He'd gotten a tip from and old friend. Detective Inspector Lestrade knew about his line of work, and had sworn to call him up if there was anything suspicious going on. And by suspicious, he means supernatural. Demons, ghosts, monsters, and anything else, was hunted by none other than John Watson. Usually it's just the normal spirit wreaking havoc; an easy fix, just salt and burn the remains, but this time…
This time Lestrade's voice sounded unnaturally nervous. It must be something big this time then.
That was two days ago; the call. And right now John was walking into Scotland Yard to find Lestrade. The detective inspector was in his office, his knee bouncing uncontrollably. He was anxious, that much for sure.
Now Lestrade wasn't young; he'd seen his fill of trouble for one lifetime. Being around mid-forties, gray hair, and everything else that came with aging. He'd learned all sorts of things in his time on the force, but this, this was new to him. The older man saw the younger; younger by only a few years give or take; man through the door.
John wasn't a unique man. Dusty blond hair, dark blue eyes, short but muscular stature. He had an old scar on his shoulder from a gruesome spirit from when he first began hunting, but normally he doesn't bring that up in everyday conversation.
He limped into the office and sat in one of the chairs across from Lestrade. He sighed in relief as the weight was lifted off of his leg. "How are you?" The detective-inspector asked lightly. "Long time no see."
"I'm fine, apart from my leg. The last job took a toll. Stupid daevas…" John muttered, then cleared his throat. "You called me in for a job?"
Lestrade nodded, pulling out a manila folder from the right drawer. "Yeah. And I have to tell ya, I've never seen anything like this before." He mentioned, handing over the file.
John flipped it open. It was a series of deaths. Within a week of each other. There were 3, well-known people that died. Alice Collins, a renowned singer who debuted about 10 years ago, with London being her hometown; Kat McCraney, a genius, who taught astrophysics at the nearby university, who also became known about 10 years ago; and Derick Irwin, a talented artist, who's first masterpiece was also 10 years ago. "I've seen things like this before. It's a crossroads demon. Find the right intersection, perform a summoning ritual, and you've got a demon to make a deal with you before it will send out it's hellhounds that sniff you out. Can you find me an intersection with yarrow around the edges? Most likely in a hundred-mile radius. I'll need to get some supplies first. I could have this thing gone as soon as tonight I guess." John said, standing up and heading to the door. "Call me when you have the road. I'll be around." And with that, he left Scotland Yard.
Only about an hour passed until John's phone rang; a text from Lestrade. Only one intersection then. Good. John smiled, and climbed into his car, then drove off.
This crossroad was at the edge of the city; almost countryside. There was only an abandoned bar at the side of the road; the only building in sight. Night had fallen by the time that John arrived. He stepped onto the practically gravel road, slamming the car door shut behind him. A knife was strapped to his hips, while a gun holster; with the Colt inside; was held tight to his right leg. John pulled a shovel from the trunk and set to work in the center of the road. The gravel was loose; a sure sign of a ritual.
After he was finished digging, John knelt down. Opening the box, he placed inside his picture. Then went to bury the box once more. He stiffened his grip on the shovel's handle as he waited. A moment later, he noticed a presence behind him. John wasn't one for taking chances, and the shovel in his hand swung around at full force, connecting with the head of whatever was standing behind him. The body fell to the ground with a dull thump. John couldn't see the face of it very well; it was dark out; but it was a demon. How else could it have sneaked up on him, an ex-military doctor, and not have been heard?
Anyways, John let the shovel fall to the ground, and picked up the demon. It was surprisingly light for its height; that's not the main problem at this point however. He needed somewhere to put this one. His gaze traveled to the abandoned bar. Perfect.
Not ten minutes later, the demon was tied up to a chair with a demon trap on the floor below. John had pulled up another chair, and spent the spare time sharpening his knife.
He had to admit, the thing had picked out a nice meatsuit. Dark brown curls licked his face. With high cheekbones and bowed lips, they accented the pale skin. When it was sleeping it looked like a dead man; the meatsuit probably was dead too. A low grumble echoed through the room, and John tensed; ready to strike. The demon stirred, its eyes blinked open, pitch black at first; after a moment the black seeped back into the iris and left behind a light grey. The demon struggled against the ropes for a moment, and realized where it was. It spotted John just outside the circle, and the eyes flashed black again just for a moment. "Hello." It said in a baritone voice that echoed softly. "I'm assuming you're here to kill me is that it? I must say that that circle there is quite a powerful one. More to the point, there's been a series of murders that all seemed to be done by a stupid demon. 3 dead. I should mention that I am not a crossroads demon. So I'm afraid you've caught the wrong one."
"You're still just a demon." John retorted quickly.
"You're still just a hunter that caught the wrong demon. In all honesty I'm not evil."
"Say's who?"
"Says me. Do you see me trying to make any deals to escape?"
John paused, with a grimace on his face. "That matters how?"
"I could help. That demon your looking for is actually my brother. He makes deals without care for anything, and doesn't cover up his tracks after he's done. He's an idiot really."
"Your brother?"
"Are you always so obvious? It's a wonder how Mycroft can stand you humans. Mycroft is my idiot of a brother. I'm Sherlock."
"You're trying to kill your own brother?" John spun his knife between his fingers as he spoke.
Sherlock chuckled, bunching his hands into fists and pulled at the ropes. "It's not my idea, but I would kill him anyway." He said as if was an everyday conversation.
John hesitated answering; he looked at his feet. "If I release you…will you not go AWOL?"
"It's a deal." Sherlock said, smirking while his eyes flashed black again. John tensed his shoulder muscles and gripped the knife until his knuckles were white. "Relax. I'm kidding.
The hunter huffed, still not fully trusting this thing; Sherlock or whatever its name was. He got grudgingly to his feet and stepped into the circle, using the knife to cut the ropes holding the demon down. Then drew his foot across the edge of the paint on the floor, permanently breaking the circle. "Ah, that's much better, thank you." Sherlock mentioned. "Now, onto busine-"
He had turned to find that the hunter had disappeared without a trace. The man was surely skilled to avoid detection from a demon. This intrigued him, and he made a note to himself to find this hunter again.
