(A/N: You can refer back to my disclaimer on religious views in chapter one if you like, but the point remains the same. I neither support nor oppose any formal religious institution, any distortion is a product of story telling, not personal belief.)
John felt out of place immediately. He walked into a decent sized sitting room and found two people very hard at work, and one distinctly-less-human person in some sort of trance. Sherlock sauntered into the room like he fully belonged there, leaving John to follow meekly behind.
"I've got him," Sherlock declared tiredly, like John was an errant child that needed to be chased down the street. "Introduce yourselves."
Sherlock faffed off down the hall, to do who knows what, and John stood really awkwardly, pinned by three pairs of curious eyes.
"Greg Lestrade," a muscled, scarred, and grey haired man introduced, holding out a calloused hand to shake. "Demon hunter. Used to trap them and give them to the angels, back in the day, but now I usually just destroy the bastards."
The woman in a trance cleared her throat and opened her eyes. She stood, a trailing translucent black silk behind her. John took Sherlock's advice and focused nether on her beautiful face or frankly incredible body. He stuck his gaze to the long black, terrifying talons at the ends of her fingers.
"John Watson," she said, her voice sultry and low. "Sherlock has talked so much about you. Forgive me, but you are not what I expected."
John felt a flash of irritation and smiled, unable to resist the urge to lift his chin and meet her eyes, Sherlock's advice be damned.
He was...disappointed. Sherlock made it seem as though she would be irresistible, but John felt nothing more than the passing attraction he experienced around any beautiful woman.
"You're not what I expected either," he said honestly. "Pleased to meet you. Irene, was it?"
She smiled, and it looked more like an aggressive baring of teeth than anything else. "Pleasure's all mine," she said with a distinct lack of sincerity. She sat back down on the sofa and closed her eyes again.
John turned his attention to the last member of the group.
"Molly," she said shyly, holding out her hand. "Molly Hooper."
"You're the demonologist, then?" John clarified, returning her surprisingly firm grip.
"Just a hobbyist," she corrected, flustered. "I'm not sure why Sherlock recruited me."
"Because you're the best," the angel interrupted, emerging from wherever he had gotten off to. "And you'll work with me."
"That seems to be an important qualifier with you," John pointed out fondly. "Maybe if you weren't such a prick most of the time..."
Molly and Greg both looked a little shocked at John's boldness, but Sherlock just rolled his eyes.
"I'm an archangel," he said, sounding miffed. "I'm allowed to be rude to you pathetic mortals."
"Until you need our help, you prat," John continued. "So what exactly is going on then? We're sweeping London, looking for a Priority One?"
"That's what Irene is doing," Sherlock said, gesturing to the succubus. "She's locating the demonic energies. Greg's job is to hunt them down once she determines their general area, Molly's job is to figure out what demon we're dealing with, your job is to kick them out of their hosts, and my job is to interrogate them to see what they know about Moriarty and where he might be hiding." Sherlock took a seat in a leather arm chair, gesturing for John to sit opposite.
"Where will the exorcisms take place?" John asked, taking the offered seat.
Sherlock gave him a slightly confused look.
John rolled his eyes. "Do we really have to go through this every single time, Sherlock? I need to perform the exorcisms on holy ground. I won't be able to prevent the demon from just leaving and going somewhere else, otherwise."
Sherlock waved him off. "Oh, yes. You're going to deal with that."
John sighed and took out his phone, scrolling through contacts. "I'll call Father Murray," he said, selecting the name. "I'll see if they can clear out the old chapel and let us make a work station of it."
John got up and gave Sherlock a questioning look, wondering where he could talk without disturbing the rest of the group. The angel indicated the kitchen with a flick of his head and John went to there to make his call.
… …
"So how do you know John?" Molly asked Sherlock tentatively. She sounded insecure, the same way she did whenever she talked about Irene, and Sherlock frowned inwardly.
"He's my exorcist," Sherlock said simply. "The only one in the city that will work with me. We've done several jobs together now, although it has been nearly a year since the last, when John expressed the desire to cease working relations. That was my fault, I accidentally dropped him off the top of a building."
"You what?" Lestrade asked, suddenly a lot more interested in the conversation.
"Long story," Sherlock said, brushing it aside. "I caught him. He was fine. Told me he needed some time away, that working directly with Heaven was too exhausting for him. He's spent the last year working as the 'consulting exorcist' and pitching in with whatever religious sect needed him at the time. I've kept an eye on him, and he's still the best exorcist in London, although he doesn't look like much."
"I can hear you," John called from the kitchen.
"It's your fault for wearing those horrid jumpers," Sherlock retorted.
