'Be careful what you wish for, Sherlock.' John had said to him once; cautious John, beautiful, guarded John. But that hasn't happened, not yet, and sometimes Sherlock wishes it has, because then he wouldn't have been on a deserted road in the middle of the night playing with things that should be better left alone.
He's on the library when he sees a very unusual book in one of the less used sections.
It's written in an early form of Latin, the binding is not very distinctive but what grabs Sherlock's attention, it's what is written on it.
If what the text says it's true, and that is a dubious thing to conclude, it's a ritual to summon a demon. He goes through the rest of the book but the leather is falling apart and the ink in other places is gone, he is able to read bits and pieces here and there but nothing complete; nothing but the ritual. Sherlock closes the book and puts it in the same spot he found it.
He will later try to go back to check the book, in those moments when the plan he doesn't like to think about begins to form, but the book is gone, and no amount of searching through sections, files or yelling at the personnel of the library gets him any closer to finding it ever again.
He's in his bed, the sheets sprawled on the floor, a wave of heat has just passed through London but Sherlock couldn't have known, he's been unconscious for two days judging by his dehydrated state. He stands up, his legs threatening to give out on him, his hands are shaking, he knows what he's feeling is more due to the withdrawal than actual dehydration but he considers more important to rehydrate himself first. Once he gets to the kitchen he can feel the foul smell coming from the room he was in, surprised by the fact he hadn't noticed before, but that is the life of an addict. He looks through the cabinets but the only thing he can find is a pack of cigarettes and rancid milk, so he conforms with water from the tap, he has no glasses of course so his hand will do. The moment he sees the water he realizes just how thirsty he is, lapping the water like a wild beast, he settles for putting his entire head below the stream, it's refreshing and it gets rid of some of the smell that its coming from him.
He sits on the floor, he has only one chair and there's where the good books are, he's not disturbing the books unless he has to. And there, sitting on the floor of his tiny kitchen, shaking and soaking in his own filth; Sherlock remembers the spell.
He thinks about it like he hasn't stopped to think about it since he found it, he thinks how easy it would be, how simple; he thinks of his next door neighbor who owns three black cats and how he only needs one; he thinks that yarrow can be found anywhere and he remembers that he has that picture he would probably save on his wallet -if he still had one- where he's posing with Mycroft and mother. But they don't matter anymore, no; they won't matter if what the book said is true. Because if it is…
Sherlock jumps to the shower and washes himself, his hair is too long and he doesn't have any soap but this will do for now. He already knows what's the first thing he has to do; the old lady with the cats would never mind, it will take weeks before she realizes one of the cats is gone, her son far away, a soldier who is never likely to come back.
The next day he procures a box, is one of those mint boxes, and the dirt he finds on the way to the crossroad.
He wants a deserted place so he won't be interrupted, and all the time as he walks to the spot, he can listen the litany of yes, yes, yes, so tired, yes, please, yes cries forming in his head, raging for something to do, something to think, his mind craving, aching for action, driving him mad when he closes his eyes.
The last thing he does is rip apart the photograph, taking especial care to rip it on the center of Mycroft face, yes, that would do. He takes the piece with his own face on it and puts it inside the box and seals it before throwing it into the hole and quickly covering it with dirt once again; tapping it once with his foot just to make sure it's done properly.
He takes a step back from the center of the road. There is dirt under his fingernails and his last fix is wearing off, it will be a matter of minutes before he starts to shake again, until he will be hurting for more.
He doesn't know exactly what to expect, and that more than anything is a little disconcerting.
"Hello, Sherlock." the voice comes from behind, female and young, he doesn't bother to look around.
"Have you ever felt so bored that you could jump in front of a bus if that meant something to do? Do you know what is like to sit still when all your body is on fire? When all you want to do is know more but there is nothing more to know? To ask? When you can tell what people will say even before the thought is formed in their own minds? Do you know how dull is to exist in this world?"
"And what is it that you want me to do about it."
"To end it."
"What? Your life? But I'm required to give you ten whole years, you could surely find that bus if you're so desperate—"
"You know, I thought the devil would be far quicker."
"I'm not the Devil."
"So it seems." Sherlock says as he turns around, finally facing the demon, her frame is small, with a sleek black dress hugging her figure, she would seem ordinary if it wasnt for the red that fills her eyes.
The petite brunette crosses her arms "Fine, but I'm gonna need for you to be more specific than that"
He considers it for a while, "It has to be something I can't figure out, something that it will keep me working, constantly, no room for breathing; I don't care, as long as I have to pay attention to it, as long as it won't –bore me."
"I think I have just the devil for you, Sherlock."
"Then let's seal the deal."
"Don't you want to know what it is—"
"Oh please! There is no fun in knowing that easily. I will find out soon enough anyways." he adjusts his collar and takes a step forward "I am ready."
The crossroad demon smiles, and seals the deal.
Sherlock will still go to his home with the verge of an overdose threatening on his veins, it will be two weeks until his brother will phone him, making excuses Sherlock knows are false, and tell him about a case he might like to get his hands on about a missing boy. Two months later he will stop using drugs and take on cigarettes because he will need to stay focused to conduct his experiments, experiments that will later prove to be of use when finding a case the police is too obtuse to solve.
Its April Fools' the day he meets him and his sharp words, with his hands in his pockets walking slowly by the edge of the pool.
John says normal people don't have archenemies, but Sherlock knows better than to assume his life could be normal, after all, Sherlock knows what normal entails: a dull life. And he have made sure that wasn't his life a long time ago. He doesn't need to see his black ink eyes to know his time has run out.