[fic] A Devil in Despair 5/7
Jan. 30th, 2011 01:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keire_keTitle: A Devil in Despair
Rating: 14
Genre: drama
Wordcount: 28k
Warnings: slight gore.
Summary: There is a solution to every problem, even if sometimes one needs to step outside the realms of logic, common sense, or even human domain. Sherlock knows this and acts accordingly, while John is left picking up the pieces.
Author's note: the story is finished, will be posted whole over the next couple of days.
Credits: Strongly influenced by Supernatural, oddly enough the Mentalist and Neil Gaiman's Lucifer (to the point of borrowing characters from the latter).
Betaed byyami_tai. <3 Thank you so much, hun, for all the hard work!
Darkness started falling upon Hell. The sky filled with ash-coloured clouds, which obstructed whatever source of light shone upon the place.
The demons avoided them, which was fortunate. It took Sherlock a long time to notice though, even when they reached a more densely populated area, as all he could see were shapes and movement in the shadows. John seemed to be fairing better, shoving them both into corners that seemed untouched by the light of any kind, when something ventured too close. Sherlock wondered at this ability, but eventually he, too, had come to associate the feeling of utter and completely wrongness with a demon’s presence.
-- there would be bright light firing up in his brain, muttering in his ear, forcing thoughts to the forefront of his brain, dark, wrong thoughts, of blood and murder and hands dipped in the flowing red and how wrong and right it would be and how people died and suffered all the while and nothing ever lasted, except for Hell, the endless darkness and pain and now it was time to go again and wallow in the glorious suffering --
The realisation that the thoughts were not his own shook him momentarily.
“How did you know?” he asked John after a couple miles (and even of that -- inconceivable! Simple math had failed -- he wasn’t sure).
“Know what, that trusting demons in Hell was a bad idea?” John asked, and from his tone Sherlock inferred this was a question he didn’t expect to be answered.
“How did you know it was a demon?”
“It was wrong,” John simply said. “How didn’t you? You can spot an engineer by his thumbs.”
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said after a while. “I-- It looked like a child to me.”
“That’s weird.”
“I think so, yes.”
“What does that mean?”
Sherlock considered. There was a tone in John’s voice that he’d (slowly) learned to recognise as humouring, as the voice of the skull as he’d termed it once. It was the voice John used when he wasn’t as impressed as he should be and was just talking to keep Sherlock talking, in the hopes of keeping him from insulting anyone.
Sherlock welcomed it now.
“I think I’ve got the hang of it now,” he said. “That one’s a demon.”
John looked to where Sherlock was pointing, at the half-elephant creature, with a toothed maw where its stomach should be. “Well-spotted, Sherlock, but that was obvious.”
“You know what I mean!”
“Not really, no.”
“I knew that was a demon just by it looking that way!”
“You know great many things just by looking at them and most of the time it is a lot more impressive. Forgive if I’m not clapping this one time.” John whirled the spear as though it were a baton. “I know what you mean though. I assume it just feels like something’s off, right?”
“It’s like looking at one of those infernal Escher drawings.”
“The what?”
“The stairs that lead nowhere.” Sherlock shuddered. It was a minor thing, but his mind rebelled at the very thought. He couldn’t help it, his eyes would trace the contours and his brain would produce schematics that didn’t make sense.
John gave him a strange look. “I think so,” he said cautiously.
“It’s slightly better when there’s none of them around.”
“Can’t argue with that.” They were passing a wall built from human beings, and Sherlock knew, theoretically, that these couldn’t be people, because people couldn’t survive being nailed to one another for as long as the rusty colour of the blood underneath would indicate and yet still live, let alone have breath to scream in anguish.
He looked away.
“How much further?” John asked when the distance was great enough that the cries were just murmurs.
Sherlock consulted his compass. “It’s very hard to give a precise reply.” The blood seemed livelier now, still vividly red, as though freshly spilt, thought it must have been a few hours old, at least. “We could be halfway.”
“Could be halfway?”
“Could be more than halfway.”
“But could be less.”
“That is intimated by ‘could’.”
“Glad we had that conversation. You are doing the shopping for at least a month for this, you realise.”
Sherlock smirked. “Only a month? You are not a hard man to win over, John.”
“And no experiments.”
“No promises.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
“It is vitally important to my work that I know how soon blood coagulates.”
“Clearly. I am not sure why you need to know how soon microwaved eyeballs explode, as there seems to be so few crimes involving eyeballs, thank God, so I am forced to conclude that some of the experiments you do are for fun.”
“Oh, so me having fun is unacceptable?”
“No, you ruining my fun with your fun is unacceptable.”
“What fun, precisely, have I ruined with my eyeballs?”
“Every Sunday morning since we moved in?”
“How are Sunday mornings fun?” Sherlock asked, shocked, appalled and disgusted. “Nothing whatsoever happens on Sunday mornings. Not even a crime of passion! It’s so hard to believe that there would be a time of day that makes a difference, that makes people forget their little misunderstandings and petty grievances, but there it is! A Sunday morning, when even thieves lay low. It is the prime spot in the week for complete and utter boredom!”
“Exactly.” John propped the spear against his shoulder and looked behind. “I probably shouldn’t have done that,” he said, turning back quickly.
Sherlock looked back, too. There was a flayed body nailed to a tree, still twitching, which was unpleasant, but this was John. “Why?”
“We are in Hell.”
“Yes?”
“Did the name Orpheus never cross your research?”
“No. Should it have?”
“I haven’t been shoved out yet, so presumably no.”
