hello, lovlies! brief summary that you didn't ask for:
Title: A Study in Sulfur
Chapters: 10 (more or less)
Description: Some odd murders in London have taken place, and the world's only consulting detective isn't "in the mood for the case." So it takes two hunters, one angel, and an army doctor to get the job done. Meanwhile, the flat smells a bit like...sulfur...
Pairings: Johnlock (John/Sherlock) Destiel (Dean/Castiel) maybe some Sabriel (Sam/Gabriel) but maybe not
Rating: T for language and a little bit of violence
enjoy
Chapter 1: Random, Suspicious, Pattern
"Sherlock, come look at this!"
"Busy," Sherlock grumbled from his position on the couch. He was lying on his back with his fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes were closed, and he hardly moved a muscle.
John sighed. "What could you possibly be doing?"
"Mind palace..." His lips barely moved. This annoyed John greatly.
"Well save that for another time becasue I think I found a case."
"I'm sure your reading capabilities are fine. Read it out loud to me." Sherlock said, refusing to move.
John rolled his eyes and looked back to the laptop screen. "The article says, "Man found brutally murdered in his home. The victim's heart and skin missing, baffling coroners and forensic scientists. The victim's identity has-"
"Boring."
"Boring?"
"Yes, John, boring. Did you not hear me the first time?"
John looked at Sherlock, appalled. "Sherlock, this is the most interesting case I cou-"
"Well find another one because this one is boring. And don't interrupt my time in my mind palace until you find something remotely interesting, if you are capable." Despite his angry tone, Sherlock still hadn't moved.
John sighed and shook his head. "Fine," he said. "Anything for the fantastic Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh, and a tea would be nice too."
"Bugger off."
Sherlock smirked devilishly.
Sherlock didn't think that a case was interesesting enough? Random.
Sherlock had gone out. To where, John didn't know. He was glad to have theconsulting detective out of the flat for a while, anyway. John liked some time to himself once in a while.
John was, and would always be, angry at Sherlock for faking his death. He had come back from "the grave" only a few months ago. He understood that it was necessary to destroy Moriarty's web, but still. Moriarty was dead. Sherlock said that he had made sure of that before he jumped. He had literally jumped out of a cake that Mycroft brought to Baker Street one day. John didn't know why, but that annoyed the living fuck out of him. But that wasn't the only reason that John was angry at Sherlock.
Sherlock had been acting very childish lately. He didn't want to investigate any cases. He didn't want to eat. He didn't want to sleep. He hardly moved from his position on the sofa. Whenever he talked, he was even more bitter than usual. Not only that, but when he did decide to do something, he wouldn't tell John about it. He would simply put on his coat and scarf and stride out the door. Sometimes he didn't come back for hours. And when he did come back to the flat, he never had anything useful like food or the news of a case with him, oh no. When he came back, he not only brought home a terrible attitude, but also a horrible smell.
The smell was like a comination of rotten eggs, metal, and smoke. It was almost like sulfur. There was also a scent of iron on him, like blood. That in itself was odd enough; where would Sherlock go that smelled so much of sulfur and blood that it rubbed off on him? But that wasn't the worst of it.
The smoky smell was undoubtedly from cigarettes. Sherlock had promised john that he would try to stop now that he was back in London, but apparently he had lied. John had caught him in the act once. He stood outside the flat, breathing the stuff out. John hadn't seen him holding a cigarette, but that didn't seem important. It was the smoke that intrigued him.
But the smoke was not normal. The air around him was not whisps of grey vapor that one would expect, but a huge, billowing cloud of black. He stood outside, breathing it out. But then, a moment later, he gasped it in again at a speed that looked like it caused Sherlock physical damage. The stream of smoke exited and entered Sherlock's mouth in proportions that were...unnatural.
Very unnatural. If John didn't know any better...he might say...supernatural.
"Sherlock," John called to the peaceful figure on the sofa. "It's happened again."
