in a pub really shouldn’t have.

The man in the suit had laughed at him.

“What appears to be so amusing to you?” Sherlock had asked with the haughty air he’d seen Mycroft use so many times.

This only made the man laugh even harder.

“You’re the detective, aren’t you?” he’d asked – no, stated, and then, with a flash of red, he was gone.

Ten years later, Sherlock duly noted that five people who had been in the bar that night were all dead.

~

It’s an idea, seething and burning in his mind. You can’t kill an idea.

Detective.

Monster.

“Why this sudden interest in the supernatural?” Mycroft asks, brows drawn in displeasure, stand rigid.

“Don’t bother lying to me, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, because he knows his brother well enough. “Nothing in this country goes on without you knowing about it.”

He is, of course, right. And Mycroft teaches.

He’s sixteen when he sees a woman get torn apart by hellhounds for the first time.

Hellhound: a supernatural dog, often seen in folklore. Features that have been attributed to hellhounds include black fur, glowing red or yellow eyes, ghostly or phantom characteristics and maybe even the ability to talk.

It’s invisible. He doesn’t see or hear it: the woman does – she screams and screams and clings to him and he tries to keep a hold of her, but she is violently ripped out of his arms by an unseen force, tearing up her clothes and skin.

There’s still blood on his face when he gets back home.

“Hellhounds,” Mycroft says, his tone badly concealing his disgust or fear or maybe even fright. Sherlock is too tired to pin it down, too tired to note anything but the fact that Mycroft is good at concealing his feelings. Usually.

“Not quite what you expected then?” he asks, and that is definitely displeasure, the urge to protect all too strong with his older brother. Sherlock fights the urge to grin.

Hellhound: aggressive, violent. Can only be seen and heard by their appointed victim. They tear up the victim’s body and then drag their soul to hell.

Commonly appear to kill a person who has made a deal with a crossroads demon.

“I have a… really odd case for you,” Lestrade tells him over the phone, and he sounds unsure and like he knows exactly how Sherlock will react, so when Sherlock nearly shouts in glee and proclaims it Christmas come early, Lestrade is really bewildered.

And relieved.

“It’s usually ten years,” Sherlock tells the skull on the mantelpiece, his fingers idly toying with the strings of his violin. “You make a deal with one of the demons, and you get ten years to live. There is no guarantee, if you get killed by a thug or hit by a falling tree you aren’t going to magically jump back up because your time hasn’t run out yet. You die either way, if the hounds take you or not.”

And then you go to Hell, he imagines the skull telling him.

He tells himself he isn’t going insane and really, he’s a genius, so of course he’s right.

~

The next time he nearly dies.

“You’ve been prying,” the velvety-voice tells him, hands stuffed in pockets, eyes glowing red.

There are 66 skulls on the demons tie. Sherlock counts, and then cocks the gun in his hand, aiming at the thing in front of him.

“You’ve been killing people,” he says, harshly, sternly, because in his line of job he is to make sure that it doesn’t happen again. Or at least, that’s the fancy description.

It shrugs. “That’s what demons do.”

“But you’re not just any run-of-the-mill, black-eyed demon are you?” Sherlock asks and flatters and goads, and there is a smile as wide as the London Eye on Its face now.

“Ooh, flattery. Keep going.”

“You’re a crossroads demon. One of the more esteemed ones in fact: you hold nearly every single contract ever made in Britain.”

“Oh dear Jim, won’t you help me, my daddy’s dying?” It says in a high-pitched voice. “Oh dear Jim, won’t you help me, I so want to be famous…” It blows a raspberry at him. “You humans. Honestly.”

“You are Moriarty,” Sherlock says, and the thrill of finally standing across from the demon – the man – is like nothing he has ever imagined.

Moriarty blinks. “Yeees?”

Sherlock smiles. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Mind putting down that gun?”

“It won’t work anyway.”

“Then why have it?” Moriarty asks, his lips curling in displeasure. “I mean… I could just do this.”

He only has time to register a chill running down his spine, before the gun is knocked out of his hand by seemingly air and hits the floor with a loud thud.

“There, now you don’t seem so rude anymore,” Moriarty cheers. “Now… what did you really want?”

Sherlock can feel the cold creeping in, slowly, like a predator sneaking up on its prey. He can hardly keep his eyes from straying around, darting in every direction, keeping track of what’s coming.

It is a completely redundant instinct, as the only threat here is standing right in front of him, tipping lightly forward on his feet as if in anticipation of what’s to come.

“Irene Adler,” Sherlock says, his mouth feeling dry all of the sudden. He’s not shaking. He’s most definitely not shaking. “She was your latest victim, was she not?”

He doesn’t know why he asks, and all the demon – Moriarty – does is raise one eyebrow, lips pressed together in a thin smile that is somehow both better and worse than the large, tooth-full grin from before.

Irene Adler.

She’d felt the cold. She’d heard the hounds barking, in the distance, sitting in a cheap motel room and smoking and painting her nails, her hair down for once. They’d found her covered in blood, ripped to pieces.

She’d called him, right before she died. Pleading for help, and he had been too late.

“Please, please Jim, I want them to go,” The demon interrupts his thoughts, his voice yet again twisted in that mockery of a female-voice, a human-voice. “I don’t want them to hurt me anymore.” He rolls his eyes. “Pathetic.”

“Everything that’s happened, everything I’ve seen… I’m still not sure if I believe it,” Sherlock says, interrupts because he doesn’t want to listen to this, doesn’t need to hear this and he really wish he still had the gun, even if it wouldn’t do any good.  

“Oh, c’mon Sherlock,” Moriarty says, shoulders slumping in defeat and annoyance. “Don’t be like that. Really? I’m disappointed.”

“Oh, what a shame,” Sherlock sneers.

“Yes, I know!” Moriarty continues. “And just when I thought you’d be… a little more… interesting.”

Let me prove you wrong.

“I want to make a deal,” Sherlock says and he can feel everything stop and turn at the same time, like the Earth under his feet is spinning out of rotation and really, when did he become this theatrical? The thrill is in the chase after all, and in the glint of absolute excitement that now shines in his opponent’s eyes.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Sherlock pulls out Harry Watson’s records, remember her smashed-in face and body, remembers Molly’s tired sigh, remembers how there is no way this can happen. This doesn’t happen in real life. It’s not real. It’s impossible.

“Harriet Watson, back safe and sound, in one piece. Can you do that?”

Moriarty’s teeth glint in the darkness. “Darling, I can do anything you want me to.”

“And in return for her life, you get my soul and come to collect in ten years?”

“You’ve done your homework. And yet you still want to do this – for a stranger, no less?” he looks about ready to jump up and down in glee now. “Bravo, Sherlock. You have managed to surprise me.”

In turn, Sherlock gets surprised as well, because he really hadn’t factored in that kiss.

~

The next time he meets the demon, he is on a roof-top.

Comments

[the-silverdoe.livejournal.com]

Brilliant! :D When do we get Mycroft?

Aw, yeah!

[fueschgast]

LIKE LIKE LIKE

[eanor.livejournal.com]

Woho, another update! Love this fic! ♥

I really liked in this part how you've taken Moriarty / Sherlock dialogue from the show and managed to give it new meaning. That was really well done! :-)

[dobranocka.livejournal.com]

Ah, this is so good. Jim as demon is a brilliant idea, he so fits into that role. Love it.