A/N – Yeah, this one got away from me a little. But I couldn't wait for my babies to meet...
Central London
May 2009
Mycroft Holmes, outwardly at least, is perfectly composed. He is not panicking about the escape of a maximum security prisoner from a UNIT facility. He is not dwelling on the reputation of said prisoner: a broken genius, the most powerful and ancient being in all the universe, one-time saviour of the Earth. And he is certainly not contemplating sending a small thermonuclear warhead to destroy the headquarters of UNIT once and for all, because that would be childish and petty and something Sherlock would do.
No. Mycroft Holmes is calm and collected.
Until, of course, a police report is laid quietly on his desk. Three dead bodies, one apparently torn to shreds by some gigantic beast. Now, ordinarily Mycroft would pay this no heed. Let the hunters deal with it. But there is a note scrawled across the bottom of the report in the familiar handwriting of a certain DI.
Sherlock was at the crime scene.
When Mycroft Holmes is angry, he does not shout or shoot walls. Instead, he summons his assistant – she's going by the name Medea today – and informs her that he would like to see Greg Lestrade. Immediately.
Medea leaves hurriedly. She knows Mycroft well enough not to envy Greg Lestrade one bit.
16th May
The Beast of Brixton
Between Afghanistan and working with Sherlock, I thought I'd seen it all. I thought nothing would shock me. But today, I was proved wrong.
DI Lestrade from Scotland Yard called Sherlock really early in the morning, which is never a good sign. He didn't give any details, just that it was a triple murder, and said we'd have to see the crime scene ourselves. Sherlock, of course, knew that it was something unusual and dragged me straight out of the door and into a taxi.
'Unusual' turned out to be an understatement. I'd never seen anything like it in my life. The alley where we found the bodies was covered in blood. Literally. It was dripping off the walls. Two of the victims had died of gunshots to the head, and the third... well, they'd been torn to shreds. That's the only way to describe it.
But it got weirder. Sherlock saw immediately there was too much blood, but he didn't have any idea what it could mean. I examined the bullet wounds, and that was odd too – there were burns, electrical burns, but Sherlock said the bullets were from an old revolver.
The Sherlock looked at the remains of the third victim. Somehow he deduced that if it was an animal, the animal would have to have been larger than a bear. He didn't know what to make of it – he said that it could have been a disguised attack by a human, but that didn't make sense.
And that wasn't the end of it. By looking at footprints in the blood, Sherlock deduced that a group of people followed the killer into the alley, and two made it out alive. Which still left three missing bodies, a man with a gun, and, apparently, a huge, horrible monster on the loose.
Needless to say, Sherlock was baffled. He was in his mind palace the whole ride back to Baker Street, and all he could do after that was have his homeless network look out for the survivors. It was unnerving to see him like that – so completely... out of his depth, almost. Though I doubt he'd agree, somehow.
As for me, I was just a bit scared by the whole thing. Even if there is a rational explanation, it just shows that humans are capable of the most awful things. Someone said it: "Hell is empty, and all the devils are here." I don't remember who said it. But after today, I can believe it.
Not to mention bringing back memories of the Baskerville thing. Even if the hound was a hallucination, it was still terrifying to think that such things exist. And I'm glad they don't.
I'll keep you posted on this case. It seems like it's going to be interesting...
8 comments
John, we're going back to the crime scene. I need to check something.
Sherlock Holmes 16 May 14:42
Sherlock! You could let me finish my tea!
John Watson 16 May 14:44
Tea's boring. This isn't. Coming?
Sherlock Holmes 16 May 14:45
...Just let me get my coat.
John Watson 16 May 14:47
I saw the bodies. Sherlock, you're so amazing to figure all that out!
Molly Hooper 16 May 15:08
He's a freak. Why does no-one realise he's a freak?
Sally Donovan 16 May 15:11
Hello darling. Have to hand it to you, this is compelling stuff – almost heartwarming. Not that I have a heart to warm. But you might want to be careful – prying eyes and all that. A lot of people want to kill me and this little tidbit is as good as sending up a smoke signal. Because now they know where you are, and what you're investigating, they know where to find me.
Well. I say people.
Just a friendly word of warning.
