Author's Note: So… I never expected to write a Sherlock fanfiction, or a Supernatural fanfiction, or a Doctor Who fanfiction. And now I might be writing my first attempt all at once. I'm not quite sure I'm qualified enough to write Sherlock's thought processes, but I'm going to try as hard as I can to make it accurate. At this point in time, the story is a Sherlock and Supernatural crossover, I'm not sure if I will incorporate Doctor Who or not, but I'm not going to take it off of the table either. I'm probably not the only one to think of an idea similar to this, having Sherlock encounter a crossroads demon, but I'm hoping this take on it will be different than what has been done before.

The story is supposed to take place (for Sherlock) around the episode "The Hounds of Baskerville" because I will be writing scenes that mirror the ones in the episode. As for where it will take place in the Supernatural time line, it will be either season 5 or season 6; I'm still trying to decide where I want to pin-point their timeline.

So I hope you enjoy it, reviews are most welcome but be kind, as I said this is my first attempt for either series.

Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock or the American show Supernatural, or any of its characters therein.

Something Worse

Chapter One

Deep calm breaths.

Breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out.

Deep calm breaths.

Regulate heartbeat, redirect adrenaline from panic to brain stimulus.

Deep.

Calm.

Breaths.

…

…

No good, still panicking.

Piercing light blue eyes kept darting to every alley way, ever corner, every rooftop as Sherlock Holmes raced through London's streets. Running faster than he ever had before.

Fear. It was not something the world's only consulting detective was use to. All his life Sherlock had simply dismissed the prickling feeling in the back of his mind, the primal instinct that coursed through his veins and made every nerve end twitch, every bit of his body telling him to run when his life was in danger. But as he had often told John, it was all transport, logic would outweigh his fear, and over time Sherlock had taught himself to calm the chemical reactions that would occur during such situations. Adrenaline mostly, endorphins, and the like; weaknesses he could easily rule out when needed.

But not now, what he was running from now defied all of his logic. The facts didn't make sense, or at least in Sherlock's experience they shouldn't make sense; the facts were impossible. But at this very moment, Sherlock's deductions only pointed towards two things.

He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Cutting the corner of another alleyway, Sherlock leaned against the cool wet brick wall, panting and trying to calm his racing heart. A map of London's streets and all the possible routes he could take was mentally being traced as he kept looking about the alley and back the way he came. There had to be a way to lose them, there just had to, a way for them to lose his scent.

Sherlock spotted the fire escape across the alley, measuring the height of the ladder with his eyes; he could make that. Darting over as quiet as possible, he calculated the trajectory and ran towards it jumping as high as he could, grasping the metal ladder and pulling it down to the ground. In a matter of seconds it was back up, and Sherlock was safely making his escape up the many ladders to the top of the apartment building. Once up top, Sherlock lowered himself until he was kneeling over the sides of the building, trying to hide his figure as best as possible. There was no way they would be able to spot him up there, in the dark; but he thought it best not to push his chances.

A low growl was heard from directly below him, and Sherlock's wide eyes betrayed his fear as he spotted them. Loud barks and snarls echoed through the empty streets, and Sherlock's breathing quickened to the point of hyperventilating. The hounds had found him, but they didn't know how to get on the roof, so they circled down below, snarling and nipping at each other in anticipation. Double sets of sharp teeth, hundreds it seemed to each one, their eyes glowed red in such an unnatural way, and they never looked away from him. They were huge as well, larger than any dog breed Sherlock had ever seen, their muscles rippling under tight hairless black skin. There were bits and pieces of them that, to all of Sherlock's knowledge of biology and zoology, were impossible. For one thing, they had four eyes, two on each side, the double sets of teeth were all sharp and strictly formed to tear apart flesh, their feet had claws much more akin to a lion or other big feline than a canine, and their tails split into two ends. They were creatures unlike Sherlock had ever seen, read, or heard about; impossible animals, and they were hunting him down, in London, in the middle of the night.

And no one else acknowledged them.

No one heard their piercing shrieks or deafening howls, only Sherlock could. Even John couldn't hear them.

After what seemed like hours, one hour thirty-two minutes sixteen seconds, the hounds left; sparing a few last glances towards their prey and a few feral barks as well before trotting off down the road. Sherlock tried to calm his breathing once more, his mind racing through everything that had been happening the past few weeks, and his conclusions he had drawn on his situation. For a while, his most promising idea was that he was still seeing echoes of the Hallucinogenic drug he and John had encountered in Baskerville. But after countless blood tests at St. Bart's laboratories, he couldn't deny that the drug had completely left his system. And he was still seeing a large black dog with glowing red eyes.