“How does that make sense?”
“Greek mythology, look it up.”
“I seem to have left my library in my other coat.”
“I can’t be expected to pick up after you, can I?”
“Can’t you?” Sherlock asked, cocking his head. John laughed.
“I’m going to end up as the crazy cat lady.”
“You’re not a woman, nor do you have an affinity for felines.”
“Crazy cat bachelor then.”
Sherlock let this one go. There was a small part of him that was wise to the workings of the average Joe and that part was yelling and screaming and waving its arms, telling him to ignore the statement, that he had not nearly enough data to unravel it. It was right, of course. These days it had a curiously John-like voice, probably because John had become Sherlock’s most reliable source of information as far as the human population was concerned.
*****
The landscape was changing as they pressed on. The mountain still loomed in the distance, an imposing mass that threatened to eclipse the sky if anyone looked at it too long. Sherlock had made it into a game: he’d walk backwards and stare and stare until his mind started building up the geometry of the plain into a maze, whose walls rose out of the ground to lock him in and bury him underneath the sands. He would whirl then and match his pace to John’s, who would look at him oddly, but continue.
Sherlock would then spend some time watching John, the single thing in this bizarre world that still made sense, that still responded to logic and behaved as Sherlock expected it to. It was a relief.
Then he would turn again and watch the mountain in its space-warping glory.
Every now and then he would take the compass out of his pocket and shake it. The little arrow embedded in the liquid would quiver, sometimes even swivelling around the perimeter of the dish, but soon enough it would return to point in the direction they travelled.
They were getting closer. It seemed John’s fears of an unlimited Hell were unfounded, after all. Every now and then Sherlock would pause, run several feet at a right angle to their chosen course and consult the compass -- the longer they walked the more precise was the direction shown by the compass.
“It cannot be far now,” he said. The difference was pronounced now; if there was any stock to be put by the spell, stock measured in the precise units of earth geography, their journey would soon be concluded.
“That is good news. How far?”
“It is difficult to be precise, but perhaps about a mile?”
“How is that not precise?”
“A mile is hardly a precise answer.”
“It’s precise enough.” John took a deep breath. “What happens when we find your contract?”
“We take it back and burn it, I thought I’d already explained.”
“We both know you haven’t thought this through. Sherlock, a demon holds your contract. How were you planning on getting it from her?”
“From it.”
“She seemed female.”
“I don’t think demons have gender.”
“I think mythology students would disagree. Quit changing the subject.”
“I’m not changing the subject.”
“You are. A demon. How were you planning to persuade it to give you back your soul, for no apparent reason?”
“I figured it might come down to killing it.”
John quieted. He did that sometimes when Sherlock said something perfectly innocent but from which John managed to infer some nefarious meaning. “How?”
“There’s a number of ways to kill a demon, including as you have recently demonstrated, stabbing it. Should that fail, I’ve secured a weapon that is reputed to have done the job in the past.”
“This weapon would be?”
“A bottle of so-called holy water.”
“You didn’t think to use that when that demon was trying to kill me?”
“You performed admirably on your own,” Sherlock said, a little louder than necessary. The bone-clenching terror that claimed his body as the memory returned needed to be silenced by any means necessary.
“I took it by surprise.”
“Nevertheless.”
“This time they will be prepared.”
“Perhaps.”
“No perhaps about it. All of Hell knows we’re here by now.” John looked towards the valley. Among the jagged rocks, whose edges emitted some kind of phosphorescence, there was the shape of a castle, shooting into the inky blackness of the sky. It wasn’t further than a mile off. This was their destination then. Interesting.
“That almost seems like a human structure, doesn’t it?”
“If by that you mean it doesn’t violate the laws of gravity like some other things around here, then yes, it does.”
“That’s not all.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. There was something offending about it, something he couldn’t quite explain but had learned to associate with the presence of demons. “There’s something almost familiar about it,” he said after a moment. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t pinpoint the source of the familiarity. He saw it, plain as day, saw it in the sloping roofs and the precise frames of the window; inside his head all the lines connected, forming a transparent structure that he could walk through, should he chose to, and examine the inside in detail. Perhaps if he had time he could discover what strange proportion had made this house so familiar, as he was equally certain he had never seen this particular building before.
John gave it a moment of consideration. “Strangely, I am not at all surprised. Shall we?”
“After you.” Sherlock bowed gallantly, though his spine was protesting. It was as though the picture of wrongness that his mind constructed out of the data was starting to affect the rest of him, as though -- and wasn’t that a preposterous notion -- his own body was trying to stop him from going. Sherlock often wondered why people wondered why he found his body useless.
John seemed to be experiencing similar problems. He walked slowly. His posture was becoming stiffer, something Sherlock had observed happening all through their journey so far. At this point he must have been so wound up every move was excruciatingly painful, yet he pressed on.
In fifteen minutes they were standing before the gates of the castle, alternating looks between them and each other. Neither wanted to touch them, partly out of fear, partly because the sense of wrongness was so pervasive, Sherlock was certain that if he touched anything with his naked palm the feeling would stick like hot wax and climb up his arm to engulf him whole into a burning cocoon.
“Shall we?” John asked.
“I don’t think I want to,” Sherlock said, surprising himself with sincerity. John offered him a tentative smile.
“Neither do I.”
The knock was loud like the ringing of church bells. It echoed across the valley and returned tenfold, nearly knocking them off their feet and blowing the door open. “What a nice welcome!”
“At least the door is open now,” Sherlock said.