[User Details Blocked - Enter Access Code To Reveal User Identity] [Access Code: _]
*comment deleted*
Harry Watson 16 May 15:32
After a change of clothes and the addition of a duffel bag full of weapons, the best friend of hunters everywhere, Lestrade tell himself he's ready. He's got a stake, silver and iron knives, a short and wickedly sharp machete, a plant mister full of holy water, and a shotgun loaded with cartridges of rock salt. The last two he isn't sure of – he's never actually fought a demon before, and from what he's heard they are formidable opponents, so why would salt do any damage?
Lestrade focuses on checking his gun, disassembling it with quick, practised movements. He does not remind himself of why he became a hunter in the first place. He does not think about the nightmares, his wife and daughter turned away from him and then the creature, all shark teeth and those eyes-
He snaps the gun back together. All in the past, he reminds himself brutally. It happened and you couldn't stop it and that's all there is. What hurts the most is the knowledge that with what he knows now he could stop it, could save her, like he has to save everyone else just to feel a little less empty-
Stop.
It's not easy to track the surviving vamps – he assumes they're vamps, they tend to hunt in packs - back from the crime scene. All he has to work with is the occasional drop of blood, or a rusty handprint on a lamp post where one of them must have stumbled. In fact, it's nearly impossible, and Lestrade is soon on the point of giving up.
The street is dominated by a tower block under construction, a shell of scaffolding and plastic sheeting to keep out the wind. At street level, the site is sealed off behind a high wooden barrier plastered with posters.
He notices it without noticing; there's a door into the building site, chained and padlocked. Except it isn't - the chain is broken. Lestrade glances up and down the street, checking that he's alone, then walks over to the door. Every muscle tense, senses on hyper alert. A few drops of blood on the pavement, still liquid and bright. And something else, a dusting of yellow.
Lestrade swallows – demons and vampires – and makes up his mind. He needs to find out what's going on here, kill the vampires at the very least. So he pushes open the door – squeal of hinges, chain tapping against the wood – and steps into darkness.
Even with a torch, it's still too dark to see much besides indistinct shapes. He can hear a dull rumble from somewhere ahead. Probably a generator. The interior of the building is sectioned off with hanging sheets of plastic, beyond which only murky, watery shadows are visible.
A skitter of claws, loud and startling. Lestrade half-ducks and spins, gun leaping into his hands-
A rat. He laughs at himself and relaxes slightly. Just slightly, but it's enough to let him be knocked of his feet when the vampire erupts from its hiding place.
He hits the floor and skids, the vampire snarling and screeching into his face. Its face is torn open, three ragged claw marks from temple to jaw. Lestrade takes a deep breath and shoves the thing away from him, and to his shock it works. The vampire collapses and tries to drag itself away, making pitiful noises. Lestrade feels compassion for a moment – it looks so young, only a girl – before he remembers exactly what it is.
He kicks it onto its back and places a boot on its chest. He can see it won't last long, not with injuries like that.
"Who did this?" He keeps his voice harsh and loud. "What did it?"
The vampire cringes away slightly.
"There was a man..." Her- its- voice is weak and torn. "He had a gun. We laughed at him, but he killed Becky and Matt." Blood suddenly trickles over her lip. "He smelled so good..."
"What else?"
"He wasn't-" She coughs, and Lestrade catches a glimpse of sharp white teeth. "He wasn't alone."
"Yeah? What else was with him?" Lestrade isn't, absolutely is not, feeling the beginnings of sympathy, because he's a hunter and this is a fucking vampire bleeding to death in front of him.
"We couldn't see it. I- I think it killed everyone except me and Adam. We heard it-" She closes her eyes. "I heard it... eating..."
"You mean- it was invisible?"
The vampire nods feebly. Lestrade looks down at her- at it, it- and knows he doesn't have a choice. He takes the machete from his bag and holds it up so the vampire can see it. There's no fear in her eyes, just mute acceptance. Lestrade closes his eyes briefly and takes the vampire's head off with one swift, clinical stroke. Blood spurts up the blade and speckles his face.
