Chapter Nine:
Sherlock falteringly removed his eyes from Castiel, and like a child searches for comfort in a distressing time, he looked to John. John was at the end of the couch, his back against the arm of it and his legs and arms up on the cushions as if he'd tried to crabwalk or scoot away from him. John was just as alarmed and frightened as Sherlock was—he was in a sweat and his breaths were heavy and a strain on his ribcage. John looked to Sherlock and searched his face. They both turned to Eve. Extreme trepidation is all either of them could fathom.
Eve held up both of her hands as if surrendering, turned her back, and took the chair from the table where John usually typed on his computer. She set it between Sherlock and John's chair and sat facing the fireplace. She waited.
John's gaze was glued to the back of her head. Sherlock looked up to Castiel and sucked in a small breath as he closed his mouth. Cas remained where he was.
Sherlock turned himself over onto his elbow and shakily, slowly, got to his feet. To delude his own conscious into believing everything down to his core was not petrified and unbalanced, he folded his dressing gown over himself and limply tied it together. He took a few steps and sat in his black chair. John followed shortly after.
After they parked into a near stupor, timidly glancing all around, Sherlock clasped his hands together and rubbed his fingers. John appeared to be holding his breath. Castiel stepped behind Eve and set his hand on her shoulder. At his touch, she crossed an arm over her chest to lay her hand on his. Eve bent her head.
"I understand if you're freaked beyond belief right now and I understand it if you never want to have contact with me again, but you had to know what kind of mess you were getting into," Eve delivered her words with gravitated earnestness. Hearing herself say those words made her stop to give a shuddering laugh. Never before had she felt more at risk for wearing her heart on her sleeve.
She folded her hands together and said, "As for me, I guess you could label me as a professional murderer, mayhem, and resurrectionist. I desecrate graves, dismember and kill things that normal people would never believe. Hunters hunt down and kill everything supernatural. Doppelgangers, ghosts, vampires, demons, you name it. All things kids are told are only stories and aren't real are as real as you and me. And my brothers and I and many others out there track these things down and gank 'em before they can hurt any more people."
"There's no such thing as monsters," Sherlock spurred the axiom swiftly—a common reflex from nonbelievers despite reoccurring proof. He couldn't understand. He never believed any of this—never could, because everything the world had to offer could be analyzed and interpreted. To the rational mind, nothing is inexplicable, only unexplained, and that was his job. He made the complicated world seem simple.
"And they used to say the world was flat." Eve looked up to Cas, and then back to John and Sherlock, "Salt and holy water keep a good deal of the paranormal away. When you lay salt down, it serves as a barrier. Things inhuman can't get into anything if it's lined with salt. Holy water burns anything unholy. Salt and holy water have the same effect on demons. Sloan is a demon. I'm here to hunt him down and kill him."
Eve left a moment for them to process her words. "When I came here, I was on vacation. What I do does a hell of a number on you so I came here. When I realized this could be a job, I knew I had to stay. So that's why I had you put down salt lines and why I gave you bottles of holy water. I am trying to protect you."
"There were finger prints. There was evidence. Therefore, there is a logical explanation and a human criminal on the loose," Sherlock said. It surprised him that he could still string words together in their correct order.
"You're still thinking along literal, reasonable, and scientific lines, Sherlock," Eve commented. "Demons are human souls that have been corrupted from extensive torture in hell. When they come to the Earth plane, they have to use humans as vessels in order to get around. So yes, you did find prints, but whoever they belonged to were possessed by a demon and are most likely dead by now."
"I don't understand," John finally spoke. "Hell, demons, ghosts…How?"
"That, is a very complicated letter for another day," Eve answered, "But I'll summarize it for you. Reality is a lot more complicated that you think, but it is, still, reality." She looked to Sherlock, "It's two sides of the same coin. You work on one side. I work on the other."
"Can I ask—" John looked terribly nauseated. He felt lightheaded. He had to put back his head and widen and blink his eyes a few times to keep himself from blowing chunks. "What else have you done? Where does," John burped a little and choked down his lunch. He threw a hasty finger at Castiel, "come in?"
