Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Any side effect you may develop from reading this story, such as nausea, vomiting, weakness of eyes or limbs, and/or the irrational need to summon the Devil has nothing to do with me and I cannot be held liable for any of the above.
The bitter scent of herbs filled the room, mingling with a cloud of smoke. Sherlock sneezed. He was likely allergic to something in one of the mixtures. His pale gaze darted cross the room and he gave a breathless smile. Everything was ready: it was time to call the Devil.
He began chanting, careful to pronounce every word correctly. The book had been very specific. Just one incorrectly spoken word and no demon would appear. His face tightened as he held back another sneeze. He had no idea whether of not one would interfere with the summoning but he didn't want to take the chance.
"Aw, no need to sneeze on my account. I really don't mind." A short man strolled through the tiny university dorm toward Sherlock. His hands thrust deep in the pockets of a well tailored gray suit, he gave Sherlock a wide smile. "Hi."
Sherlock paused, a little surprised – was the Devil supposed to act like this? – before his reasoning kicked in and he scanned the man. "Hello." Getting right to the point, he added, "I'd like to make a bargain."
The Devil yawned. Pulling a toothpick out of his pocket, he began cleaning under his nails. "Yeah, okay. Whadda ya want?" His black eyes flickered off of the fingernails and fastened on Sherlock.
Sherlock felt a sudden wave of excitement. Finally the biggest problem of his life would be solved. "I'm never able to get a cab when I want one. I want to always get a cab, right when I call for one."
The Devil raised a perfectly formed eyebrow. For this he had been summoned? The mortals grew odder and odder. "I want your soul."
"Very well," Sherlock agreed. He had expected as much. A soul was not a very high price. He had no use for his.
A wolfish smile appeared of the Devil's lips. "Have fun with your cabs." He vanished, only his voice lingering, last words echoing through the candle-lit room.
"You owe me a fall, Sherlock, and I shall not neglect to collect.
xxx
xxx
"What, you again?" The Devil was exasperated. He had just had to reprimand a minor demon (who insisted on calling himself A. J. Crowley) for preventing the apocalypse, and now he had to deal with a human. "I don't break my bargains," he continued, plopping himself down in an armchair. "Your umbrella is still perfectly safe."
"I want something else," Mycroft responded evenly. "I want you to keep my brother safe."
The Devil blinked lazily, tail twitching. He was wearing the guise most commonly associated with his office – that of a red skinned figure with horns and a tail. "Well, well, well," he drawled. "The Iceman shows emotion. This is certainly a touching display of affection."
Mycroft's gaze remained icy, proving that he deserved the nickname. "Will you consider the deal?"
The Devil shrugged and smiled. "Yeah, sure." He paused, tapping his chin, and his voice became serious. "You've heard of Charles Augustus Magnussen." At Mycroft's nod he continued. "He'll be . . . causing some trouble soon. You will stand by and not affect the situation at all."
There was a slight hesitation before Mycroft agreed. "Very well."
The Devil grinned. It was an ugly sight. "Just sign here." He loved paperwork. It was one of his better inventions. Moments later he was striding out the door, folding a for into his pocket.
xxx
xxx
The room glowed with bright reds, purples, and greens as colored lights raced over a spinning disco ball. The walls trembled; close examination showed that the vibrations were caused by a large speaker booming out the song 'Stayin' Alive'. The air positively crackled.
The Devil blinked. The affect was not one he was used to. As his eyes adjusted to the awkward lighting, he noticed a few figures lying stiffly on the floor. Having seen multiple corpses before (he was the Devil, after all), he ignored them and continued drinking in his surroundings. "You've redecorated," he commented dryly.
"Redecorated?" A sleek man stepped forward, waving an arm. "Why would I redecorate? Sebastian did it. He's so much better at this kind of stuff than me." He frowned and put a finger to his chin, brow scrunching. "Dear me, I seem to have admitted to a weakness. I guess that makes two."
"Jim Moriarty." The name dripped slowly, like that last raindrop that refuses to fall off of its perch no matter how much you pray, threaten, or cajole, and irritated the hell out of you. "To what do I owe this pleasure? I do own your soul already, you know."
Moriarty sank into his favorite armchair, the one his grandmother had left him in her will. She had noticed his coveting looks and written it over to him. When he had found out, some poison in her tea had worked stupendously. "You only own a piece. I have other horcruxes."
The Devil stared at him for a few long moments before shaking his head in annoyance. Al these dratted universes were getting mixed up. "Alright. What do you want?"
Moriarty stretched luxuriously, a yawn lingering on his lips. "Isn't it obvious? Entertainment, of course."
The Devil considered only for a few seconds. "I'll do it, but not for a shard of your soul. You've heard of Sherlock Holmes, correct? He's a consulting detective. He owes me a fall. You shall collect the debt."
xxx
xxx
Molly tucked a light brown strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes nervously tracking the Devil. "So . . ." she continued hesitantly. "Will you do it?"
"I'm not Eros, child," the Devil spat, clasping his hands together and lowering his chin onto them. He wore the form of a Victorian era gentleman, complete with a knob topped walking stick and a waistcoat.
"Please," begged Molly. "I'm willing to swear over anything. All I want is Sherlock's love." Her eyes, wide like a puppy's, pleaded with him, and he felt himself growing disgusted.
The Devil considered. He could always use more souls and this one was relatively clean – taking it would be a minor victory over God. Still, he was annoyed. She could have summoned some love god. He was a busy man . . . creature . . . being. "Very well," he finally concluded, and reached toward the fae's chest.
Molly let out a high squeak and backed away. The gentleman's finely arched brows drew together in a scowl and he again pushed his pale hand toward her heart. This time it emerged with a shimmering ball of energy – her soul – which he tucked into a pocket. "Pleasure doing business with you."