"They're cheap and it takes more time for acidic spit to burn through them," John yelled. "Now shut up, I'm making a phone call."
Sherlock turned back to Molly. "He knows what he's doing, ability to dress himself notwithstanding. You don't need to worry about him holding his own."
"I'm not worried about that," Molly said hurriedly. "I was just wondering...I mean, you two seem so close."
"I have to agree, Sherlock darling," Irene said from the couch. "If I had known you were taken, I wouldn't have signed up for this. Now what am I going to get out of this arrangement?"
"Your freedom," Sherlock said shortly.
"We're not a couple!" John yelled from the kitchen.
"I used to live with him," Sherlock answered Molly. "When we were working those jobs, it was easier for me just to stay corporal and hang around his flat." Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not sure how human relationships work, but I believe we were, at one point, friends. Or, as much as I can have a mortal friend."
"And then you dropped me off a building," John said, putting his phone away as he reentered the sitting room.
"Accidentally," Sherlock added quickly.
"With purpose and intent," John argued. "You said, 'John, I'm going to drop you. Don't worry, if you die, you'll go to heaven,' and then you dropped me off a building."
"I caught you again," Sherlock insisted.
"Barely," John said, sitting back down. "Father Murray says that they'll help us clean out the old chapel. It's not in use anymore, but it's still on holy ground. Of course, we'll have to get the demons there."
"My job," Greg said, raising his hand slightly. "I can wrangle them, don't worry about that. You've got the tough job."
"I know," John sighed. "I'm going to need more holy water. And some belladonna. Holy oil too. God, I could think of an entire list."
"Make one," Sherlock ordered. "We'll be getting started sooner rather than later, and it wouldn't do to have you killed due to lack of preparation."
"Speaking of sooner," Irene interrupted, opening her eyes again. "There's a Priority One mucking around central London. You'd better get your little chapel ready quickly. It's on the move."
… …
"Are you sure this Murray fellow is a friend and not someone who secretly hates you?" Sherlock asked, looking at the dusty, cluttered ruins of a chapel with disgust.
"It's the best we've got," John sighed. "I'm not going to make them put any of their exorcisms or holy works on halt just because we need their space. Pass me that rag. I think there's an entire colony of spiders in that corner."
"I hate spiders," Sherlock muttered, handing John the rag.
"You could help," John added, squashing the arachnids Sherlock professed to despise.
Sherlock nudged a cardboard box with his foot. "No," he said at last, turning and walking out of the chapel.
"Prick," John muttered. "Oh. Oy! Get back here!"
Sherlock came back. "What?"
"If you're going to be useless, go back to my flat and get my bag of supplies. I need to be ready when Greg comes back."
"Lestrade said that it could take a few hours for him to find the demon," Sherlock pointed out.
"A few hours that I will be spending cleaning out this chapel. Get my bag for me."
"Fine," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes and releasing his wings.
He vanished in that annoying flash of heavenly light and John continued with his work.
An hour later, the chapel was looking noticeably emptier, although it was still absolutely filthy. He chased out he rats with resigned determination and squashed any creepy crawly things that were just too gross for him to ignore.
Sherlock finally flashed back and dropped John's bag.
"Greg called me," he explained. "Apparently he got the thing's trail. Or, they found some of the bodies he's been leaving behind. Greg used to be a police officer. He called some friends on the force who helped make a connection between some unsolved deaths and this demon."
"Unsolved deaths?"
"Yes. Scotland Yard has been dealing with a string of serial suicides and didn't think it wise to contact a demon hunter. Idiots."
"Serial suicides?!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, John. Do you live under a rock? A bunch of people have killed themselves in identical ways. We're dealing with a suicide demon here. And a dangerous one at that. Keep cleaning, this is going to be a rough one."
… …
"He's moving quickly," Greg said, keeping Molly on the line. "I can't figure out how he's traveling, or where he's picking his victims from."
He heard the sound of Molly frantically flipping through books. "Well, there are a bunch of suicide demons," Molly said, likely skimming through enormous amounts of text. "From a lot of different faiths. It would depend on who we're dealing with. There's one that seeks out people who are ready to kill themselves, and they just give the final push."
"Doesn't look like that's the case," Greg said, shaking his head, although she couldn't see it.
"Um, there's one that possesses people and forces them to kill themselves."
"No."
"There's one that violently murders the families of the victims so they kill themselves in grief."
"No. Thank Christ for that one."
"There's a guy kidnaps people and threatens them into killing themselves."
"Maybe."
"And then there's a guy who tricks people into playing a game with him."
"You're going to have to be a little more specific with that one, Molly."