Lighting hadn’t been a priority for whoever designed the castle. There were candles, but they reflected only portions of the wall, very specific portions designed so as to expose exactly one item each. Those were of tremendous interest -- a beating heart, on a shelf, frantic with effort to keep blood pumping through veins that were no longer there -- and Sherlock would gladly have spent a few hours examining each one, had John not been pulling his sleeve all the while. Really, his presence was most unfortunate at this time.
“I think I see light over there,” John said.
“There’s light everywhere, else we wouldn’t be able to see.”
“Shut up,” John said, from a few yards away. Sherlock straightened, alarmed.
“John!”
But he was already disappearing into the darkness, behind a brick wall, which appeared out of nowhere. Sherlock pounded on it, but there was no indication John was on the other side, no indication anyone was anywhere around.
“Close your eyes, think,” Sherlock told himself, trying to force his body to stop breathing and listen. Human beings were noisy creatures. They breathed, they cursed, they walked and rustled, their hearts and mouths and clothes made noise. John was there, John had to be there, the wall was flimsy, he should hear John through the wall, even if there was just a faint, shuffling noise, he would hear.
But there was nothing.
He started walking then, with one hand on the wall, walking first then running. It had to end somewhere, had to turn and reveal a door, a portal, anything, any hole he could walk through and find John on the other side. Where was it?
He lost track of the way, though of course that was impossible, he always knew, always remembered, always counted the steps. He was never lost, not once. He wasn’t lost when the swimming pool exploded around him, wasn’t lost when he saw the path through the debris, when he was barely standing, held in place by a miracle, but he was standing there nonetheless, and he was stable just enough for him and John to stagger to relative safety.
He was lost now, and John wasn’t there, and he was in Hell, where nothing made sense.
Just then the wall ended and Sherlock would have revelled in his triumph, ten minutes ago, had John been there to show off the find, but not now. At the far end of the room there was a bookcase and on it there was a scroll. He knew this was what he came here for, he couldn’t explain it -- was that how it felt to be slow and normal, knowing, as they sometimes did, obvious things and be unable to explain why? -- but that, right there, was his contract. He could burn it and he’d be out, free of the pesky deal.
He hesitated. He should find John, first. This world was unpredictable. There was no telling what would happen when he burned it. Having John beside him would be safer, certainly. On the other hand, if he found John, he would lose time, and he risked-- he couldn’t even think what. Something could happen. Things changed in Hell, changed before his very eyes.
Sherlock unrolled the parchment on which his blood still shone, just as red as that night at the crossroads. He wondered at the quality of the material, at how it was possible to maintain the qualities of blood for so long, when it should have darkened to a near black before he even walked away from the demon.
“You are early,” said a voice in the darkness. Sherlock jumped. There was no breath and no rustling to indicate human presence. “And you are szhtill alive… Izsh it to your liking?”
“Is what to my liking?” Sherlock asked. It was the same form that had visited him in their flat, the very same one he had dealt with all those years in the past, though shadows obscured half her face now.
“Thizsh castle. It wash made zshpecially for you.”
“Indeed? I am impressed.”
“It is cuzshtomary.”
“Customary? How so?”
“You made a deal, so your presence is somewhat… zschelebrated.”
“Why?”
“Not many people deal,” the demon said coming closer. “Not many people call on ussh anymore.”
“Your own fault for not advertising better. Where’s John?”
“Within the cazshtle.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Let go of the contract.”
“No.” Sherlock delved into his pockets, coming up with a lighter that had seen better days, when it had been regularly used for its intended purpose. He’d swiped it from the locker right under Lestrade’s nose; it had been a crucial piece of evidence in his first case as a quasi-official Scotland Yard consultant. The gas inside sloshed from side to side, but its flame was unwavering, brilliant in the stark darkness.
“You made a fair deal. You have no right to renegade on it.”
“I won’t be blackmailed,” Sherlock said curtly. “It was fair, perhaps, but then you tried blackmailing me, and that will not be tolerated.”
“Blackmail?” The demon laughed. The sound was odd, as though the air escaped her mouth in all the wrong places. She took another step forward and as the diffused light hit her face Sherlock could see why. Half her face was that of a beautiful woman, with high cheekbones and lush lips, but the other half, partly obscured by her dark hair, was naked bone, on which scraps of skin and muscle were still stretched. That she could talk and still be understood was a surprise, when half her mouth was a gaping maw of teeth and bone and sinew.
“It wazshn’t blackmail,” she said. “Merely another deal, a fair one, too.”
“I will investigate what I chose.” Sherlock tightened his fist around the parchment, feeling a sense of satisfaction as it crinkled in his grip. “No warnings will dissuade me.”
“Perhapshz.” The demon considered him. “You are not in your human world, though. The contract izsh rightfully mine, and I refuszhe to give it up.”
“I’m holding it.”
“Are you?” Sherlock started because the parchment was not in his hand anymore. Instead the demon was inspecting it as thought he’d never held it. “Thishzs Hell, mortal. The rulezsh you muzhst follow on Earth do not apply here.” Her grin grew vicious. “You may not be able to hold on to great many thingzsh in here.”
“Give John back,” Sherlock growled.
“Why would I keep him? He’zhs of no value to me.”
“Give him back.”
“No, I don’t think I will. I szhall keep thiszh, too.”
“I’m prepared to fight you for it,” Sherlock said, unscrewing the bottle of holy water under his coat.
