Oh hey guise. Do you remember me? No, I expected you wouldn't. xD It's nice to see the Sherlock Fanfiction Fandom again, and here with my new multi-chapter Sherlock fic. I promise I'll keep up with this one, and not leave you hanging, as I cruelly did with me last one! After all, Sherlock is just an irresistable fandom to be unable to write about, isn't it?
My muse - Winged!John Watson - is shouting at me to continue on with the story, so this I shall do! Thank you for taking your time to read, and I hope you enjoy!
SUMMARY: AU - James Moriarty is the mortal form of Death. Sherlock Holmes is his Grim Reaper. However, when he sends Sherlock to reap the soul of one John Watson, the Reaper rebels against his master. Now Moriarty is hellbent on killing both he and John...
When God is gone, and the Devil takes hold, who will have mercy on your soul? / No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold, nothing can satisfy me but your soul.
00. Cafe on Baker Street
It was a small cafe on Baker Street, in London, with no sort of special importance in the world. People came there for their lunch break, claimed the food was okay, but it was something good in a pinch. Nothing monumental had happened their, no sort of crisis that would have made it something important. No, it was just a small cafe on the corner of a busy street, buzzing with life and taxis. The outside world looked down on the small cafe and laughed at how miniscule it seemed, so minor.
Then, one day, that changed.
On the outside, if anyone were looking in - or if anyone were looking at table forty-six for that matter - they would have seen a well-shaven man in a suit sitting and gingerly sipping tea alone. They would have seen a man with chaotic dark hair walk in the shop, flinch at the sound of the bell in the door framing ringing to say a new customer had entered, and then sit down in the chair opposite of the man in the suit. It would have looked normal, something that happened every day in the cafe. They could have been old friends out to lunch, buisness partners, or even boyfriends for Heaven's sake. They could have been anything but what they were, for no one was creative or clever enough to think of that.
In all reality, this is what occured: Death sat at a table, happily drinking tea. The Grim Reaper walked through the door, flinching at the bell because that was what rung in his head whenever his Master summoned him. He sat down at the table, watching how different the Mortal body of Death reguarded him in such a mundane setting. He sat stock-straight, steepling his hands in front of him and against his nose, as he sometimes did when he thought.
Around him, all of the mortals had no idea if they maybe spilled a drink on Death, they would die. If they knocked some powder in the Grim Reaper's hair, they would die. If the waitress got their order wrong, she would die.
The Grim Reaper relaxed a bit when Death reached for his cup of tea and took a small sip. Death had no intentions of hurting his Reaper here. He would hurt his Reaper, sometimes because he had done something wrong, or his disobeyed his Master. Most of the time it was just for fun; he was a cruel being, the most evil thing in all of history and reality itself, and he expressed it. "Are you going to order again?" asked Death cooly, his eyebrows lifting slightly.
The Grim Reaper had worked alongside Death long enough to know what his answer would be. "You shall drink enough for the both of us, Master."
"Shh," Death whispered, placing a hand on his Reaper's knee underneath the table before he could finish the word. Master. What Death had demanded his Reaper call him long ago, so long ago. The Grim Reaper froze, his eyes widening, as the pain started there. It felt as though his knee had been frozen in ice, and someone had rammed an ice pick in it to get it out. "Not here, dear."
His Reaper made a strangled sound.
Death smiled, displaying his perfect row of pearly white teeth. "That's better," he practically cooed, taking his hand away, and allowing the pain to gently disappate. Not all together, however, but slowly. He liked to torture his Reaper, allow him to know who was his Master. "Now, do you know why I called you here today?"
The Grim Reaper cleared his throat, thanking, well, the immortal in front of him that the pain had stopped. "I'm afraid I do not," he said in the low baritone of his mortal voice, one that the Grim Reaper was not yet used to. It was only rare times when Death and his Reaper came to the mortal world, and even though each time they wore the same mortal as they had the last visit, the Reaper would never acclimated to being mortal. "Would you please enlighten me, Ma- Mr. Moriarty?"
Death grinned widely at the use of his mortal name. James Moriarty. The name in which struck fear into mortals everywhere. Even those who hadn't heard of him, who had never heard the name before, when they heard the name "James Moriarty" uttered to them, they involuntarily shivered. The mortal name of Death. "I have a job for you to do," he said, taking another ginger sip of his tea. He looked so bloody normal it was driving the Grim Reaper insane. "And it won't be like your regular job. I've decided to give you a bit of a challenge," he paused, to glance his Reaper. To see the excitement in his broad features. "I know how you like challenges."
The Grim Reaper said nothing. It wasn't his place to. He simply awaited orders.
Still grinned, his Master opened his Westwood coat just a bit and dug his hand in, pulled out a small photograph. He placed it softly on the table, and the Reaper craned his neck to see it. "His name is Dr. John Watson," explained Death gently. "Bit of a boring fellow; served in the army. Medic," he paused, for effect. "I want you to kill him."
A chase. A puzzle, a challenge. The Grim Reaper was practically giddy with excitement. "Of course."
Chuckling, Death pushed the photograph towards his Reaper, whom took it and tucked it inside his coat pocket. "He lives in the appartment above this, in two hundred and twenty one B, Baker Street. Quaint place; a bit too mundane for my taste. But then again, that is rather the point. The entireity of the mortal world is a bit too mundane for my taste."
The Grim Reaper said nothing.
"Of course, you're waiting for the puzzle," Death continued, almost conversationally. "I didn't come to tell you this in your mortal form for nothing. I want to you to go to him, as a mortal. Perhaps join him for tea, get to know him a little. And then find a way to kill him and make it look like his landlady did it."
The Grim Reaper's eyebrow quirked. "Landlady...?"
Not entirely oblivious that his Reaper could have deduced who the landlady was in an instant - and knowing that the playing stupid act was simply to enforce that Death was his master, and save him beatings later - the said Westwood-clad immortal dug another photograph from his pocket and laid it on the table. "Mrs. Hudson, or that's what everyone knows her by. Poor old lady. Her husband was placed on a murder charge and found guilty - he went after her, but she evaded him. Just barely. The poor woman only has Dr. Watson to keep her sane now. Though, I suppose, she won't after you're through with her." Death grinned.
Once again, his Reaper was silence. He only tucked the photograph into his coat pocket.
"You know the rules of the game," Death told him, baring his teeth like a wild animal. "Don't let anyone see you. Don't leave anyone alive. And don't," he paused for the effect again - Death, after all, could be very dramatic when he wished to be - and finally said, "get attached."
"Not a problem," his Reaper answered solidly.
Death smiled. Cruelly, as he always did. "If you leave a mess, clean it up," he said as a passing remark, standing. "Have fun."
And suddenly, he was gone. No one said anything. No one wondered where he'd went; Death simply vanished, and no one in the cafe noticed.
The Grim Reaper, seeing the cold tea on the table, walked over to it, simply to knock it off the table and watch the pieces shatter on the ground. Only when he looked down onto the saucer, Death had left him a message in blood. It said his name. His mortal name.
The Grim Reaper smeared the blood onto his finger, raised the digit to his mouth, and promptly licked it clean. The salty taste in his mouth lingered long after the cup shattered and he had gone.
Sherlock Holmes.
What do you think? Chapter one will be along soon. I hope you liked, although some of the characters might be a little OOC (Moriarty and Sherlock) in order to fit their new roles.
Remember, reviews are love!
-OS xx