-Heaven's Talent, Satan's Heart: The Return-
It was May 15th. The time was 9:34 and thirty-two seconds. The place was George Washington University Hospital.
It must have been around 50 or 55 degrees, and a gentle wind carried the scent of freshly cut grass. The stars poked gentle pinpoint holes in the silk fabric of the night, the moon looming overhead like an angel. The wind caressed the wind-chime trees, leaves softly whispering to themselves, brushing over the short, lime grass, swaying it softly. The air was crisp and dry and smelled like soap and grass. The long, black and yellow parking lot stretched out ahead, rolling like ebony hills. The window to the hospital was carelessly thrown open, the lilac curtains chasing the whistling wind. And between the grass and trees and wind stood a figure, blending darkly with the night around him. His hair and shirt caught the breeze like everything else out in the open. He stood alone, his off-white button down shirt falling gently around his slender figure. His face still as the stone building before him, red lines growing up his neck like ivy. He stood there for a while, just outside his room. Just thinking.
Sherlock didn't know why he went outside at all, really. He could have done anything he had wanted inside. But there was something about the crisp air outside that seemed to help his mind. It wasn't the same as back at Baker Street, though. The smell was different. The feel was different.
He had almost forgotten about Baker Street, really. Forgotten he'd ever had a home at all.
Slowly, he lifted the phone to his ear. It rang. This is pointless, he thought. It rang again. This is stupid, he told himself. This is outrageous, he argued. It rang once more.
"I'm sorry, this number is not available. At the tone, please record your message." Said the automated voice.
"Yes," Sherlock said. "It's Sherlock. Listen, I'm aware you have plans, but we don't have time for them, alright? I need to report. It's Moriarty. He knows about Lucifer. Something big is happening, and you never got to explain anything. Look, you're a huge jerk, but I need you. Not just for information, but for…" He stopped there, and even though there was no point, he added, "Just, call back Mycroft. Please."
He hung up. Immediately, he pressed another contact. Another pointless call.
The three rings passed ever so slowly, the same thoughts running through his head. This one wasn't as stupid, but it wasn't as though he'd have his phone on him.
"Sorry, I can't come to the phone right now," Answered Sam on the answering machine. "You must know what to do."
"Hello, Sam, it's Sherlock." He said coldly. "If you're not dead, please call back. It turns out my stupid brother was right. Lucifer is coming. And… if it's possible we may have even bigger fish to fry. Unless your arm is literally too badly burned for you to move, call me back." And then he hung up.
And this time, he hesitated before he made the call. He just stared at his phone, and the thoughts that passed through his head weren't in words but in shades of mournful violet and guilty blue. Finally, he pressed the contact.
He was yelling at himself not to do this as the phone rang once, twice, three times. Finally, the automated voice responded.
"I'm sorry, this number is not available. At the tone, please record your message." The beep sounded. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat and his stomach churned.
"Hey," He greeted casually, looking to the ground. "It's me again. Look, I found a case. It's the devil himself, very not boring. Very dangerous, though. Mycroft is already dead, thanks to me. I didn't mean it, but you'd obviously know that because you're…" He stopped, leaving that thought behind. "Anyway. I met the Winchesters. They've both got the moral compass of a bloody saint. It's rather annoying, actually. They barely let me do anything…"
He bit his lip. "So um… things are fine. Mary misses you, I assume, but we haven't really talked. I've… killed less people. I know you'd… tell me that was no excuse and be shocked that I didn't care, but I still don't. In fact, you'd be surprised how little I care. It seems nice, sometimes, being people, empathetic and able to avoid bad choices just because of a primal instinct I was born without." he paused. "I want to, you know. I haven't been able to since…" He swallowed. "Call me back, John," He whispered. "As soon as you can."
Without really thinking of escape tactics or strategies, he started walking down the road. What were they gonna do if they caught him, heal him some more?
Everything hurt to move, so he wasn't exactly fast. The burns didn't so much… burn anymore. In fact, through his rather thin shirt in this rather chilly night, he was quite cool. But they ached, and he knew they would for a long time.
He must have walked for about a quarter mile, before something caught his eye.
He wasn't really sure why he was suddenly so interested in the closed thrift shop on the other side of the street. But he did know he didn't like the button down, on its own, anyway. He looked around. No cars, no pedestrians.
For a moment he evaluated his choices. It's hardly worth it, one part of him said. Getting caught would be difficult and tedious, and what for? You're really worrying about something so stupid when there's so much else to think about?