“You’ll have to,” she started saying and Sherlock threw the water in her face. To his great disappointment, it had no effect. “Sszhtupid human cszhild,” she hissed, though Sherlock got the distinctive impression he was being laughed at. “I’m one of the Lilim -- your artefasctzhs and your wordzhs cannot harm me.”
That was problematic. “What would harm you?” Sherlock asked, discarding the bottle and edging towards the rack of swords. The demon tracked his progress with a hint of a smile on her face.
“A duel? How quaint. I szhuppose you would want to wager your preciouzhs zshoul? Eshxzcept I already own it. Why szhould I fight you?”
“You can have it right now, if I lose.”
“Oh really?” The demon’s eyes glistened, one of them blue, one of them a murky brown. “I am bound by the contract. I cannot harm you.”
“Void it. Burn it.”
“Why?”
“I will fight you,” Sherlock said, picking up a sword. “If I win, I leave with John, and the contract is void. If I lose, you can have my soul right now.”
The demon considered, first Sherlock, then the contract. “Why would I riszhk my prize, when itzsh only a matter of time before I have it?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. Her tongue moved across her exposed teeth.
“It’s your choice.”
“For one little zshoul, a duel?” she laughed. “Why not, perhapszh…”
“John will leave Hell unharmed,” Sherlock added, already raising the sword.
“Oh, he will. You have my word.”
The parchment shot up in flames in her hand as she walked to the rack and picked a sword. “May fortune favour the true,” she said in a mocking tone as their blades crossed. Sherlock gauged the weight of the sword in his hand, whirled it, and struck, but the demon was ready, parrying his blow with a shrug of the shoulder and a step to the side.
Sherlock was proficient at self-defence, but sword fighting was never one of his most favoured past times. He’d fenced briefly, in his youth, achieving a certain level of excellence (naturally) and a very curious case of a decapitated man lead him to try out the broadsword, to better understand the musculature and physics behind it.
Much as it pained him now -- judging by the acute stabbing sensation in his biceps, the real pain was yet to come -- he had neglected his training of late. In his defence, the statistical likeness of another antique white-weapon related crime in London was unlikely, and the likelihood of one which required more knowledge on the subject than he already possessed was even lower.
It was of no help whatsoever that the demon managed to not only maintain a regular breathing pattern, but also to stay perfectly balanced while wearing a pair of Prada summer of 2010 stiletto heels and a cocktail dress.
“If you yield,” she said all of sudden, “I will let you return to the mortal realm.”
“And then what?” Sherlock parried a blow and bit through his lip in an effort not to scream at the pain that caused.
“Then you die and return here. I am patzhient and the dealzsh are eternally binding.”
“That doesn’t seem like an option.”
“For you it is the bezsht opzhtion.”
“I beg to differ.”
She laughed at that, stopped in the middle of a swing and laughed. “How muczh of a zchshance do you think you have?”
Sherlock ducked, rolled, hit the wall and wheezed. He had little to no time to catch his breath as the demon’s sword hit the wall just above him, producing a show of sparks. Sherlock jumped to his feet and immediately had to duck again, again and again, until -- inevitably -- he slipped. Something in his elbow cracked painfully, sending a flare of pain up his arm, numbing his shoulder.
“That didn’t take very long.”
Sherlock watched with detached interest as the demon crossed the floor, raising the sword above her head. He tried crawling away, but his right arm wouldn’t co-operate at all. The vicious, numbing pain shooting up his arm indicated damage to the bone. Sherlock hated his body. So distracting at the most inappropriate times, running out of breath, developing cancer, requiring sustenance--
Oh, he thought as the tip of the sword hovered above his chest. Even if he was to stay in Hell for all eternity, but be free of the peskiness of life, wouldn’t it be worth it?
Sherlock found himself lifted by the neck and pinned to the wall. The demon’s hand was cutting off his air supply and his feet were barely touching the ground -- strange, she didn’t seem that tall -- and yet she showed no sign of fatigue. The tip of the sword -- ten pounds, judging by the quality of metal and the dimensions -- never wavered, though she held it parallel to the ground with one hand.
“I win, zScherlock Holmeszh. Your zshoul is mine.” The sword thrust forward and Sherlock gasped. He felt -- such a bizarre sensation -- the tip hit the wall he was pressed against with great force, burrowing into the rock as though it was no more of a barrier than human flesh.
He coughed. Blood welled in his mouth as it flooded the burst alveoli. The demon took a step back and Sherlock slid to the floor. His treacherous body was gasping for breath and John, the poor fool, not quite realising the depth of the damage was trying to staunch the flow of blood by pressing his hands against Sherlock’s chest -- a futile effort, as the stab may have missed the heart, but not the veins and arteries surrounding it.
John, Sherlock thought. How strange that his mind failed to process his reappearance.
“Sorry,” Sherlock managed, coughing up a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “I lost.”
“Yes, thank you, Sherlock. Where would I be without you there to point out the obvious.” John’s hands were running on automatic, balling up his jacket and pressing it against the wound, but his mind was running in circles, panicking like a little child does when left alone for ten minutes. Sherlock could see it, even now, in the lines of his face.
“Wasn’t… obvious to me.”
If the dark spots were any indication, this wouldn’t take long. This should be curious. Sherlock had never died before. A new experience on that front could reinvent his career, bring him data he’d never even dreamed of, because what other detective in the world had pursued the career with the intimate knowledge of death?
“You’ll get John home?” he asked in the demon’s direction, hating how weak he sounded.
“Why?” she asked, cruelly, and Sherlock didn’t even have the time to feel, before the castle and everything in it diffused into the darkness.