The quiet snarls or distant howls he heard every night, that no one else ever heard. The paranoid feeling he would get when he heard a floor board creak, or another person… or another living thing breathing in the room with him, the feeling of something else's eyes watching him, all the time. Such hungry eyes.

Sherlock shook himself out of his little panic, straightened himself up, and started to cautiously make his way back down to the street. He had to make it back to 221b Baker Street, it was the only place he felt safe anymore.

After a lot of impossible research, in topics Sherlock never wanted to associate with, because they had no logical sense to him, he had drawn only one possible solution. Sherlock had made a terrible mistake a long time ago. Almost ten years ago, to be exact; he had made a deal with a dangerous person… because he had been desperate. And now the Hounds of Hell were coming for him, to collect what he owed.

His soul.

He had been in University at the time, a genius graduate student with no aim; 25 years old and already fed up with life and all of the driveling boring people in it. If anyone else had heard him tell his story, about how he sold his soul to a demon in return for a form of greatness, most would assume it was his genius that was given to him. After all it would make sense, wouldn't it? How could Sherlock Holmes be that clever? How could he always know exactly what to look for, and find the answers from such small details?

But they would be wrong. Sherlock Holmes had always been a genius, he had not asked for intelligence from the demon. Sherlock had grown up always being the smartest person in the room and perfected his art of observation, but it was not something others appreciated; he learned very quickly that everyone did not want to hear the impossible truth. Even if it wasn't impossible to him; he could see everything, it all made perfect sense to him. But if no one wanted to hear it, he wouldn't tell them. Sherlock was and always has been a sociopath, it became worse once he grew into a teenager and his body rebelled against his mind with hundreds of chemicals and hormones. He didn't understand the chaotic emotions of his peers, and simply shut out the ones that threatened to take over his actions. So for the few who wanted to blame his sociopathic nature on the demon, that was wrong as well.

So what did the great Sherlock Holmes need from a demon so desperately that he would sell his soul?

In college, Sherlock became bored. So bored, so utterly and deafeningly bored. His mind was something that was constantly moving, constantly working and churning and it burned behind his eyes. He had nothing to focus on, nothing to distract himself from the trivial pathetic world that surrounded him. It was so predictable, so completely un-fascinatingthat he couldn't stand it anymore. As few knew about him, Sherlock had turned to drugs to keep his constant mind occupied. But it got out of hand, he had over dosed more than once; his older brother, Mycroft, had even had him sent to rehabilitation. Which almost killed him, nothing worked. Once he had been sent back home, Sherlock was right back to shooting up. He couldn't help it; his mind wouldn't listen to his own logic anymore. His body burned and needed it so badly, and without the drugs his mind was too much to handle. The drugs had become Sherlock's crutch for life, and without them he couldn't survive. But with them he crept closer and closer to his own death.

It had been a weekend night late in March, and Sherlock could remember leaning against the brick wall of an alley not too far from Kings Cross Station. He felt like he was burning, but in reality his body was freezing; he was so pale he was blue, and so thin that emaciated would have been a better term to choose. His eyes were sunken and dark, and his curly black hair was plastered to his forehead in cold sweat. His drug dealer use to tell him he could have been very handsome in another life, like a movie star, but instead he now resembled a corpse. And he felt like one too, whenever he came down from the high. Which was rarely anymore, it caused him too much pain. He couldn't stand it, not any more, he wasn't going to make it through the night and every bit of his dying brain was telling him that.

"Wow… you are Jones-ing something terrible," came a voice from the mouth of the alley. Sherlock jerked up, bracing himself against the brick wall and watching the young man with calm ice-blue eyes. He had been on the streets, around the homeless, long enough to know not to trust anyone in a dark alley. In an instant Sherlock knew basic parameters on the newcomer. Slang and accent indicated American, New York (possibly Brooklyn, more likely Queens), age approximately 23 to 25, college art student, studying photography by the smell of hyposulfate used mostly as a fixing agent when developing photos in dark rooms. But what didn't make sense was the lack of…. Anything a tourist would have. In fact Sherlock could also smell what he thought was… sulfur? It had to be sulfur, Sherlock knew the compound and all of its properties without giving it a second thought. It was defiantly sulfur. The young man held up his hands defensively as he stepped forward, button down shirt and acid-wash jeans accenting his muscular body in all the right places. Short wavy brown hair, tan face that followed his neck line all the way past his collar bone (sun-bathing) and deep blue eyes… that suddenly went all black. Even the white of his eyes disappeared.