"Well," Eve considered, sitting back and allowing her wings to flop over the back of her chair.
Cas unfolded his wing and wrapped it lovingly around her. He was there for structural support, for assurance.
"I have killed someone using a lug wrench and I've stolen an armored vehicle."
John made a face, his stomach churning.
"Welcome to Vaudeville, I guess," Eve said, "And Cas here, is an angel."
"Angel," John echoed, tipping his head forward. His voice was in an even deeper state of disbelief than it was previously.
"Shall I demonstrate again?" Cas asked politely.
"No, no," Sherlock jumped in, "No need. It's only natural to assume the holy oppose the damned. I just—" Sherlock propped an elbow up on his armrest and dug his fingers into his eyes, shutting them tightly. "This is—" He bent over his knees, and put his eyes in his palms. He let out a long grunt as if he was punched there, and then sat back up again. Sherlock hopped to his feet, assuming his knees would commit, but then he fell back to his chair almost automatically. He lifted his hands to his temples and pressed hard.
Eve gnawed the inside of her cheek until she tasted the tang of blood.
Castiel nudged her with the bone of his wing. "I think we should give them time."
John darted out of his chair and ran to the bathroom beyond the kitchen. The door was open just so, and the sound of John retching into the toilet came through the crack.
Eve got up and returned her chair to the table. She went for her bags and was out the door. Cas walked out behind her.
On a long road in the Wyoming countryside, the '67 Chevy Impala thundered over the rustling of the windblown grass. Inside, Dean had the radio cranked up and was beating his hands on the steering wheel to the music. Sam was rereading a newspaper article. The headline was 'Girl Goes Crazy And Explodes in Park' so obviously there was something going on in Sweetwater, Wyoming. Sam and Dean were on their way there now. They'd be there in about ten minutes.
Dean's soulful lip-synching and steering-wheel-guitaring faltered and he took in the empty back seat through the rearview mirror. He relinquished his enthusiasm to the song and immersed himself in guilt-ridden loneliness. He felt so far from Sam, even from so close. Dean wanted to confide in his baby brother, because of Eve, because of how he felt about her, how he treated her in the past; how he pushed her away, and said so many things he shouldn't have. Dean felt it was his fault. He pushed her to do this—to leave. He drove her out. Dean had so many things on his mind. He had so much he wished he could say—so many things he would take back, rewrite, make better—but he could scour to the ends of the earth and still never find the words to explain how sorry he was.
"You too, huh?" Sam muttered. He flung the piece of paper to the side, too bushed to pick it apart any longer.
Dean's eyes flicked to Sam and he gripped the steering wheel tighter with his hand. He pulled himself to sit up correctly. "Yeah," Dean said in a low voice.
Sam shut the music off. "She's forgiven us—so many times," Sam winced, feeling unworthy of Eve's forgiveness.
"I know she has, man," Dean said, "I just, I don't know what I should do anymore. I keep messin' up."
Sam looked down to his lap, exhaling through his nose. The gloss in his eyes was somber. Sam said, "I know the feeling."
"She should be here with us and we should be hunting together. Like a family. It's what we do. I dunno Sam, I wish I could just add some duct tape and Gorilla Glue and we're good." Dean stopped here, his mouth left open. He wanted to say more, desperately, but all he could think about was how dry his mouth was and how empty he felt.
Sam was quiet. Before long, he spoke, "I wish I knew where to go from here."
When Sammy spoke, it made a fracture in Dean's chest. "I wish we both knew."
A week later, after much thought and no sight of Evangeline, Sherlock had reached his verdict. On a bright Thursday morning precisely at 8:03 a.m. Sherlock snapped like a rubber band, and driven by an unknown force, rushed across London.
On the other side of the city, Eve was walking to her apartment with two white plastic bags in her hands. She got to the front door, inserted her key, and entered. Upon closing her door, she went into the kitchen and pressed a button on the radio by some sugar and flour holders. Eve set the bags on the counter. She took off her jacket and threw it on a bar stool and then returned to the plastic bags. She withdrew a clear bag with three fist-sized apples in it, a group of celery stalks, and a jar of peanut butter. In the other bag, she left a pack of Budweiser.