On to Chapter 6
Rating: 14
Genre: drama
Wordcount: 28k
Warnings: slight gore.
Summary: There is a solution to every problem, even if sometimes one needs to step outside the realms of logic, common sense, or even human domain. Sherlock knows this and acts accordingly, while John is left picking up the pieces.
Author's note: the story is finished, will be posted whole over the next couple of days.
Credits: Strongly influenced by Supernatural, oddly enough the Mentalist and Neil Gaiman's Lucifer (to the point of borrowing characters from the latter).
Betaed by
yami_tai. <3 Thank you so much, hun, for all the hard work!Darkness started falling upon Hell. The sky filled with ash-coloured clouds, which obstructed whatever source of light shone upon the place.
The demons avoided them, which was fortunate. It took Sherlock a long time to notice though, even when they reached a more densely populated area, as all he could see were shapes and movement in the shadows. John seemed to be fairing better, shoving them both into corners that seemed untouched by the light of any kind, when something ventured too close. Sherlock wondered at this ability, but eventually he, too, had come to associate the feeling of utter and completely wrongness with a demon’s presence.
-- there would be bright light firing up in his brain, muttering in his ear, forcing thoughts to the forefront of his brain, dark, wrong thoughts, of blood and murder and hands dipped in the flowing red and how wrong and right it would be and how people died and suffered all the while and nothing ever lasted, except for Hell, the endless darkness and pain and now it was time to go again and wallow in the glorious suffering --
The realisation that the thoughts were not his own shook him momentarily.
“How did you know?” he asked John after a couple miles (and even of that -- inconceivable! Simple math had failed -- he wasn’t sure).
“Know what, that trusting demons in Hell was a bad idea?” John asked, and from his tone Sherlock inferred this was a question he didn’t expect to be answered.
“How did you know it was a demon?”
“It was wrong,” John simply said. “How didn’t you? You can spot an engineer by his thumbs.”
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said after a while. “I-- It looked like a child to me.”
“That’s weird.”
“I think so, yes.”
“What does that mean?”
Sherlock considered. There was a tone in John’s voice that he’d (slowly) learned to recognise as humouring, as the voice of the skull as he’d termed it once. It was the voice John used when he wasn’t as impressed as he should be and was just talking to keep Sherlock talking, in the hopes of keeping him from insulting anyone.
Sherlock welcomed it now.
“I think I’ve got the hang of it now,” he said. “That one’s a demon.”
John looked to where Sherlock was pointing, at the half-elephant creature, with a toothed maw where its stomach should be. “Well-spotted, Sherlock, but that was obvious.”
“You know what I mean!”
“Not really, no.”
“I knew that was a demon just by it looking that way!”
“You know great many things just by looking at them and most of the time it is a lot more impressive. Forgive if I’m not clapping this one time.” John whirled the spear as though it were a baton. “I know what you mean though. I assume it just feels like something’s off, right?”
“It’s like looking at one of those infernal Escher drawings.”
“The what?”
“The stairs that lead nowhere.” Sherlock shuddered. It was a minor thing, but his mind rebelled at the very thought. He couldn’t help it, his eyes would trace the contours and his brain would produce schematics that didn’t make sense.
John gave him a strange look. “I think so,” he said cautiously.
“It’s slightly better when there’s none of them around.”
“Can’t argue with that.” They were passing a wall built from human beings, and Sherlock knew, theoretically, that these couldn’t be people, because people couldn’t survive being nailed to one another for as long as the rusty colour of the blood underneath would indicate and yet still live, let alone have breath to scream in anguish.
He looked away.
“How much further?” John asked when the distance was great enough that the cries were just murmurs.
Sherlock consulted his compass. “It’s very hard to give a precise reply.” The blood seemed livelier now, still vividly red, as though freshly spilt, thought it must have been a few hours old, at least. “We could be halfway.”
“Could be halfway?”
“Could be more than halfway.”
“But could be less.”
“That is intimated by ‘could’.”
“Glad we had that conversation. You are doing the shopping for at least a month for this, you realise.”
Sherlock smirked. “Only a month? You are not a hard man to win over, John.”
“And no experiments.”
“No promises.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
“It is vitally important to my work that I know how soon blood coagulates.”
“Clearly. I am not sure why you need to know how soon microwaved eyeballs explode, as there seems to be so few crimes involving eyeballs, thank God, so I am forced to conclude that some of the experiments you do are for fun.”
“Oh, so me having fun is unacceptable?”
“No, you ruining my fun with your fun is unacceptable.”
“What fun, precisely, have I ruined with my eyeballs?”
“Every Sunday morning since we moved in?”
“How are Sunday mornings fun?” Sherlock asked, shocked, appalled and disgusted. “Nothing whatsoever happens on Sunday mornings. Not even a crime of passion! It’s so hard to believe that there would be a time of day that makes a difference, that makes people forget their little misunderstandings and petty grievances, but there it is! A Sunday morning, when even thieves lay low. It is the prime spot in the week for complete and utter boredom!”
“Exactly.” John propped the spear against his shoulder and looked behind. “I probably shouldn’t have done that,” he said, turning back quickly.
Sherlock looked back, too. There was a flayed body nailed to a tree, still twitching, which was unpleasant, but this was John. “Why?”
“We are in Hell.”
“Yes?”
“Did the name Orpheus never cross your research?”
“No. Should it have?”
“I haven’t been shoved out yet, so presumably no.”
“How does that make sense?”
