Prompt: Sherlock Holmes, Sirius Black and Crowley walk into a bar.
This marks Crowley's first (but hardly last) appearance in this collection – I did warn you. This is my brain... *shakes head*
The three men in the corner of the pub were all thin (in one case, almost to the point of starvation), dark-haired (ranging from fashionable to hasn't-seen-a-pair-of-scissors-since-Thatcher to curls), and scowling. Told that one of them was a demon, you probably wouldn't guess the right one.
(Nobody would be surprised that a demon was drinking there, however. The Old Chesnut – it was the sort of place that had its name in oversized metal letters on the front of the building; consequently the first 't' had been stolen at some point in history, and the local accent ensured it remained lost – had that sort of (manufactured) history. Anyway, the demon was a regular.)
Crowley glared at Sherlock Holmes, who was oblivious. Oblivious. World's Greatest Detective, his arse.
Sherlock Holmes studied the clientele and was unimpressed. He was presumably also considering how to use his knowledge against said clientele for the terrible crime of being uninteresting.
Sirius Black cleared his throat. "Another round, gents?"
Crowley switched his glare to the other man. "Black. You can't buy. You can't even handle the currency."
"It's all the bits of paper," Sirius said, utterly unashamed. "I mean, what's the difference? It all looks the same to me."
"Unobservant," Sherlock sniffed, the worst insult anyone could receive as far as he was concerned. Crowley had a very different opinion. He'd caused a war the last time he used his worst insult. Mycroft had been very displeased.
(Mycroft was definitely one of Crowley's.)
"No shit," Crowley drawled. "Look, Black, there are numbers in the corners. It's not that difficult. We're not talking pre-decimal any more. They even got rid of the halfpenny in '84! So, how many pence to a pound?"
He couldn't keep getting out of paying for his round, dammit! ...Even if Holmes got his drinks free because he cleared up a little bother for the bartender a few years ago, and Crowley charged his drinks to Hell.
After a long moment of thought, Sirius gave up with a shrug. "Dunno."
Wizards. Honestly, the commendation he'd got for (accidentally) creating the Statute of Secrecy just wasn't worth the hassle of dealing with their mired culture. It was a good thing the wizards were even more adept at creating their own problems than ordinary humans, because if Crowley had to deal with an entire subculture in the mould of Sirius Black on a regular basis, he'd discorporate himself.
"One hundred, you idiot." Crowley said with a sigh. "It used to be two hundred and forty, with twelve pence to a shilling, and twenty shilling to a pound. See how much easier you've got it now?"
The wizard shrugged again. "I don't see why we can't just drink at The Leaky Cauldron."
Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because some of us remember what Sherlock is capable of doing with a magnifying glass, four sickles, a pack of playing cards and a Horklump, and don't want to see a repeat."
"So it's not because I'm a wanted mass-murderer?" Sirius said, looking about as innocent as Aziraphale when Crowley demanded to know what had happened to the last teacake that had most definitely been on the plate when he left the room five minutes ago.
Sherlock snorted quietly from his corner, where he was analysing the different types of dirt on various patrons' shoes. Crowley waved a hand dismissively. "How many knuts in a galleon?" He demanded, returning to the previous conversation.
"Four hundred and ninety-three," Sirius responded promptly. "That's different."
"No it bloody isn't," Crowley insisted.
"Gentlemen," Sherlock said irritably, out of dirt samples. "Are you going to bicker over exchange rates or are we going to drink?"
"Someone's pissy," Sirius grinned. "What, boyfriend not putting out?"
Reality didn't tend to realign with Sherlock's wishes as it did Crowley's, and so his glare couldn't actually kill the other man, but Sirius flinched anyway.
"Oh, but Sirius," Crowley said delightedly, his previously empty wine glass suddenly full of a rather surprised Cabernet Sauvignon, "It's colleague, isn't it, Sherlock?"
Sherlock's glare moved from 'I hope you die a miserable death in a ditch' to 'I will kill you with a spoon and use your heart for a decorative ornament'.
"Oh, low blow," Sirius winced, shaking his head in commiseration.
"John is a dear friend and it doesn't matter how he refers to himself – Should we bring into this discussion your dubious relationship with your opposite number? I'm sure Hell would be delighted to hear all about it."
"Every time I think we've hit the bottom, it just keeps getting nastier," Sirius remarked to nobody in a tone of deep admiration.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Crowley said mildly. "And if you keep that up, you won't know either."
"Hey, hey, I thought we agreed we couldn't use memory charms on the only muggle!"
"Particularly when he's one of the few humans who uses his brains? Yes. But Sirius, you remember that time in–"
"...Yes?"
"– when you–"
"...Yes."
"– and then he–"
"Oh Merlin."
"– and you woke up a week later with a potato–"
"Aargh!"
"Exactly. Besides, it's not like he can't deduce everything that occurred and turn up next month as if nothing happened."
"Rather unfair of you to use magic though," Sherlock said mildly.
"No it's not," Sirius argued, suddenly on the other side of the debate with the reacquired memory of That Time. "Any other muggle, maybe, but you – Merlin's ratty hat, what did you do to those Death Eaters?"
"We had a chat," Sherlock said mildly.
"One of them was found in a monastery!"
"He's been talking to Aziraphale," Crowley said. His smile was rather... pointed. "Which is cheating. I'm so proud."
"And two of 'em will never use their arms again, even with magic," Sirius continued, oblivious.
"Well, you see, John has this thing about terrorists. He likes to see them out of commission permanently."
"And we're not even talking about the four that – well. I still can't work out how you managed that."
'Mycroft?' Crowley mouthed.
Sherlock made a face somewhat akin to a cat that thought it had catnip and then realised it had an orange peel. Mycroft.
"But enough about war! Any birthdays coming up?"
Crowley exchanged a Look with Sherlock. "I was never born, Sherlock thinks social niceties are for the weak and it's not like you can go dancing in the street without acquiring a conga line of police – sorry, aurors."
"Just trying to lighten the mood," Sirius said with cheerful indifference to the Look.
"Why do we drink with him?" Crowley asked Sherlock.
"He introduced you to the best firewhiskey in London."
"Right, right."
"That, and you have a bet with Aziraphale."
"Who told you – wait. Never mind."
"Gentlemen, my glass is empty! My glass is empty!"
Hopefully Aziraphale was having about as much fun as Crowley was at this point...
"No, Mycroft, I insist. The world can run without you for ten minutes while you enjoy this fruitcake."
"I'm on a diet, Aziraphale, I really must–"
"Blueberry cheesecake?"
"Oh, very well."
"Delighted to hear it, my dear. Tea, John?"
"Please."
"And you, Remus?"
"No, thank you. Still got a scone to finish."
Aziraphale beamed at them.
Seemingly unable to help themselves, they grinned back.
It really was too bad, the things he and Mycroft had to do to give them time for these little chats.
(Mycroft was definitely one of Aziraphale's.)