"What now?" He whined, childishly.
"Another body has been found. Completely skinned with the heart missing. Identical to the one I told you about a yesterday."
"Oh, not that again," Sherlock grumbled.
"Yes, Sherlock, again. It must be the same person...or orginization. What do you think?"
"I think that it is boring."
"Oh come off it Sherlock! This is the first legitimately interesting case we've found in days!"
"You've," Sherlock corrected.
"I've what?"
"The first "legitimately insteresting" case you've found in days. I'm not getting involved in it."
John couldn't believe him. "Sherlock, there are people dying!"
"That's what people DO!"
John froze. He flashed back to the pool. The bomb. The little red lights. The man behind it all. Moriarty had been dead for a little over two years now. But the man still occasionally haunted John's dreams.
John shook Moriarty from his head and looked back to his laptop. He started a search for a new case.
Sherlock smirked devilishly.
Sherlock didn't think that two identical cases were interesting enough? Suspicious.
John had never really believed in a god. When he was younger he prayed like a good little boy, he went to church with his family. But he never believed any of it. It just didn't click in his mind. Nobody in his family knew, though. He never really found reason to tell them. They were incredibly religious, and he didn't want to get on his father's bad side.
Same reason he never really found it necessary to tell them that he liked both women and men. His parents believed in "homosexuals are possessed by demons" and "all gays are going to hell" and all that shit. He had once heard his mother say that "those bothsexuals are the worst because they could just choose what is right and save themselves from damnation." First off, the fucking word is bisexuals, you fucking breadcrumb. That was half the reason John got out of that house at his first chance. He just couldn't fucking stand it. He didn't want his sexuality to be something else his parents used against him.
Sure, he had had plenty of girlfriends. But none of them stayed for long. They all found something wrong with him within a week or two. Sometimes it was the limp or sometimes his slightly introverted nature or, his personal favorite, his "freaky collection of jumpers." But the leading cause in loss of girlfriends was his "psyco flatmate."
Sherlock Holmes. It was almost as if Sherlock was purposefuly scaring off the women so...nevermind...John was just...erm...hopeful. John found it funny that the main reason that his girlfriends left was the one person that John truly loved. Under Sherlock's bitter and snarky nature was someone who was brave, smart, even kind once in a (undoubtedly long and difficult to reach) while. But Sherlock had declared more than once that he was "married to his work."
Bastard. At least John tried.
"There's been a third one," John told him the next day.
"Third what?" Sherlock was (yet again) lying in his signature position on the sofa.
"Third identical muder. Victim skinned, heart missing? Ringing any bells in that mind palace of yours?"
"For your information, my mind palce does not have any bells in it to be ringing."
"You. are. impossible," John sighed into his hands. Sometimes he didn't know why he even stayed here. (Sherlock. Sherlock was the reason he stayed here.)
"Yes. I remember the murders...of course. They were boring."
John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed again.
Sherlock smirked devilishly.
Sherlock didn't think that three identical cases were interesting? Pattern.
There was something wrong with Sherlock. John was sure of it. But John didn't know what was off about the sociopath, which was what really bothered him.
Sherlock was out again, doing who knows what. John sat by his bedroom window, looking at the moon. It was a full moon. He rested his head against the glass.
"Nobody can hear me." He whispered. He looked around the room. "Ah, fuck it. Maybe Mycroft can. There's something off about Sherlock. Something I can't explain...but maybe you can. I don't know. I just need help."
His breath fogged up the glass as he spoke. It looked so pretty with the light of the moon behind it. John sighed. "I just need help," he whispered again.
John didn't know, but a certain trenchcoated angel had heard him.
And Castiel knew just how to help.
A/N: yes four for me for parallel structure *high fives myself*i am so alone*
Soooo whaddaya think? I'll introduce the Supernatural characters in the second chapter. If there is a second chapter. Which there won't be if nobody reviews, favorites, and/or follows. Yes this is blackmail. Check mate. :)