Eve washed the celery and apples and began cutting the ends off the celery when there was a knock on the door. She paused—the tip of her knife in the middle of a celery stick—and looked up to the wooden cabinets. Quickly, her solitude faded and her vigilance came in full force. Her pointer finger found the trigger of her semiautomatic and she made her way to the door. No need to be quiet, because the radio station playing "Hold on Loosely" was quite loud.
Eve opened the door. Sherlock was there, standing at parade rest and had a miniscule grin that upturned the left side of his mouth. It modified into a tight lip pursing upon seeing her, however.
"Christo." Eve put her gun in her belt and undid the chain. "If you were a demon, you would've flinched and I would have had to exorcise you." She said it calmly and without verve, despite wondering why Sherlock chose to come to her now. And why he did so without John.
"Um, come in. Come in," Eve's voice was apologetic and she held the door for him. "I'm surprised you didn't lock pick your way in here after you must've downstairs."
Sherlock entered through the doorway, taking careful, precise steps, and never removing his hands from his lower back. His lips did odd movements as if he couldn't quite decide what to do with them. With a repressed voice, he said, "Er, I didn't…break in. Your landlord let me up."
"I paid him to say I was never here," she said it as if notifying herself.
Sherlock turned to face her. He seemed exceptionally tall to Eve today, but not as proud. In fact, a lot seemed off about him. The corner of his mouth twitched and his eyes were considerably softer. He told her, "Unfortunately for you, I paid more."
Eve crossed her arms. "Is John not with you?"
"He's at the flat," Sherlock replied, "trying to learn more about the paranormal."
"Oh. And what about you?"
"I came directly to the source." He kept his distance a few feet from Eve, undecided if he should move closer. "Pretty sure he doesn't even know I'm out."
Eve nodded slowly. "And by 'source', you mean?"
Four days prior, Molly walked into the lab with her arms overflowing with files. "Oh, hello Sherlock. I hadn't heard you come in," she said sweetly, halting only a moment before maintaining her workload.
"Molly, yes, I slipped in through the back while you were upstairs." Sherlock was sitting on a stool (with his feet set up on the rungs) near the counter. He was peering down a microscope. The light from the instrument reflected back, stabbing him in the eyes and illuminating his irises to where they appeared silver.
"What're you studying?" Molly slammed the pile on the table and walked over to Sherlock so she could look over his shoulder.
His eyes slid from the microscope specimen to Molly and back again. "Blood."
"Whose blood?" Molly inched back away from Sherlock ever so slightly. Her voice and expression were surprised with intermixing worriment.
"Kate's."
"Oh," Molly looked to the specimen plate beneath the lens. "Is it…on a piece of cloth?" Molly looked uncomfortably around the room. "Where is Kate? And John?"
Sherlock's phone chimed in his pants pocket. "John is on his way here."
Molly smiled, expecting him to go on. She realized Sherlock's avoidance of the 'Kate' subject and suddenly she knew. "Oh, well, she is okay? Nothing's wrong? I enjoyed meeting her and you two seem well together, so I hope—"
Sherlock froze and lifted himself from his work. "We're not—"
Molly swiveled around so fast, her hair whipped around with her. "Of course you're not." She walked out of the room.
Sherlock watched her as she went, his hand on the microscope knob. She left him confused and in thought—it was all painted like a picture on his face.
Three days prior, Sherlock was thinking deeply in his chair in the comfort of 221B. His right leg was crossed over his left casually. He had his violin in one hand and his bow slack in the other. Sherlock twiddled with the bow in his acute boredom spawned by his brother's visit.
"No solved cases in the papers these past few days," Mycroft commented, "I just wanted to see if you were still breathing."
"As you've observed, I am. Now go away, I'm busy," Sherlock shot back.
"I heard you were taking part in the Scotland Yard Witness Protection Program, but I fail to see a witness."
At this time, Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs humming a jolly little tune. She came through the door dressed in green and carrying a tray of tea in her hands. "Isn't she the one who inspired those new holes in the wall?" Mrs. Hudson asked, setting the tea near Sherlock.