"What are you?" Sherlock managed to croak out, his body still rebelling against him.

The young man smiled, a sly and untrustworthy smile, and said "Most people ask who are you, it's more polite." He approached Sherlock now, gliding through each step with his hands now folded behind his back. "But then again, you aren't most people, are you? Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock scowled. "How do you know my name? Or where to find me?"

"Oh I knew you'd be here," the young man drawled, "twitching, sweating, itching for a fix. Isn't that right?" He giggled at the hard look Sherlock gave him. "Oh oh oh you must be in so much pain right now, too bad your dealer is all out. And not another one for miles. Tsk tsk." He finally reached Sherlock, and crouched down to his level, Sherlock still braced against the alley wall. "… want me to help you out?"

"No." Sherlock stated, but his hands twitched a bit, betraying what he really wanted to say.

"Are you sure? I'll make it worth your while."

"Defiantly no."

"Oh hush, I didn't mean it like that," the young man laughed. His deep blue eyes bore into Sherlock's, and Sherlock never felt more exposed than he did right then. He had always laughed at the stupidity of all his peers, of all the people that surrounded him. None of them looked, none of them could see! Everyone is so easy to read, so predictable; if only people could just look. Sherlock thought he was the only one that could actually read people so accurately (besides Mycroft), but this young man… Sherlock had the feeling that he knew absolutely everything about him… and he didn't know how.

"What if I told you I could give you anything, anything you could ever want," the young man said softly to him, his smile was like that of a shark's. "For a small price, that I won't need to collect for years to come."

"I would say the price isn't really that small," Sherlock countered, trying to control his shivering. There was something wrong with the young man, something so insanely wrong that Sherlock could not see. Why couldn't he see it!

The young man laughed an amused but cruel laugh. "VERY good! Haha! I like you, Sherlock Holmes, I like you very much," if possible the young man leaned even closer. "You're right, it's not that small, it's actually kind of a big deal to you people; but if you choose to part with it… I could give you anything you want."

"What's the price?" Sherlock asked, an idea worming its way to the front of his mind, an idea that stuck him with cold burning fear.

"Your soul," the young man breathed. And that's when Sherlock confirmed it. The young man wasn't breathing, hadn't been breathing, the entire time he talked. Only to laugh, or when he spoke those few words. He wasn't breathing. How was that possible?

"I've been repeatedly told I don't have one," Sherlock countered, now he was just grasping at straws trying to not appear as terrified as he really was.

"Ah-ah, I think you do," the young man answered in a sing-song voice. "Not that you would miss it, if you were to sell it to me." He then became a touch more serious. "What if I told you I could make this pain stop, give you something so you would never have to end up like this again."

"Detox?" Sherlock tried. His brain was becoming fuzzy, from his aching body and his thoughts flooded with fear. He wasn't use to fear, to this insane amount of fear, he had never been this terrified before. He couldn't just push it away, he couldn't ignore it. It was still there, and Sherlock had no idea how to handle it.

"Not just detox. Like I said, I like you Sherlock Holmes. So I have put together a packaged deal just for you, a complete Sherlock Holmes custom made rehabilitation package. I know the real reason you turned to drugs Sherlock, you were bored." Sherlock's eyes widened at the young man's words, as the young man just smiled all the more. "So bored with the world and all the disgustingly boring people in it. And your mind, it's always thinking isn't it? You needed something to keep your mind occupied. So – I'm going to give you that. I'm going to give you something to replace the drugs, to replace that constant need to stimulate your brain and keep it entertained."

"Like what?" Sherlock could barely believe what he was hearing. Something to replace the drugs? There wasn't anything, even if he lived through a detox how could there be ANYTHING that would stimulate him enough to keep his focus off of the deliciously numbing affect the drugs gave him.

