Inner Demon

Book 4

'John, Sherlock, and a very dangerous enemy'

John woke very suddenly and very painfully. It was like his mind suddenly snapped awake and all of the sensations around him overwhelmed his unguarded mind, and it hurt more than John would have expected. He groaned and jerked his head up, neck stiff, and nearly screamed at the horrible pain that seemed to choke him.

The most pain that he noticed first was in his wrists. His head was hurting and foggy from being knocked out, but his wrists were bound above his head so his shoulder was stretched awkwardly and painfully, and his wrists were positively burning. He looked up, gaining his feet on the cold floor, and saw his wrists were bound with iron manacles, and there was dried golden blood that traced lines down his arms.

He gasped and arched his back against the hard, rough wall and hissed as his wrists suddenly started to burn. He noticed a faint glimmer on the inside of his manacles, and cursed. The manacles were dusted with gold flakes. Unlike what humans thought, gold was not pure, and it was like, well, kryptonite to Angels. It burned their flesh and made their golden blood boil.

He was standing against a cold wall, his arms bound with gold-encrusted manacles, shirt discarded and his golden blood like spider webs running down his arms and matting the hair on the side of his head. His muscles were burning and his neck, back and shoulders were stiff. John knew that if his captor knew gold burned him that he was very aware of the Angels and their weaknesses he was either an Angel himself or a heavily informed human.

When he opened his eyes again and looked around his prison, he became aware of two facts. One was his mind was sluggish and dulled, and he had very little protection around his mind and he could not monitor his surroundings. The second was that he was not alone. He heard the heavy breathing of someone very close by.

"Johnny boy!" A singsong voice rang out, and it hurt the Angel's ears like a dog whistle. "Have you figured it out yet?"

He blinked and stood a bit straighter; lifting his arms a bit higher to minimize the area the gold touched his skin. He didn't respond to the horrifying voice.

"Tisk tisk!" the voice sung, closer now, and it made John's flesh crawl. "I really expected more from you, Johnny. Really I did. But I suppose this could make you speak."

At that, a painfully bright light flicked on from the ceiling above John's head, and he was blinded before his eyes adjusted unnaturally quickly to the light. He gasped at what he saw.

A man was slumped on a chair before him, tied to a chair mercilessly by rough rope and handcuffs binding his hands behind the back of the wooden chair. There was blood on his leg, and crusted on the side of the man's pale face. His ebony curls were matted and pulled out in some places, and his clothes were torn, frayed and dirty. Sherlock groaned, his head lolling on his shoulders and cringing against the painful light. There were many scratches marring his porcelain skin.

"Sherlock," John whispered.

"I kna-WHO it!" the voice rang out, drawing out the 'who' of the word knew.

"Let us go!" John snapped, pulling against his restraints then regretting it as the gold burned deeper into his already injured wrists.

"Not a chance, Johnny," the voice mocked, dangerously close now. "Or should I say Merci?"

The name hit him like a slap and Sherlock's eyes became less clouded at the Angelic word. John cringed and yelled, "How do you know my name?"

"Everyone knows your name, Merci!" The voice sung happily. "But do you know mine?"

"How could I?"

"I saddened by your lack of effort, Merci," the voice said, and then it suddenly had a face.

Generic was the first word that came to mind. But the black hair was slick and his eyes were bugging out of his head, a horribly gleeful smile on his expressive lips. His suit was spiffy, clean and totally unsuited for the conditions the three men were facing.

John's breath caught in his throat, and he took a hesitant whiff through his nose. He gasped and coughed viscously.

"Ah ha!" The man said gleefully. "You know who I am then? Well, go on! Tell our human friend, why don't you?"

John winced and looked at Sherlock, who had sat up straighter in his chair and looked at him with confused and his extraordinarily clever eyes for the moment.

"Who is he, John?" Sherlock asked, his voice hoarse.

"A Howler, Sherlock," John whispered. "He's a Howler."

The Howler laughed happily. "You seem so surprised! Of course I'm a Howler! Not in my true form, of course, you human would have been vaporized by now. I took the form of a human to survive after I fell."

"A fallen Howler?" John laughed mirthlessly, unable to help himself.

The demon looked at him with malevolent eyes that made John shut his mouth and cower against the wall.

"Yes, I fell. I decided I liked the humans and became one of them, more or less. I gave myself a fun little name: Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal! It was so fun seeing how they reacted, how their pathetic police force tried to stop me! So many crimes, so many murders." The words rolled of his tongue and he was smiling at John's obvious fear. "Oh, but then I smelled an Angel! How delicious, the smell of pure flesh among these beasts. But I could not reach you, not yet. So I waited, and I knew you would not resist the Uniting, so I waited to finally be able to have my meal until now. But, personally, I like to play with my food before I eat it."