“Greek mythology, look it up.”
“I seem to have left my library in my other coat.”
“I can’t be expected to pick up after you, can I?”
“Can’t you?” Sherlock asked, cocking his head. John laughed.
“I’m going to end up as the crazy cat lady.”
“You’re not a woman, nor do you have an affinity for felines.”
“Crazy cat bachelor then.”
Sherlock let this one go. There was a small part of him that was wise to the workings of the average Joe and that part was yelling and screaming and waving its arms, telling him to ignore the statement, that he had not nearly enough data to unravel it. It was right, of course. These days it had a curiously John-like voice, probably because John had become Sherlock’s most reliable source of information as far as the human population was concerned.
*****
The landscape was changing as they pressed on. The mountain still loomed in the distance, an imposing mass that threatened to eclipse the sky if anyone looked at it too long. Sherlock had made it into a game: he’d walk backwards and stare and stare until his mind started building up the geometry of the plain into a maze, whose walls rose out of the ground to lock him in and bury him underneath the sands. He would whirl then and match his pace to John’s, who would look at him oddly, but continue.
Sherlock would then spend some time watching John, the single thing in this bizarre world that still made sense, that still responded to logic and behaved as Sherlock expected it to. It was a relief.
Then he would turn again and watch the mountain in its space-warping glory.
Every now and then he would take the compass out of his pocket and shake it. The little arrow embedded in the liquid would quiver, sometimes even swivelling around the perimeter of the dish, but soon enough it would return to point in the direction they travelled.
They were getting closer. It seemed John’s fears of an unlimited Hell were unfounded, after all. Every now and then Sherlock would pause, run several feet at a right angle to their chosen course and consult the compass -- the longer they walked the more precise was the direction shown by the compass.
“It cannot be far now,” he said. The difference was pronounced now; if there was any stock to be put by the spell, stock measured in the precise units of earth geography, their journey would soon be concluded.
“That is good news. How far?”
“It is difficult to be precise, but perhaps about a mile?”
“How is that not precise?”
“A mile is hardly a precise answer.”
“It’s precise enough.” John took a deep breath. “What happens when we find your contract?”
“We take it back and burn it, I thought I’d already explained.”
“We both know you haven’t thought this through. Sherlock, a demon holds your contract. How were you planning on getting it from her?”
“From it.”
“She seemed female.”
“I don’t think demons have gender.”
“I think mythology students would disagree. Quit changing the subject.”
“I’m not changing the subject.”
“You are. A demon. How were you planning to persuade it to give you back your soul, for no apparent reason?”
“I figured it might come down to killing it.”
John quieted. He did that sometimes when Sherlock said something perfectly innocent but from which John managed to infer some nefarious meaning. “How?”
“There’s a number of ways to kill a demon, including as you have recently demonstrated, stabbing it. Should that fail, I’ve secured a weapon that is reputed to have done the job in the past.”
“This weapon would be?”
“A bottle of so-called holy water.”
“You didn’t think to use that when that demon was trying to kill me?”
“You performed admirably on your own,” Sherlock said, a little louder than necessary. The bone-clenching terror that claimed his body as the memory returned needed to be silenced by any means necessary.
“I took it by surprise.”
“Nevertheless.”
“This time they will be prepared.”
“Perhaps.”
“No perhaps about it. All of Hell knows we’re here by now.” John looked towards the valley. Among the jagged rocks, whose edges emitted some kind of phosphorescence, there was the shape of a castle, shooting into the inky blackness of the sky. It wasn’t further than a mile off. This was their destination then. Interesting.
“That almost seems like a human structure, doesn’t it?”
“If by that you mean it doesn’t violate the laws of gravity like some other things around here, then yes, it does.”
“That’s not all.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. There was something offending about it, something he couldn’t quite explain but had learned to associate with the presence of demons. “There’s something almost familiar about it,” he said after a moment. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t pinpoint the source of the familiarity. He saw it, plain as day, saw it in the sloping roofs and the precise frames of the window; inside his head all the lines connected, forming a transparent structure that he could walk through, should he chose to, and examine the inside in detail. Perhaps if he had time he could discover what strange proportion had made this house so familiar, as he was equally certain he had never seen this particular building before.
John gave it a moment of consideration. “Strangely, I am not at all surprised. Shall we?”
“After you.” Sherlock bowed gallantly, though his spine was protesting. It was as though the picture of wrongness that his mind constructed out of the data was starting to affect the rest of him, as though -- and wasn’t that a preposterous notion -- his own body was trying to stop him from going. Sherlock often wondered why people wondered why he found his body useless.
John seemed to be experiencing similar problems. He walked slowly. His posture was becoming stiffer, something Sherlock had observed happening all through their journey so far. At this point he must have been so wound up every move was excruciatingly painful, yet he pressed on.
In fifteen minutes they were standing before the gates of the castle, alternating looks between them and each other. Neither wanted to touch them, partly out of fear, partly because the sense of wrongness was so pervasive, Sherlock was certain that if he touched anything with his naked palm the feeling would stick like hot wax and climb up his arm to engulf him whole into a burning cocoon.
“Shall we?” John asked.
“I don’t think I want to,” Sherlock said, surprising himself with sincerity. John offered him a tentative smile.
“Neither do I.”
The knock was loud like the ringing of church bells. It echoed across the valley and returned tenfold, nearly knocking them off their feet and blowing the door open. “What a nice welcome!”
“At least the door is open now,” Sherlock said.