Molly rustled with more papers. "Um. His whole thing is that everything is done voluntarily. He tricks people into following him, then he convinces them to play some sort of game of chance where the loser dies. But he's rigged it, of course. There's no way he could possibly lose."
"All the victims are taking poison," Greg pointed out. "And there's no sign of a struggle. Could that be part of the game?"
"I don't know," Molly said, sounding flustered. "These books are vague, and most of these stories are just that—stories. Centuries old with little factual basis. The only solid information we have is from the Reveal forward. That's only five years; few significant demons have even been caught in that time."
"Let's just hypothesize that we're dealing with the game master guy," Greg finally said. "If you're going to lure someone away, how would you do it?"
"I don't know. I'd be bad at it. I'd probably make up some fake emergency that I need their help with."
"The police reports don't say anything like that. No witnesses to something like that, at least. The victims just...disappeared."
"What were they doing?"
Greg stopped walking and sat at a nearby bench, taking out his pocket notebook. "Victim one was heading home from an airport. Victim two was out with a friend, he went home to grab an umbrella. Victim three was at a party, no one knows when she left. Victim four was on a business trip. And Irene just led us to victim five. We don't know what he had been doing yet."
"Well, none of them were home."
"What?" Greg asked.
Molly stuttered slightly. "That's all I can connect. None of them were home. They were all out and about. I don't know. I mean, I guess that makes more sense. You can't subtly kidnap someone from their home."
"Listen, I'll call you back, Molly," Greg sighed. "I'll consult with Sherlock and, if I have to, Irene. Text me if you find anything new."
"Alright. Bye. Good luck!"
Greg hung up and sighed, looking up at the perpetually overcast sky for a moment.
He suddenly became aware that someone was sitting beside him, although he didn't register anyone approach.
He turned and jumped. "Jesus!"
"Sherlock, actually," the annoying angel corrected. "You wanted to consult? Any more progress?"
"Just, stuck on some of the details," Greg sighed. "If you had to kidnap someone out of a crowd, how would you do it?"
"Pretend to be someone they trust, of course," Sherlock said promptly.
Greg raised an eyebrow. "That's it? What, disguise yourself as a friend or family member?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Of course not. You would be amazed at the number of strangers you humans will trust with your lives. You trust cooks not to poison your food. You trust doctors to prescribe the right pills. You trust bus drivers to be sober at the wheel. You trust airplane pilots not to shirk their responsibilities. As a child, you trust teachers to let you go home and you trust the parents of you classmates and friends to be responsible for you. Complete strangers, all these people, and they hold your life in their hands. Terrifying thought, isn't it?"
"I'll say," Greg said heavily. "So...what? Dress up as a police officer and tell the victim they're in danger? Bystanders would remember that."
"So you're looking for an exit that bystanders wouldn't remember?"
"Yes," Greg said with a sigh.
"There was a woman in a green jumper across the street. She departed very suddenly with a stranger thirty seconds ago. Did you notice her leave?"
Greg looked over to the other side of the street, saw only a few passerby, and looked back to Sherlock. "No? What happened?" Had they really just sat by during a kidnapping?
"She got in a cab," Sherlock said simply.
He disappeared in a flash of white light.
Greg got a text an instant later.
Contact me when you're ready to go after him. I have something you will need. –SH
… …
Sherlock reappeared looking monstrously smug.
"Solve the mystery, then?" John asked, smiling.
"Oh, at times I wish I was a mortal," Sherlock sighed. "I would have had so much fun, solving puzzles like this. Lestrade really was hopeless, I'm glad he wanted to talk to me, he never would have figured it out on his own."
"Oh? What was it then?"
"Molly and Lestrade figured out it was a suicide demon all by themselves," Sherlock said, sounding like a condescending parent. "They probably even figured out which kind. He just needed help figuring out what the demon was posing as to get people to follow it."
"And you figured it out?"
"I figured it out!" Sherlock crowed. "He's pretending to be a cabbie! Oh, it's brilliant. People hop into his cab like nothing's wrong, and then he tricks them into dying. Lovely. It feels like Christmas."
"For an angel, you're rather fond of death."
"I'm an archangel," Sherlock reminded him. "I'm a warrior by nature. Dealing with demons is just sort of what we do."
"Well congratulations," John said, mopping the chapel floor. "So Greg is on the right track?"
"Oh it will be hours yet before we can find him, but yes. I would say that we're heading in the right direction now."
"Good," John said. "Pick up a mop. We need to keep cleaning the chapel."
"But John..."
"Now. Sherlock. Stop whining and help, you giant, immortal child."
Sherlock grumbled and muttered and cursed and insulted John for several moments, but eventually he did pick up a mop, so John counted that as a win.
(A/N: You can follow me for updates and excerpts at .com)