He finds the second vampire – it's unconscious behind a heap of rubble – and gives it the same treatment. Then he wipes the blade of the machete with a sense of exhaustion, because they're monsters, but he saw the fear and hurt in that girl's eyes as it talked about its friends, and for a moment it could have been human. His daughter was the same age when-
Lestrade blinks as he steps into bright sunlight. And as a sleek black car draws up, he groans out loud. Because his day – impossibly – is about to get so much worse.
He slumps down into his seat, really not caring if he gets blood on the gleaming leather upholstery. There's a woman sat elegantly in the back seat, one leg crossed over the other, all glossy brown hair and creamy skin. Lestrade knows better than to talk to her – he remembers John complaining at length about his kidnapping by Mycroft – but he's going to try nonetheless.
"You're Anthea, right?"
She smiles a patronizing smile and doesn't look up from her Blackberry.
"Medea, actually."
"Oh." Lestrade shrugs. He's certain John called her Anthea. "Right. Don't suppose there's any point asking where I'm going?"
She looks up at him, almost pitying. "None at all."
The rest of the journey is spent in silence as the car glides through central London. Lestrade drifts, thinking about old hunts and old friends and trying not to think about why Mycroft wants to see him. Eventually the car slows, and he looks out of the window at a Victorian building, blazing white in the sun. He goes to get out of the car, but 'Medea' puts a hand on his arm.
She hesitates for a moment. "He's not happy with you, Greg."
"I gathered."
"Just- don't say anything to... worry him."
"All right." If anything, all this does is worry Lestrade further. He is uncomfortably aware of the fact that Mycroft could kill him quite easily and no-one would ask any questions.
Lestrade walks up the steps with some apprehension. A discreet brass plaque on the door reads, 'The Diogenes Club'. He reaches for the handle, only for the door to soundlessly swing open before him.
The interior is lavishly decorated and completely silent. Lestrade immediately feels out of place. Hell, he would've done even if he'd been dressed smartly and hadn't been covered in blood. The doorman points him up a broad, curved staircase without saying a word.
At the top of the stairs is another door, this one reading 'Strangers' Room'. Lestrade hesitates. Funny that a man in a suit should scare him more than, say, a werewolf. Or that bloody wraith, he still has nightmares about that one-
He opens the door, and there's Mycroft Holmes in an armchair, reading – oh, god – a police report.
"Do have a seat, Detective Inspector." Mycroft is smiling like a cat. Lestrade drops into the chair facing Mycroft with a sense of resignation. Here it comes...
"Can I offer you a drink? Scotch, perhaps?"
"No, thanks." Lestrade replies tersely. It's difficult enough talking to Mycroft sober, let alone with a head full of whiskey.
Mycroft holds up the report. "Most diverting reading, Detective Inspector." And isn't it funny how he can make that sound like a threat?
Lestrade doesn't say anything and concentrates on a spot just above and to the left of Mycroft's head. It's an approach that's worked in the past.
"A triple murder. Dreadful, really." He lays the report on the table beside him with an air of disdain. "But I suppose we look to you to keep the streets safe at night."
"Yes, sir." Lestrade does not shift his gaze from that spot.
"I understand that Sherlock was at the crime scene."
Lestrade pauses. "...Yes, sir." Damn it.
"Which intrigues me, because I seem to remember warning you, Detective Inspector, that if Sherlock was to become involved with the supernatural, there would be... repercussions. For all concerned."
Ok, and now Lestrade's angry. "So it's perfectly all right to send me to bloody Dartmoor when I'm on holiday because you think your brother's after a Black Dog, but when I ask him for help there's suddenly repercussions?"
Mycroft remains perfectly calm. "As a hunter, your job is to protect the populace from any supernatural threat."
"It wasn't even a supernatural thing! It was some bloody hallucinogenic gas, or something!"
"Nevertheless. You deliberately endangered Sherlock this morning."
"So you don't mind him going up against terrorists and criminal masterminds, but-"
"That is quite beside the point. If Sherlock were to discover the truth... well, I'm sure you can imagine."
"Anyway, what gives you the right to tell me what my job is? I don't have to do this, you know. I'm not your bloody terrier."
"And if it were not for my protection, you would be in prison for, among other charges, unlicensed possession of firearms, grave desecration, and multiple counts of murder."