John smirked to himself where he was, typing on his computer at the table. His back was to Sherlock, but Mycroft did catch the subtle smile.
"No," Sherlock countered.
Mrs. Hudson laughed—a tinkling happy little sound. "Oh I think it was. She had him in a mood all day and I was told it was because she fed him his own medicine," she had her manicured and painted hand out in front of her doing gestures as she spoke. "Good for her, I say. She stayed here one night and I only knew of her the next morning because Sherlock hardly ever tells me when these sort of things happen and—"
"Mrs. Hudson, shouldn't you be off baking something?" Sherlock discourteously disrupted.
The elderly lady made a noise close to a gasp and a lip smacking. She turned and walked to the door, "Oh I do wish she would've stayed longer. I would've loved to meet her. Poor thing looked so exhausted—" Mrs. Hudson kept talking to herself well out the door, but Sherlock and Mycroft had long since tuned her out.
"Did she already tire of your incurable insolence and request a new assignment?" Mycroft inquired. He swayed the hook of his umbrella back and forth as if keeping time with the seconds.
"Why this sudden interest?" Sherlock made a face, "Why would she matter to you?" He swung his violin bow at his older brother across from him, using it as a pointer.
"No reason."
"Yes there is. There definitely is. Tell me why would the British government care so much about one person?"
A wry smile settled in the crook of his mouth. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
"No. That's why I'm asking you to tell me," Sherlock replied sarcastically, swinging his bow around some more. He rested it at an angle on his shoulder and tapped the foot he had in the air a few times.
Mycroft inhaled, his eyebrow arching, and brought his umbrella forward and between his knees. He leaned on it and simply stated, "I quite like this one."
"Like?" Sherlock scrunched up his face. "You don't like anything besides your cake!" he exclaimed disbelievingly. Then Sherlock lowered his voice, "And bossing me around, but we won't get into that topic."
Mycroft deadpanned and was overcome with the extreme urge to whack Sherlock upside the head with his umbrella. "I won't say it again, Sherlock."
Now, Sherlock glanced to the ground, and then met Eve's eyes once more. Ga-thump. Ga-thump. Ga-thump. He counted no less than three heartbeats before he replied, "I wish to know more." Ga-thump. Ga-thump. "I'd like you to teach me."
Eve considered his words. Her jaw clenched thoughtfully and her brow drew closely over her eyes. They stood together, staring and waiting. Eve took moments to contemplate. After a while, she said, "Alright."
Sherlock was surprised she accepted to be his mentor so readily and without any further questions.
Eve unfolded her arms and pat herself down, looking for something. "Oh," she reached for her jacket on a nearby barstool. Eve took out her cell phone and dialed a number. Then she paced about the room, the phone to her ear, and fiddled with the fabric of her unbuttoned flannel shirt. She always wore flannel or plaid with a white vest top for some reason.
Eve's whole manner changed in a blink of an eye. "Dean, hey. Are you and Sam at the bunker?"
Sherlock heard a voice answering but could not decipher separate words.
"Alright, no, I just wanted you guys to look up something for me. Some urban legend here that might've spread from the U.S. Nah, I got it here. Just tired from research. Alright, hey, you two doing okay? Alright, yep, bye." Eve hung up and shoved her phone in her pocket.
"Rock n' roll," Eve said, turning to Sherlock. "Leave your phone here. This is serious shit that I'm showing you and I'm in serious shit if my brothers find out I brought a guy home."
Sherlock eyed her as he set his phone on the counter. Eve must have just lied to Dean—whatever for, Sherlock did not know.
"It's nothing against you," Eve insisted, walking into her room. "Where I live is—well, you'll see. Plus, Sam would probably go all Big Brother on you and Dean would have a freaking pasture." Eve came back holding a small round bronze container. It looked as if it would hold sweets, with its ornate lid and side handles. But as Eve lifted the lid, it was apparent it wasn't used to store grandma's eighty-year-old candy. Inside, was a finely ground powder the color of sand.
"Okay, come here," she instructed, "and stand close to me."
Sherlock was apprehensive and the skeptic inside him squirmed, but he stepped forward. They stood together, the wool of Sherlock's coat against the fabric of her blue and green flannel. He watched her heedfully, taking in everything that was happening.