But then there was that other part of him, that was telling him otherwise, that was spreading a confident, eager grin across his face, and telling himself You've been 'thinking' for 99% of your life. Your brother just died, your life is a disaster, and Satan is literally about to rise up out of Hell. Why think about any of that and just bring yourself back down again? No, right now, I don't want to think. Or deduce. Or consider any consequences or benefits of my actions or anything.
Right now, I want a new trench coat.
Based off that outrageous thought alone, he stepped into the empty street with a smile on his face, feeling like he was the king of the world. He'd just survived an explosion. Even he had to admit, that was pretty cool. He swept up to the door and easily picked the lock and jimmied it open; he didn't even need a paperclip. No one was inside.
He took what he wanted, and he knew exactly what he did want. When he was finished, he put it all on and stood in front of the mirror in the changing room.
He grinned at the result. The long trench coat swooped around him like the night sky folding down, its fabric new and clear. The jacket beneath was practically shimmering, and tight-fitted perfectly around his waist. He even found a copy of the blue silk scarf he used to wear and tucked it into his jacket.
He straightened the sides of his jacket, and ruffled up his curly black hair.
"I'd love to stay longer," He told his reflection in the mirror, seeing his own blue eyes sparkling with excitement. "But I'm afraid the game is on!"
As Sherlock left the shop, he already found he was feeling much better with his trench coat flapping behind him like a cape. He stepped back out into the crisp air, now far less melancholy. As he stood on the opposite side of the road, he heard his phone ring, which he had put in his new pocket. He checked the caller I.D. Ah. So Sam wasn't dead. I mean, unless someone else was using his phone, but that was unlikely.
"So you aren't dead," He greeted bluntly.
"Uh, not quite…" He heard the other side of the phone respond. It was, indeed, Sam, but he sounded very weak and tired. If he remembered properly, he was more taken aback, and therefore was running behind Sherlock, and therefore closer to the explosion. He was probably even worse off. "I'd still like to know what happened," Sam continued. "I mean you kind of just told me to run and then a couple seconds later the damn white house blew up."
"In due time, Sam," Sherlock responded. Sam didn't seem that hung up over it, and he immediately moved on.
"You mentioned bigger fish to fry," he said. "What could possibly be bigger than Lucifer?"
"An old enemy," Sherlock responded.
"Human?"
"I'm not so sure, as of now," He responded. "But if you're asking if he's ordinary, the answer is most certainly no. His power and apathy are approximately matched with mine, only, while I don't feel the need to and would go so far to say I don't like taking lives and committing crimes, I believe he has found himself addicted to it."
A shiver ran down Sam's spine. Sherlock always spoke quickly and in complex terms, but what he heard was 'like Sherlock but worse'. It was hard to imagine without imagining the devil himself. He cleared his throat.
"You mentioned Mycroft, is he really…?"
"Dead? Yes, he is." Sherlock answered emotionlessly.
"Are you… okay?" He asked slowly.
"Of course," Sherlock said, but his sharp tone told him not to pry. "Why isn't Dean there?"
"How did you-"
"You would have put him on speaker."
A silence on the other end of the phone. "You're Sherlock Holmes," He responded. "Tell me yourself."
Sherlock thought for a moment, before he understood. "Of course." He said. "The blood tests."
"Now would be a great time for that magic antidote, Sherlock," Sam said weakly. "Haven't I done enough?"
Sherlock didn't answer, but asked yet another question. "What do the doctors think?"
"They aren't sure, they wanna do some more tests. There's nothing really noticeably wrong, so I don't think I'll be tested on as some kind of freak of nature. But they can recognize an addict when they see one. They told Dean they'd want me for therapy, for the burns and the drugs, and he, well, flipped. I had to tell him about the demon blood. I didn't have a choice."
"You could have lied."
"To my own brother?"
"You haven't had a problem in the past."
Sam didn't respond to that, and, after a moment, moved on again. "They're going mad looking for you," He said. "Where the Hell are you?"
"Getting a new trench coat," He responded, a smile passing over his lips.
"No, seriously." Sam insisted.
"Honest. My old one was burnt to ash, I wanted a new one."
"And you got the money where?"
"I didn't."
Sam wanted to tell him off, but all that came from his mouth was a laugh. "You idiot!" He said. His laughter escalated until he was nearly crying and aching all over. He didn't know why it was so funny. Maybe because when that explosion went off he never thought he'd hear anything funny ever again.
Or anything at all, for that matter.
Sherlock smirked to himself and waited for Sam to stop laughing, quite pleased about being alive, too. He had come to the conclusion that life didn't really have a point, but sometimes it was kinda fun. Maybe that was the point. Or something.