Lighting hadn’t been a priority for whoever designed the castle. There were candles, but they reflected only portions of the wall, very specific portions designed so as to expose exactly one item each. Those were of tremendous interest -- a beating heart, on a shelf, frantic with effort to keep blood pumping through veins that were no longer there -- and Sherlock would gladly have spent a few hours examining each one, had John not been pulling his sleeve all the while. Really, his presence was most unfortunate at this time.
“I think I see light over there,” John said.
“There’s light everywhere, else we wouldn’t be able to see.”
“Shut up,” John said, from a few yards away. Sherlock straightened, alarmed.
“John!”
But he was already disappearing into the darkness, behind a brick wall, which appeared out of nowhere. Sherlock pounded on it, but there was no indication John was on the other side, no indication anyone was anywhere around.
“Close your eyes, think,” Sherlock told himself, trying to force his body to stop breathing and listen. Human beings were noisy creatures. They breathed, they cursed, they walked and rustled, their hearts and mouths and clothes made noise. John was there, John had to be there, the wall was flimsy, he should hear John through the wall, even if there was just a faint, shuffling noise, he would hear.
But there was nothing.
He started walking then, with one hand on the wall, walking first then running. It had to end somewhere, had to turn and reveal a door, a portal, anything, any hole he could walk through and find John on the other side. Where was it?
He lost track of the way, though of course that was impossible, he always knew, always remembered, always counted the steps. He was never lost, not once. He wasn’t lost when the swimming pool exploded around him, wasn’t lost when he saw the path through the debris, when he was barely standing, held in place by a miracle, but he was standing there nonetheless, and he was stable just enough for him and John to stagger to relative safety.
He was lost now, and John wasn’t there, and he was in Hell, where nothing made sense.
Just then the wall ended and Sherlock would have revelled in his triumph, ten minutes ago, had John been there to show off the find, but not now. At the far end of the room there was a bookcase and on it there was a scroll. He knew this was what he came here for, he couldn’t explain it -- was that how it felt to be slow and normal, knowing, as they sometimes did, obvious things and be unable to explain why? -- but that, right there, was his contract. He could burn it and he’d be out, free of the pesky deal.
He hesitated. He should find John, first. This world was unpredictable. There was no telling what would happen when he burned it. Having John beside him would be safer, certainly. On the other hand, if he found John, he would lose time, and he risked-- he couldn’t even think what. Something could happen. Things changed in Hell, changed before his very eyes.
Sherlock unrolled the parchment on which his blood still shone, just as red as that night at the crossroads. He wondered at the quality of the material, at how it was possible to maintain the qualities of blood for so long, when it should have darkened to a near black before he even walked away from the demon.
“You are early,” said a voice in the darkness. Sherlock jumped. There was no breath and no rustling to indicate human presence. “And you are szhtill alive… Izsh it to your liking?”
“Is what to my liking?” Sherlock asked. It was the same form that had visited him in their flat, the very same one he had dealt with all those years in the past, though shadows obscured half her face now.
“Thizsh castle. It wash made zshpecially for you.”
“Indeed? I am impressed.”
“It is cuzshtomary.”
“Customary? How so?”
“You made a deal, so your presence is somewhat… zschelebrated.”
“Why?”
“Not many people deal,” the demon said coming closer. “Not many people call on ussh anymore.”
“Your own fault for not advertising better. Where’s John?”
“Within the cazshtle.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Let go of the contract.”
“No.” Sherlock delved into his pockets, coming up with a lighter that had seen better days, when it had been regularly used for its intended purpose. He’d swiped it from the locker right under Lestrade’s nose; it had been a crucial piece of evidence in his first case as a quasi-official Scotland Yard consultant. The gas inside sloshed from side to side, but its flame was unwavering, brilliant in the stark darkness.
“You made a fair deal. You have no right to renegade on it.”
“I won’t be blackmailed,” Sherlock said curtly. “It was fair, perhaps, but then you tried blackmailing me, and that will not be tolerated.”
“Blackmail?” The demon laughed. The sound was odd, as though the air escaped her mouth in all the wrong places. She took another step forward and as the diffused light hit her face Sherlock could see why. Half her face was that of a beautiful woman, with high cheekbones and lush lips, but the other half, partly obscured by her dark hair, was naked bone, on which scraps of skin and muscle were still stretched. That she could talk and still be understood was a surprise, when half her mouth was a gaping maw of teeth and bone and sinew.
“It wazshn’t blackmail,” she said. “Merely another deal, a fair one, too.”
“I will investigate what I chose.” Sherlock tightened his fist around the parchment, feeling a sense of satisfaction as it crinkled in his grip. “No warnings will dissuade me.”
“Perhapshz.” The demon considered him. “You are not in your human world, though. The contract izsh rightfully mine, and I refuszhe to give it up.”
“I’m holding it.”
“Are you?” Sherlock started because the parchment was not in his hand anymore. Instead the demon was inspecting it as thought he’d never held it. “Thishzs Hell, mortal. The rulezsh you muzhst follow on Earth do not apply here.” Her grin grew vicious. “You may not be able to hold on to great many thingzsh in here.”
“Give John back,” Sherlock growled.
“Why would I keep him? He’zhs of no value to me.”
“Give him back.”
“No, I don’t think I will. I szhall keep thiszh, too.”
“I’m prepared to fight you for it,” Sherlock said, unscrewing the bottle of holy water under his coat.