The demon had prowled forward to John, ignoring the human completely, and crowded the Angel with his taller form. He knew all Angels were claustrophobic to an extent, and he saw Merci cower against the wall and away from him, and he smiled devilishly.

Moriarty grinned and dragged one finger along John's cheek, and John cried out and tried to get away from his poisonous touch, but it was no use. The single fingertip left a line of golden blood and a red rash flaring up all around the shallow cut. John clamped his jaw shut and closed his eyes, not looking at the Howler, not giving him the pleasure of hearing him scream.

"Ah, Merci, none of that," Moriarty purred, and cupped his jaw. John cried out again and hit his head against the wall, trying to get away, but unable to stop two trails of crimson tears running down his face. Quite sadly, John was crying blood. Not literally, but his tears were a blood red and devastatingly beautiful.

"Leave him alone!" Sherlock screamed, yanking against his bonds, unable to see his Angel crying and wound up tight with pain. The chair was nailed to the floor but he strained against his bonds for all he was worth.

Moriarty let go of John and smiled as his head rolled forward as the Angle tried to cope with the pain. He turned and looked at the struggling human.

"Ah, you're the one who stole the Angel's heart, am I right?" Moriarty smiled viscously but Sherlock did not shrink away from his hateful glare. "A mere human, how pathetic. Tell me, does my touch hurt you?"

He grabbed Sherlock's neck, wrenching it backwards, and Sherlock hissed for only a moment by the startling coldness of the demon's flesh, burning like liquid nitrogen. He glared into the demon's eyes but did not respond, though his skin was turning an angry red around Moriarty's hand.

"Not the reaction I was expecting," Moriarty said, but he smiled and Sherlock knew he was in for much more torture than that. "How quaint. But I know what will get you screaming, and it will certainly not be because of any injury on your part."

Before he finished the sentence, Moriarty had let Sherlock's neck go and strode to John, who had lifted his head to watch Sherlock with fearful and pained eyes. He stared at Sherlock even as the demon grew closer, but was forced to look away when the Howler thrust him against the wall behind him and slammed his palm over the scar on his shoulder.

John couldn't help himself. He screamed, head hitting the wall behind him and every muscle in his body going as taut as a bowstring and the black lines of his scar rising and flaring a dangerous red and throbbing. He screamed and screamed, thrashing, crying.

Sherlock screamed for Moriarty to stop only after two and a half seconds of the horrible, heart wrenching sound of his Angel screaming. "Please! Stop it! I'll do anything! Please, please stop it! Don't hurt him anymore!"

Moriarty did not listen, but cackled as John continued to scream. The cackling not unlike Sherlock had heard in that forest when John had fallen almost three and a half months ago and it made the hair on Sherlock's neck and arms rise and sent fear pounding where his heart used to beat.

Dear readers, if Moriarty had only listened to Sherlock, the Angel would have surely died, and he would have killed Sherlock as well. But he pushed John too far by not letting go and so doomed himself. He didn't know that then, but knew it when John stopped screaming and went limp, hanging desolately from his bloody manacles.

Moriarty lifted his hand from his shoulder, pursing his lips, unable to feel a sense of keen satisfaction by the sunburn red handprint on the Angel's shoulder. He turned to look at the distraught Sherlock with an evil smile on his face, and so missed when John raised his head.

John's diluted blue eyes were gone. They were replaced with the electric, fierce blue of his inner soul. Of his inner Angel.

Of his inner demon.

Bum bum bummm! How will John get them out of this one? A little magic and centuries old hatred, that's how! But at what cost?

I'm not too surprised to say that Moriarty strikes me as the fallen Howler of the series. The mother of all fallen Howlers (villains), I'd venture to say. But that's just me.

I know Moriarty doesn't like to get his hands dirty, but he's the only fallen Howler on the Earth and he's the only one who could sufficiently torture both Sherlock and John. John, mostly, and he wants to taste Angel flesh again. Ahem.

For the twelfth time, excuse any mistakes in here.

I don't own Sherlock or its characters. Very, very sadly.

Review? Please? Whoever gets the er…twenty sixth review gets a sneak peek of their choice to what happens next, what I have in mind for future stories about Angel John and Human Sherlock, or anything of their choice. Now I've resorted to bribing. Thanks.

Stay Happy,

Spirit