Eve tucked the bowl-like container close to her and put in a hand. She scooped up some of the powder and gave Sherlock a grin. "Hold onto your scarf."
Then, she threw down the sand and it hit the ground with the noises of a bunch of tiny rocks. The floor was taken from beneath them and suddenly, they were falling. Only for a second, they were lifted or floating or weightless in nothing. The sensation was new and alien to Sherlock. Then, as quickly as it had disappeared, the floor returned to its proper place beneath his feet.
"Welcome to the Men of Letters shelter," Eve said, taking a few steps forward, "Everything and anything you want to know will be found here."
Sherlock looked down to his shoes. He was standing upright and his legs were keeping him standing. That was a good sign, but…He took a step—oh good, he could still walk.
"Men of Letters?" he questioned under his breath. He took a look around the room. They were in a room centered around a table with a map inlaid in it. The table had several chairs surrounding it and it looked as if it had the ability to light up in numerous areas. There were shelves and pillars and lamps. There were various curious objects and old machinery along the walls. The room itself resembled a bomb shelter but it also resembled a library. They must be underground…
"Yep," Eve said, walking backwards, leading him gradually about the room. "They're all extinct. What you see here is the last and largest collection of everything we know about all of the world's ugly spots. The Men of Letters collected and chronicled it all and stored it here." She stepped up into another room. This one more closely resembled a library. It had more shelves and twice as many tables and lamps and artifacts.
"Dean and Sam are what you call Legacies. I am the first Woman of Letters in a long time and really none of us should be Men of Letters. Hunters are considered trash to them, so I kind of find this as a big screw you to those arrogant bastards. They're probably spinning in their graves right now." Eve smiled at the thought of it.
"I assume it was a very discriminatory organization then?" His voice was low. He couldn't put enough of himself into it because he was too deeply intrigued with where he was and how he got there.
"Definitely. Way back in the day, very few people out there were members and an even fewer amount outside of the group knew they existed. Dean, Sam, and I are the last. You can count Cas too, but he doesn't like the title. The Men of Letters didn't like pretty much everything that wasn't human and that means Cas included."
Sherlock peeled his eyes from some maps on the wall. "Didn't you say Castiel was your brother?"
Eve smiled, her eyes shining with an unnatural luster. "Family doesn't end with blood." Eve pocketed her hands in her jeans, "And my family is a bit complicated. Anyway, where do you want to start?"
Sherlock thought. Everything he learned with this woman alone made him take a new perspective. Sherlock always thought he knew all that was needed to be known, but after all this indisputable evidence, it truly knocked him off his high horse. Sometimes a ground level view was the best one. And from this day on, he'd strive to learn as much as he could about this infinitely more tangled world. He would trust Eve.
"Demons," Sherlock answered.
"Follow me," Eve said.
Eve took him to the bunker's library and there, they spent a couple of hours. Eve taught him everything she knew. They sat at one of the tables, books of all ages and from all ends of the Earth stacked and piled and left open around them. She showed him antiques and artifacts and old journals.
Sherlock had unlimited questions and Eve answered them all. When he inquired about ghosts, Eve gave a quick synopsis, "Ghosts stick to one house or building…" and then she would go into excruciating detail. She did this with every not-so-fictional being he asked her about.
After a long time, Sherlock asked to see everything they had on Cyrus Sloan. Eve sat back and exhaled. She grabbed her beer from the table and said, "I'll be right back."
Then she went through a large doorway and turned down a hall. She went deeper into the bunker, sipping her alcohol, and wondering which file she should bring back to Sherlock that would reveal the smallest amount of information about her as possible. She sort of already showed him her grace—what little bit was left of it—and she knew after seeing Nate and Cas, Sherlock could put two and two together, but…He hadn't asked about it since the last time she saw him. Maybe he forgot. Or maybe his 'mind palace' was in such an information overload that he couldn't keep it stored on his hard drive, or whatever he called it. Anyway, Eve could always forge something that sounded nice. Sherlock didn't have to know she was the closest thing to God.