“You’ll have to,” she started saying and Sherlock threw the water in her face. To his great disappointment, it had no effect. “Sszhtupid human cszhild,” she hissed, though Sherlock got the distinctive impression he was being laughed at. “I’m one of the Lilim -- your artefasctzhs and your wordzhs cannot harm me.”
That was problematic. “What would harm you?” Sherlock asked, discarding the bottle and edging towards the rack of swords. The demon tracked his progress with a hint of a smile on her face.
“A duel? How quaint. I szhuppose you would want to wager your preciouzhs zshoul? Eshxzcept I already own it. Why szhould I fight you?”
“You can have it right now, if I lose.”
“Oh really?” The demon’s eyes glistened, one of them blue, one of them a murky brown. “I am bound by the contract. I cannot harm you.”
“Void it. Burn it.”
“Why?”
“I will fight you,” Sherlock said, picking up a sword. “If I win, I leave with John, and the contract is void. If I lose, you can have my soul right now.”
The demon considered, first Sherlock, then the contract. “Why would I riszhk my prize, when itzsh only a matter of time before I have it?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. Her tongue moved across her exposed teeth.
“It’s your choice.”
“For one little zshoul, a duel?” she laughed. “Why not, perhapszh…”
“John will leave Hell unharmed,” Sherlock added, already raising the sword.
“Oh, he will. You have my word.”
The parchment shot up in flames in her hand as she walked to the rack and picked a sword. “May fortune favour the true,” she said in a mocking tone as their blades crossed. Sherlock gauged the weight of the sword in his hand, whirled it, and struck, but the demon was ready, parrying his blow with a shrug of the shoulder and a step to the side.
Sherlock was proficient at self-defence, but sword fighting was never one of his most favoured past times. He’d fenced briefly, in his youth, achieving a certain level of excellence (naturally) and a very curious case of a decapitated man lead him to try out the broadsword, to better understand the musculature and physics behind it.
Much as it pained him now -- judging by the acute stabbing sensation in his biceps, the real pain was yet to come -- he had neglected his training of late. In his defence, the statistical likeness of another antique white-weapon related crime in London was unlikely, and the likelihood of one which required more knowledge on the subject than he already possessed was even lower.
It was of no help whatsoever that the demon managed to not only maintain a regular breathing pattern, but also to stay perfectly balanced while wearing a pair of Prada summer of 2010 stiletto heels and a cocktail dress.
“If you yield,” she said all of sudden, “I will let you return to the mortal realm.”
“And then what?” Sherlock parried a blow and bit through his lip in an effort not to scream at the pain that caused.
“Then you die and return here. I am patzhient and the dealzsh are eternally binding.”
“That doesn’t seem like an option.”
“For you it is the bezsht opzhtion.”
“I beg to differ.”
She laughed at that, stopped in the middle of a swing and laughed. “How muczh of a zchshance do you think you have?”
Sherlock ducked, rolled, hit the wall and wheezed. He had little to no time to catch his breath as the demon’s sword hit the wall just above him, producing a show of sparks. Sherlock jumped to his feet and immediately had to duck again, again and again, until -- inevitably -- he slipped. Something in his elbow cracked painfully, sending a flare of pain up his arm, numbing his shoulder.
“That didn’t take very long.”
Sherlock watched with detached interest as the demon crossed the floor, raising the sword above her head. He tried crawling away, but his right arm wouldn’t co-operate at all. The vicious, numbing pain shooting up his arm indicated damage to the bone. Sherlock hated his body. So distracting at the most inappropriate times, running out of breath, developing cancer, requiring sustenance--
Oh, he thought as the tip of the sword hovered above his chest. Even if he was to stay in Hell for all eternity, but be free of the peskiness of life, wouldn’t it be worth it?
Sherlock found himself lifted by the neck and pinned to the wall. The demon’s hand was cutting off his air supply and his feet were barely touching the ground -- strange, she didn’t seem that tall -- and yet she showed no sign of fatigue. The tip of the sword -- ten pounds, judging by the quality of metal and the dimensions -- never wavered, though she held it parallel to the ground with one hand.
“I win, zScherlock Holmeszh. Your zshoul is mine.” The sword thrust forward and Sherlock gasped. He felt -- such a bizarre sensation -- the tip hit the wall he was pressed against with great force, burrowing into the rock as though it was no more of a barrier than human flesh.
He coughed. Blood welled in his mouth as it flooded the burst alveoli. The demon took a step back and Sherlock slid to the floor. His treacherous body was gasping for breath and John, the poor fool, not quite realising the depth of the damage was trying to staunch the flow of blood by pressing his hands against Sherlock’s chest -- a futile effort, as the stab may have missed the heart, but not the veins and arteries surrounding it.
John, Sherlock thought. How strange that his mind failed to process his reappearance.
“Sorry,” Sherlock managed, coughing up a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “I lost.”
“Yes, thank you, Sherlock. Where would I be without you there to point out the obvious.” John’s hands were running on automatic, balling up his jacket and pressing it against the wound, but his mind was running in circles, panicking like a little child does when left alone for ten minutes. Sherlock could see it, even now, in the lines of his face.
“Wasn’t… obvious to me.”
If the dark spots were any indication, this wouldn’t take long. This should be curious. Sherlock had never died before. A new experience on that front could reinvent his career, bring him data he’d never even dreamed of, because what other detective in the world had pursued the career with the intimate knowledge of death?
“You’ll get John home?” he asked in the demon’s direction, hating how weak he sounded.
“Why?” she asked, cruelly, and Sherlock didn’t even have the time to feel, before the castle and everything in it diffused into the darkness.
On to Chapter 6
