Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and other characters belong to their rightful owners.
Buildings rolled by in a gray procession of concrete and brick, touching the overcast sky with their inorganic shapes. People passed, hazily silhouetted against London's streets. The clarity was astounding; John could not take his eyes away from the window. It had been so long since he could watch the changing faces of those on the sidewalk, so long since the city showed itself without the clutter of dead souls.
"Stop here." The phrase jolted John out of his daze. Sherlock climbed out of the cab, black coat swinging and hood seemingly anchored to his head. Following without delay, John breathed in deeply, wet air filling his lungs. Not sparing a second to check if the shorter man was ready, Sherlock strode off, crossing the pavement swiftly and with integrity. He turned sharply at one of the brick corners, disappearing behind the building within seconds. John furrowed his brow and jogged after, glancing around at unfamiliar shops, all exotic-looking, all dark. John turned at the corner and was faced with an alley, in which Sherlock stood squarely in front of a tall, thick door, removing his gloves and reaching up to knock.
"Where are we?" asked John, moving closer to Sherlock, his shoulder nearly touching the man's back. Sherlock did not answer and instead rapped the door harshly with his bare knuckles. A buzzing sound came from inside the door, and a few seconds later, a small woman in a plaid ruffled blouse answered, her face red with cold.
"S-Sherlock," stuttered the woman, eyes fluttering in surprise.
"Spare me the pleasantries, Molly," sighed Sherlock as he stuffed his gloves into a coat pocket. The woman dropped her gaze.
"Nice to see you too," she grumbled, beckoning the two in. John hesitated in the alley, the familiar feeling of anxiety passing into his mind again. Sherlock glanced back at him, rolled his eyes, then continued forward through the dark entrance. Balling his fists, John followed, pushing his civilian fear out with a stoic soldier mindset.
The hallway was clean beyond belief, mahogany surfaces varnished to shining perfection. There was a faint smell of incense mixing with a feminine perfume, creating a heady mix of earthen and floral notes. A rosy haze slightly clouded John's vision. Molly turned around and meekly waved them into a white-walled room where another woman in a draping sheer robe sat primly on a low couch.
The first time John had ever seen a half-demon was at the site of his father's arrest. Public intoxication had led to assault, landing the drunken man in handcuffs; he was not in jail for more than a day because of whom he had attacked. Memories of the person's bleeding forehead flashed through John's mind, images of a broken horn smashed into pieces on the pavement revisiting him like a forgotten enemy. This woman's horns were not broken, though, and laid smooth on her head, both colored an ashen maroon, contrasting deeply with her pale skin. John clenched his fists ever tighter. A smirk pulled at her scarlet lips when she looked up from her mobile phone. Smoke rose from wooden sticks in oil, and John realized he was in a fortune teller's home.
"You've brought a friend," she said, standing and extending a hand to John. Sherlock did not move from in front of her, however, instead staring down at the much shorter woman.
"I don't have friends." He removed his black coat and threw it onto a single-seat couch to the side of the center table, then turned to John. "Though he does have questions. Meet Irene Adler, John."
"Hang on -," started John, but was cut off by the slamming of the door behind them. Sherlock sat on the couch and yanked John down onto the cushioned chair across from where Irene had been sitting.
"Not those questions," he muttered. Irene smiled coyly, then returned to her seat, pulling a deck of cards from underneath the table. Her robe moved soundlessly with each of her movements, sliding lightly over pale arms and shoulders.
"Mr. Watson, would you care for some tea?" she asked as she placed the deck of cards in front of him. They were plain black, without the designs and logos of normal cards. John swallowed.
"Um." He looked over at Sherlock, who shook his head ever so slightly, corners of his mouth downturned. "No, thank you," said John, shifting in the chair. He began to question his judgement back in the library, and wondered what had made him think that taking a cab with a complete stranger to a fortune teller was a good idea. Irene tapped the deck.
"Please."
John stared at her for a few seconds, not knowing what it was she wanted him to do. She raised her eyebrows impatiently.
"Shuffle!"
He picked up the deck and paused. Fortune telling was a mysterious subject to him, but he had heard frightening stories of humans being killed by demons soon after visiting a teller. Another flutter of nerves made him glance up at Irene, her face entirely unreadable. Sherlock crossed his legs as John began shuffling the cards and the sound of a kettle whistling came faintly from outside the room. He placed the deck back on the table in front of the teller, glancing again at Sherlock, who seemed very interested in the dirt beneath his fingernails. Irene began to draw cards from the deck, laying them out in a carefully-constructed cross on the table, adjusting each so that they lined up perfectly.
"Tea, anyone?" The door behind John opened and he turned to see Molly carrying a tray with a kettle and four teacups. Irene waved her over and flipped up the center card.
"The High Priestess," she said, her face blank. "She represents mysteries of the unconscious."
John blinked and frowned, waiting for Irene to explain further what the card meant. Instead she flipped the card nearest him and smiled.
"The Ace of Cups." Again there was no explanation, but when John glanced to Sherlock, he saw a flicker of confusion in the man's face.
"What does that mean?" asked John as Molly set a cup of tea on a saucer next to him.
"It's the seed of love," whispered Molly. She straightened up and gave John an uncomfortable smile, then left the room, slamming the door behind her. John wrinkled his brow. This fortune telling business made no sense to him. The third card Irene overturned was nearest to Sherlock.
"The Two of Swords," said Irene, her eyes shifting to the side. Again confusion passed over Sherlock's eyes, this time far more obviously. The teller wasted no time in flipping the card nearest herself, her eyes widening. "The Chariot! Dearest soldier, it seems you have much to address within your heart."
John took a sip from his tea as Irene overturned the final card. Sherlock twitched forward, opening his mouth to say something, but the teller interrupted him.
"The Seven of Swords has shown itself. Tell me, John, how long have you been seeing spirits?" she asked, reaching underneath the table with one hand and placing a finger on the center card. Sherlock jumped up.
"You were not supposed to drink the tea, John!" he shouted, grabbing the ex-soldier by the arm. John's head began to swim, and shapes began to form above the fortune teller's head, her demure smile shifting into a twisted grin. He blinked hard, trying to focus, but the shapes grew clearer, and he found himself utterly smothered in various ghosts, all vicious, tugging at his insides. Sherlock forced John to stand, shouting something that the doctor could no longer understand. Horrid laughter filled his ears; everywhere he looked, another spirit opened up, showing him terrifying abyss that threatened to suck him in. He caught sight of a syringe in the fortune teller's hand before his mind lost all awareness.