A wicked, knowing smile crossed the young man's features. "Let's say it's… a calling. A calling to do something worthwhile with your genius; don't worry though I won't be giving you the answers. That would be cheating, and you don't like cheating; you'll have to find the answers all on your own." Sherlock was confused, he didn't like being confused, he was never confused. "So, that's the deal," the young man drawled again. "A wonderful care package just for you; detox your body and free you of your desperate grasp to your recreational drug problem, and a calling that will replace the rush you use to feel from the drugs. Hell, I'll even heal your body up for you, and make it so if you ever try these drugs again the experience will be so bad…you'll never look back. No more drugs, no more itching, no more burning, no more aching, no more pain," the young man was so close he was practically whispering the small chant to Sherlock, who's eyes were unfocused and his mind was frantically trying to grasp the concepts the young man was telling him. But the pain was so much, his body functions were slowing down; he was going to die in that alley way tonight if he didn't find a way out. And here comes a handsome young man with his "detox package deal" that would save his life… in exchange for his soul. But it hurt so much, he closed his eyes and winced at the pain, how hard it was to breathe, how hot he felt but cold at the same time. So so cold. "What do you say?" the young man asked, his voice rich and almost seductive.

"W-What are the terms?" Sherlock managed to ask, his eyes still strong and unblinking as he stared at the young man. But his face was pale, his body holding onto itself with a painful amount of tension; he was fading.

The smile appeared again, "You get to keep your soul, for now, and in 10 years I will come and collect it. And then you will die." The young man stated matter-of-factly. "But, if you don't take my deal, you'll die here tonight. It's not a bad deal, if I do say so myself. A once in a life time offer, I don't do this for everyone you know."

"T-Then why m-me?" Sherlock demanded, his body stating to tremble uncontrollably, he was losing his battle with the pain.

"Because you already have a form of greatness," the young man answered simply. "Your intelligence is something most humans would actually summon me for, it's something they would trade their souls for. It almost feels like cheating, just giving you one thing for your soul. And I like you, I really really do." The young man's words were hungry, and Sherlock's determined mind-set had faltered at his words.

"You're n-not human, so what are y-you?" He tried to ask through the tremors. But the young man just smiled his wicked smile.

"So do we have a deal?"

Sherlock was silent for a few moments, this was wrong. This was so wrong but he couldn't see any other way around this. He was going to die, his body was failing, his mind had to be failing him too because he BELIEVED this young man and he was seeing facts that were impossible. This shouldn't be possible. But he had no choice. He nodded. "What do I do? Where do I sign?"

"Oh," the young man breathed, getting very close to Sherlock, starting to crawl towards him. "You don't sign with your hands," he answered, his own hands covering Sherlock's and springing a surprising warmth to his body. Sherlock couldn't back away any further, as he was still against the brick wall, and the young man's arms trapped him on either side. He was so close now Sherlock could feel his next words against his lips, "You sign with your mouth." And then he was kissing him.

The young man's lips were so cold, and hard, and wet; like melting ice cubes over Sherlock's lips. He winced at the contact, but suddenly the wetness started to tingle and hum; it was a euphoria that raced through his body, and it mimicked his blessed drug he had been so desperate for moments before. Feeling was making its way through Sherlock's body as it started to heal itself, the trembling stopped, warmth replaced the cold, and Sherlock's mind was honestly blank. All he had was the craving, the desperation for his drug that took over his mind; and the source of it was coming from the young man's kiss. And Sherlock was hungry for it. He was kissing back now, with a need stronger than he had ever felt before, practically devouring the other's mouth as his hands grasped at the young man, holding him in place and burying his fingers in his thick wavy hair. He couldn't stop, Sherlock couldn't understand why he couldn't stop. He didn't like physical contact, and he had certainly never kissed anyone like this before, but it wasn't a kiss, not really. A sudden realization hit him, as he continued to kiss the young man hungrily, was this his detox?

The young man shoved him away with surprising force, smirking lips red and swollen from the kiss. And then his smirk shifted to a smile, as he took in the sight of Sherlock Holmes. His skin had returned to a healthy color, pale but no longer blue with cold. He was no longer emaciated either, not necessarily a healthy thin but it was the best he could do. Curly mop of black hair had gotten back its sheen, and eyes wide and alert and pupils nearly non-existent as the endorphins still coursed through him. Lips parted and panting, also bruised from the kiss. The young man stood up, hands holding onto Sherlock's forearms and bringing him to his feet with such strength that it was… inhuman.

"Go home, Sherlock Holmes, and don't forget the debt you owe," the young man answered, starting to walk away.

"Wait," Sherlock demanded, his mind starting to clear, and he followed him to the mouth of the alleyway. The young man stopped in the street and turned back to him. "You never answered me, what are you? Who are you?"