Eve turned another corner, set her beer on a table in the hall, and opened a door. She reached for a light switch and flipped it on. The room lit up and the lights above her buzzed with electricity powered by old-school generators. Metallic shelves were on either side of the room and went forward where the two sides squared off, making the room seem a lot smaller than it really was. Eve was about to move for one of the boxes on these shelves when she heard a voice.
"Well, well, here's baby sister. Back from London so soon?"
Eve walked forward, her face set. She pushed on the shelving in the rear of the room with both hands and it opened to reveal a demon tied, handcuffed, and chained to a chair in the center of a demon trap etched onto the floor. The demon smiled vindictively, his eyes flicking to a solid black. He chose a redhead balding man in his thirties, who was wearing a Walgreen's smock and Reeboks as his vessel. He was also lanky and small and had a weirdly shaped head.
"Who are you? When did you get here?" Eve's voice was hard. Hunting mode: On.
"You mean when did you moron brothers storm my mansion and drag me to this shit hole? A few days ago probably, seeing as I can't actually fucking tell being down here in this smelly dark crapsack."
"Alright buddy, I'm about two seconds from shooting a bullet into your kneecap—"
"Go ahead, princess. Assuming you have the balls."
Making her signature 'done with this crap' face, she grasped her gun and shot him clear through the knee. The operation was so cursory, so practiced, it was fearsome. The demon should've taken her warning seriously, but instead, it bent over best to its ability (being chained to the wall hindered mobility superbly) and let out an amplified yelp. It gasped and then laughed through the pain, looking up to Eve.
He said, "You know, you are a lot like Dean. I can hardly tell the difference."
"Shut up," Eve scrunched her nose and weighed her gun in her hand. It was no longer comparable to an instrument used in conflict. It was a detachable part of herself. It was like a batter's bat or a construction worker's hammer. It was herself, condensed and projected into a handheld object. One she has used to kill many, and will use many more times in the future.
"Now tell me who you are before I take out your other knee."
"It stings a little bit," he laughed, sucking in air through his barred teeth.
"Yeah it does. Fashioned the rounds from angel blades myself."
The demon made a face and gave a tiny shrug. "Not bad."
Eve lifted her gun, aiming for the demon's other knee. "Talk."
The demon jerked back, putting up its hands in feeble attempt to protect itself. "Okay, okay. Whatever you say. My name is Cohen."
"Cohen? What kind of a name is that?"
"A very popular one for Jews!" The demon fondled its knee, careful not to touch the supple wound. His pant leg was dyed with red.
Eve dropped her arm, "You're kidding me."
"No, I'm n—"
"Wow," Eve said flatly, re-aiming her gun, "I don't care."
The demon quieted, swallowing its words.
"Tell me why my brothers have you here."
"You mean they didn't tell you?" The demon giggled, "Your family is all kinds of screwy isn't it?"
Eve interrogated, "What do you mean?"
The demon stopped chuckling and tilted its head at Eve, evil, intent on instilling fear, with a pinch of annoyance in his face. "I'm one of Cyrus' followers. I carry out his orders and get done all that needs to get done."
"So why didn't Sam and Dean hose you when they got the chance? Why did they lock you up here?"
"If you're so close, why don't you ask them?"
Eve angled her arm and pulled the trigger.
The demon yelled out a few times, the veins in its neck protruding. It realized quickly that she only shot the chair leg to which his own leg was tied. The bullet left a semi-circular hole through the wood and also left splinters poking out of the chair. The demon remained upright in the chair because she deliberately left a majority of the chair leg connected to the rest of the structure.
"Jesus! Okay! Okay!" the demon blurt out; giving in. "They're searching for the manual."
Eve's expression transformed into something difficult to read. Feelings of fear, betrayal, worry, and anger all prospered congruently within her. "The manual?"
"Did I stutter?"
"Why are they looking for the manual?"
"For you, obviously. Dean's obsessed and Sam's just flat out furious. It's like they've come down with an illness or something. They feel awfully guilty and Deanie drinks and drinks and drinks until he can't feel no more," the demon pouted. "In my opinion, Sam is worse—" the demon glanced up at Eve, seeing his words having significant impact on her.
