Disclaimer: I (sadly) do not own either of these series or any of the characters.
Thank you for the reviews :) You will be finding out a lot more in this chapter.
Notes: My description of Baker Street is not accurate. I'm describing it as a small, unknown street which fits in with what I imagined for this story. It's actually much bigger and a lot more modern but let's ignore that for stories sake.
Sherlock hated demons. He hated them with a passionate fire. It was just the way he had been brought up. Demons were natural enemies of human kind and people like him had to fight and kill them. That was the way it was. It had only added fuel to the fire of his hate when a greater demon, Marax, murdered them. His older brother, Mycroft, often joked that Sherlocks hatred of demons was the only real emotion. He hadn't spoken for a week after that because of the punch Sherlock gave him. But Mycroft did have a valid point. Sherlock seemed cold on the outside but watching him chase and kill demons revealed a fiery, passionate side to him which would have surprised many people.
He wiped the acidic blood of an Eidolon demon off his serif blade as he turned the corner into Baker Street. It had been hiding in an old warehouse when the group of young Shadowhunters had tracked it down. The warehouse had been decrepit with broken windows and no roof. Water had puddled on the floor, soaking Sherlocks legs as he hunted down the demon. It had begged, under the guise of a young girl, with blonde hair and a slight lisp, for them to leave her alone. Sherlock had felt no guilt as he had driven the glowing knife into its chest. The girl the demon was pretending to be had been one of its victims a few nights ago. It was a demon, not a girl.
As Sherlock strode ahead, cleaning his serif blade he could hear his brother and Mycroft's Parabatai, Gregory Lestrade talking quietly, heads close together. They had been Parabatai ever since they were children and Sherlock knew that both of them wanted something more. Neither Greg or Mycroft would admit it though, they were both too proud or stubborn, depending on how you looked at it. Sherlock strode ahead, trying to get away from them. He had nothing against their 'relationship' but the sexual tension in the air was infuriating. It was so tangible that Sherlock could taste it. And it drove him crazy. How could two people who were supposedly clever be so desperately stupid when it came to certain aspects of life?
Baker Street was dimly lit and familiar. Sherlock's whole life had been spent living in the London Institute, situated on Baker Street. He had studied the Georgian architecture whilst growing up. He knew every corner, every nook and cranny, every brick and every paving stone in the street. He had spent his childhood wondering up and down the street, sometimes trailing Mycroft and Greg as they went off to hunt demons, other times just wondering and observing the world. There was so much that human beings, especially Mundanes but often Shadowhunters, missed and Sherlock could safely say he knew nearly everything there was to know about Baker Street.
The other side of the street was dimly lit. A single guttering street lamp overlooked the cracked pavement. Sherlock knew that pavement well; he had spent many days jumping over the cracks as a child chanting rhymes, actually believing that he could break his Mothers back. Even after he had learnt that it was one of the few superstitions without any basis he had still expertly avoided the cracks. That was until his parents died. Now he barely thought of it as he strode across the pavement.
The street lamp came back on for a moment with a buzz. A bundle of clothing had been left underneath the Baker Street sign, Sherlock noticed as he reached the door of 221. He vaguely wondered why someone would leave clothes on Baker Street. There was no comprehensible reason. The clothes moved. Sherlock spun round and stared at them, weapon already in hand. It wasn't a bundle of clothes as he had previously thought, but a homeless person. Sherlock relaxed slightly and glanced towards Greg and Mycroft. They were walking together, extremely close, talking quietly. Sherlock had no idea what they always had to talk about but they always seemed to be conversing. Anyway, neither of them had noticed that he was suddenly armed. Love dulled your senses, especially when it came to the other person.
Sherlock knew that he should probably go inside to where his Aunt, Sarah Hudson was waiting for the group to return. But he wanted to see who was sleeping across the road. In the end the insatiable curiosity won out. It always did. Crossing the road, not even bothering to check for traffic. For all he cared a car could of killed him and he wouldn't have even blinked in disappointment. It wasn't that Sherlock was suicidal, it was just he couldn't see the point in living. He found no joy in being alive.
As he reached the person he knelt. His clairvoyant sight runes meant he could clearly see the boy with the light hair, wrapped in a large coat. From across the street there was a shout from Greg, "Hey, Sherlock! What are you doing?" Sherlock glanced up for a moment and waved the two shadow-hunters on. As he pushed the coat away from from the boys face he noticed how blue his lips were and the bruises darkening the left side of his face. He couldn't be more than 16, the same age as Sherlock. Domestic violence then. Parent had hit him, probably the father, judging by the size and shape of the bruises. There were cuts just beneath his eye, which was swollen shut, indicating that the person was married. The boys eyes fluttered open. He was shivering. Only been out on the streets for a few hours. His dark blue eyes stared at Sherlock. He then sighed out, "Help me, please" before he became unconscious again. Sherlock jerked back in surprise. The boy could see him. Pushing up his sleeve he checked that the concealing rune that meant that he couldn't be seen. But the boy had seen him. He had looked right at him.
As he waved Greg and Mycroft over he shivered slightly. They had to take this boy into the Institute. He could see past the runes, who knew what else he could see. But the funny thing was, this boy hadn't just looked at him, he had seen Sherlock. He had looked into him, trusted him. Asked him for help. All Sherlock really knew for a moment is that whoever this boy was, he could see things in a way that no one else could.