Sherlock waited until he was done, before he spoke again. "You asked about the cure…" He began. "I have it."
"You do?" Sam asked, excitement shining through his voice, but it quickly faded. "You say that like there's a catch."
"You're getting better, Samuel," He complimented smoothly.
"Heh. Thanks." Sam said, but his laugh was fake. "So, what is it?"
"The cure is the same holy water injection I began on you. You were only on it for about twenty minutes. You'd have to stay on it for at least…" He thought for a moment, looking up and doing the math. "Five times as longer. Making it at least five times worse."
Sam swallowed. "Well… don't sugar coat it…" He muttered sarcastically.
"Fine." He said. "The physical reaction to the natural anxiety combined with the physical pain itself will make it closer to six and a half times worse."
"Thanks, Sherlock."
"You're welcome."
Sam sighed, unable to tell if he was being sarcastic or if he was really that indelicate.
"So… it'll feel like I'm… on fire?" Sam asked wearily.
"Worse," Sherlock responded. "You hadn't gotten to the hallucinogenic state yet. Well, I assume that's what would happen. To be totally honest, I'm not sure what'll happen."
"So you're just gonna shoot me up with something that could kill me or cure me?"
"Have you ever heard of Schrodinger's cat, Samuel?"
"Uh, yeah. Something to do with a cat and some poison. Why?"
"Life and death are both and neither." He said vaguely. "It's up to you to go in the box or not. I can't tell you what will happen. Are you willing to risk it?"
"I…" He didn't answer, but paused for a long time. "You know it'll feel like I'm burning?"
"Yes."
"And that's all you can be sure of?"
"That's all I can be 100% certain of, yes."
"And anything could happen?"
"To some extent."
Sam took a breath, about to speak, but just let it out again.
"Well, do take it into consideration that you were just in a real fire," Sherlock told him factually. "You have some sort of preparation."
"Are you… comforting me?" Sam asked him, disbelieving.
"No," He denied instantly, but he could feel Sam smirking over the phone.
Sam sighed once more, before he briskly said the words. "I'll do it." Sherlock grinned.
"Can you get out of there on your own?"
"Can I wait until the morning?"
"In daylight?"
"Early daylight."
"Fine. You'll bring Dean?"
"If he'll come. Same hotel, same room?"
"Of course."
"See you around… 5:00?"
"Absolutely."
The spoke briskly and fast before Sherlock hung up the phone and put it back in his pocket. As soon as it was away, a taxi, its light piercing through the night nearly passed him. He called it quickly and swung in.
The cabbie clearly didn't know any of his usual routes, and he had to take a few separate cabs across state borders (all of which he kneeled in), so he was there within a few hours. He didn't bother checking in, even though he didn't have the key and had to pick the lock, but it had become second nature. He stepped into the hotel room.
Everything was the same, totally untouched. He wasn't sure why he expected anything else, but he did.
Actually, upon looking closer, he found something was different. Quite different , actually. On the table, scattered with various books and computers practically piled on top of each other, something had been added. He stepped closer. On the center of the table was a note. It was put on printer paper, folded up into quarters, with a ballpoint pen weighting it down. It was hidden in the dark, but still, he saw it before he even turned on the light.
He flicked the switch. He winced as the room illuminated.
Slowly he approached the note, his feet making no sound against the wooden floor. He knew it was too thin to contain a bomb, and he'd have to read it aloud to get cursed by it, and its shape wouldn't let it be a hex bag. Still, last time he had gotten a voicemail, of all things, he was nearly killed, so he told himself he had the right to be cautious.
He lifted the note along with the pen. There was nothing off about it, it was nothing but a letter and a pen. After checking and double checking that it was nothing but a note, he unfolded it.
This is what it said.
Dearest Sherlock,
Sorry for my absence. I've been a little busy, to be honest. I know you saw me a few days ago, but those were hardly the right circumstances for a meeting. We really ought to talk in person, there are lots of things we have to discuss. I won't tell you much here. Keep an eye out for me, Sherlock. I'm closer than you think.
Sherlock laid the note back down on the table. It was signed, but not in ink. Not in pencil, not with any marking. But a name was all over the page. He knew who it had to be. Who else?
Who else but Moriarty?
Sherlock stepped carefully into the living room, going to turn on the news for research but it felt like someone was tearing his skin off as soon as he barely even touched the surface of the couch. He stood back up. That wasn't going to work.
It seemed this would require a little problem solving.