The young man snickered to himself. "All that and you never asked me my name, such a naughty boy," he taunted. "My name is Crowley, and I'm a demon. A cross-roads demon, to be precise." Sherlock didn't falter.

"What cross-roads?" he demanded again.

Crowley merely gestured with his hand to the crossroads he now stood in the middle of. "And I thought you were supposed to notice everything," he said exasperatedly. "Don't forget, Sherlock Holmes, you owe me your soul. 10 years." He added with a smirk, and then disappeared, right in front of Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock couldn't deny what had happened, as much as he wanted to. Because in the span of 12 hours he had gained 15 pounds, a light sun tan, and was completely drug free. He no longer craved, he no longer burned, and as he wondered about all of it he certainly wasn't bored. Everything Crowley had told him would come true had, the mere thought of shooting up made his stomach churn. But what about the last thing? The "calling" Crowley had promised him.

It wasn't until the next afternoon, when he was in the lab at St. Bart's testing his blood for the fourth time for any sign of a detox medicine or the drug he knew he had shot up less than 24 hours ago that should still be in his system. Mike Stamford had come in to grab some supplies for his next class and had the paper under his arm, and had set it down close enough that Sherlock glanced at it for a second. Just a second. But then he couldn't take his eyes off of it. The headline read TRIPLE MURDER BRIXTON and had a picture of an old two story house latticed with crime scene tape. Before he realized what he was doing he had picked up the paper and skimmed the article; he eyes left the page in confusion. Why had he done that? He hated the news, every crime he read about was so transparent he could never believe that Scotland Yard couldn't figure it out. Idiots, every single one of them.

So why did he have the sudden urge to go straight to the yard and tell them that to their faces?

"Crazy murders, yeah?" Mike said to him, noticing he had the paper. "They've been looking for the guy who did it for weeks, but they've had no leads whatsoever-"

"That's because it's the detective inspector that's on the case," Sherlock answered, still skimming the article and cataloging the facts. Mike Stamford's eyes went wide.

"A-Are you sure?" he stammered. Sherlock gave him a dead-pan look, Mike was one of the few people who knew about his observations and deductions. "…Could you prove it?" Mike asked more carefully. Sherlock's look was incredulous, as if saying 'how dare you even ask that' as he opened his mouth to start on his (what had to be) long rant about how he knew the head DI for the case was actually the murderer, Mike interrupted "NOT TO ME! You should…. If you know who did it, and how, you should tell them." He pointed to the paper, but was indicating the Scotland Yard. Sherlock thought about it for a second, and wasn't entirely sure why he was even considering Mike's suggestion. He never helped anyone, never talked about his deductions; he had learned long ago no one wanted to hear them.

But maybe, even if they didn't want to hear them, they needed to.

Sherlock found himself at the New Scotland Yard not half an hour later, walking inside with only a slight air of hesitation. "Can I help you?" a woman at the front desk asked him politely.

"I need to speak to someone about the Brixton murders," he demanded, though with an air of aloofness that confused the receptionist.

"I'm sorry? Are you with the press?" she asked cautiously.

"No, I'm not. I have some information relative to the case," Sherlock explained with an annoyed sigh. He should have just walked right past her and into the offices instead, this was going too slowly.

"Oh? Okay, I'll call DI Milton-"

"NO, no, no. Not Milton I need to talk to someone else," Sherlock interrupted.

"B-But he's the lead DI on the case-"

"I know." Sherlock interrupted. "Someone else, please," the last word had no politeness in it at all, just another annoyed sign. The receptionist pursed her lips and rang for someone else. After a few moments, a tall man with slightly graying brown hair appeared around the corner, came up to Sherlock and shook his hand.

"I'm Detective Inspector Greg Lestarade, you have some information on the Brixton murders?" he asked.

Sherlock smiled a little half smile that didn't reach his eyes. "No, I know the identity of your murderer."

DI Lestrade looked skeptical and amused at the same time. "Oh really? And how, pray-tell, do you know that?"

"I don't know, I saw."

Lestrade blinked, "… you mean you were there?" he asked carefully.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, do keep up, I saw the answer in the paper. It's right there, you have all the facts you need."

Lestrade, a little taken back, paused and began again, "Alright, explain it to me."

Sherlock smirked, a familiar feeling of euphoria coursing through him, and told him everything.

Please review, let me know what you thought, and look for the next chapter in about a week. Latest will be next Wednesday.