Eve did not know how to take this. Dean and Sam swore they'd never try to track down the manual. It was a death wish. They promised her.
"Those boys are very impulsive when it comes to those they care about," the demon went on, "It's a characteristic all you Winchesters have, I've noticed. Very impulsive. Very stupid. They'll be dead long before they can get it."
Evangeline snapped back to the demon. Her gaze was savage and stormy. "Says who?"
"Cyrus. Because it is with him, you know. Loves that thing. A perfect little fairytale to lull him to sleep at night."
Eve grit her teeth. "Demons don't sleep."
The demon shrugged. "He's just waiting for the right time to use it, I guess. I don't know, I'm not high up enough in the ranks for that type of intel."
"The right moment?" Eve whispered, glancing around the room.
"Yeah, hey. What day is it?" the demon asked.
Eve narrowed her eyes and said, "November twenty-ninth."
"You'll find out soon. The countdown has started."
"Countdown? What countdown?"
"Ah…" the demon gave her a sly look and let its mouth hang open for a smile.
At that moment, Eve gasped and her gun slipped from her fingers. The gun hit the ground with hard clicking taps before it settled still, flat on its side.
Her right forearm felt as if it was pressed against a hot stovetop. Her skin was ripping and the sounds of her flesh splitting down her arm were a sweet symphony to the demon. He smiled as blood poured down her arm and as she let out noises of agony. Eve's skin unzipped and scathing pain seared all throughout her arm. She clasped her bleeding limb in her other hand, trying vainly to stop the bleeding. It just kept coming. Then she noticed what the markings were doing. They were forming a picture.
The lines dug into her flesh as if a scalpel was drawing them there. They twisted, twirled, zigzagged, and dotted, coming together and swirling apart. The drawing was intricate; it had feathers—no, it was sketching entire wings, and…it formed a bird. It was in flight, with its feathers spread and tail sailing behind it. It looked how a bird would to someone from the ground. But the drawing wasn't done just yet. Just below the picture, the sharp zinging continued until the number ten was completed.
Eve gasped and held her arm. She whimpered, the pain engrossing her every nerve. Blood was everywhere—on the floor, on her clothes.
"Cyrus sends his regards," the demon told Eve.
Eve shouted, "Sloan freakin' Umbridge'd me?"
"What does that even mean?"
"Why is he doing this?" Eve yelled, picking up her gun with both hands. She held the weapon steady, despite the wounds screaming bloody murder in her arm.
"Because he can, but it's anyone's best bet."
Eve's lip twitched and there was a heat growing. She fired. The demon died on contact, the yellowish light within the vessel flashing in and out momentarily. Eve lowered her gun into her left hand and stood to her full height. Seeing the hole through the demon's heart and welcoming the familiar rush of a kill, she knew what she just did was the most brainless thing imaginable. Dean and Sam would come back to find she'd been there. No one else could get in the bunker—not even Cas. You had to have the key or the spell Eve had used (the Men of Letters were skillful in the art of spell crafting and after much digging, Eve had come across a loophole in the bunker's defenses).
Taking a deep breath, Eve turned to leave.
Sherlock had heard the commotion and went to investigate. He'd been standing in the doorway for who knows how long, and at this sight, all Sherlock could do was take her in. Blood stained the stomach of her vest top, where she had held her arm against her stomach at one point. She stood with her wounded arm by her side and her other arm crossed over her midsection to hold the other by the elbow. Her right arm was scrolled with markings. More blood flowed down from the scratches gouged out in her skin in long rivulets, curved with her long fingers, and then dripped off the ends of her fingertips. There was a gun in her other hand and a fearful vulnerability in her eyes. She looked down, not knowing what to say. Her hair obscured her face from him.
"Eve, are you alright?" Sherlock asked gently.
"How much did you see?"
"Are you alright?" he asked again.
"I'm fine," she brushed him off. Her eyes were lifeless and apathetic. "How much did you see?"
"Enough," he answered. The word lingered on his lips after it had been spoken, and his tongue held much more back.
Eve averted his stare. She walked passed him, gripping her ailing arm with her left hand. Sherlock let her pass without word.
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