Lestrade's expression freezes. "They're monsters." Fucking monsters, and he is not remembering that vampire girl, her eyes-
Mycroft appears utterly unconcerned. "Not to the police. The majority, anyway. To them, those vampires you so efficiently slaughtered this morning are no more than two murdered teenagers." He sighs at Lestrade's expression. "The point is, I need you to kill monsters, and you need me to ensure that you can continue to do so."
Lestrade knows he's backed into a corner, and he hates it. "Yes, sir."
"But rest assured that if you put Sherlock in danger again..." Mycroft doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't really need to.
"Yes, sir. I understand."
"Do you? I'm so glad." Mycroft smiles that self-satisfied little smile. "Now, I'm sure you have people to save. Off you go."
The car is still waiting outside the club, and Mycroft's assistant – Medea, or Anthea, or whatever – smiles at him. Still patronizing, still doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"I'm to take you to home, then to Scotland Yard."
"Joy," mutters Lestrade, and gets in the car.
At his sparse little flat, he changes for work and wipes the blood from his face and hands. He can still smell it on his skin. Before he leaves, he tucks a gun and a flask of holy water into his jacket. Just in case.
Another short ride across London, and there's Scotland Yard. Sergeant Donovan is waiting for him. She does not look pleased.
"Where the hell have you been, sir?"
He keeps walking, crossing the lobby towards the lifts. "Busy."
"Busy? All morning? When you're got a case?"
"Yeah. Problem?"
"Yes, actually. The super wants to see you."
"Of course he does," mutters Lestrade. "It's that sort of day." He jabs the button to call the lift.
"Where are you going now? The super-"
"Can wait. Ok?"
Donovan gets a look on her face. It's the I'm-dealing-with-a-four-year-old look she normally reserves for Sherlock. Lestrade resolutely ignores it.
The lift pings and the doors glide open, and the fourth floor corridor is empty. There's nothing especially unusual about that, but if his day so far is anything to go by, there'll be a monster in his office or-
His office door is ajar. His locked office door. And the smudge of yellow on the carpet can't just be a coincidence.
"Sally," he says quietly, "go and... do something. Now."
She heads back down the corridor, a stormy look on her face. No doubt on her way to complain about him to Anderson.
Let her. As long as she's safe.
Lestrade slips the gun from his jacket – he doubts it'll do much good, but the weight of it in his hand is somewhat comforting. He quietly opens the door.
There's a man reclining in Lestrade's chair, feet up on the desk, going through his papers. He looks up at the slight sound.
"Ah, Detective Inspector. A pleasure to meet you at last." He smiles, and it's a smile Lestrade does not trust one bit. "The name's Crowley."
Lestrade doesn't move, the gun pointed at Crowley's head.
The demon – must be a demon, there was sulphur outside – sighs. "How sweet. That won't work on me." He waves a hand and the door closes. "We need to talk."
"You're a demon."
"Give the man a cigar."
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Nothing to do with Hell, actually. I have a proposition for you."
"I'm not making a deal with some demon." Lestrade's voice is utterly devoid of emotion. "Get. Out."
"Make me." Crowley cocks his head to one side. "Well? No rock salt? No holy water to the face?" The demon grins. "I thought so."
Lestrade lowers the gun a little. "You killed those vampires."
"Yes. Well. Not just me. Snuggles helped."
The growl is pitched at the exact harmonic that causes small animals to flee, and it's coming from the corner of the office. It also manages to communicate the fact that humans are included in the 'small animals' category.
"...Snuggles."
"My hellhound. He's a big softy when you get to know him. Of course, most people don't get much further than 'who's a good abomination' before he tears their face off, but I'm working on that." Crowley leans back in the chair and looks infuriatingly smug.
"All right, but why? Why kill them?"
Crowley regards him with the darkest eyes Lestrade has ever seen – not demon dark, but a rich warm brown. Chocolate.
"Well, because of you."
"Me? I don't-"
"Look." The demon seems exasperated. "Embarrassing as it is, I need the help of a hunter. Killing the vampires was-" He spreads his hands. "Call it a goodwill gesture. Also got your attention quite nicely."
"Why do you need a hunter?"
"Because of this." Crowley lays a gun on the desk. An antique revolver. A pentacle carved into the wood of the handle. "This gun can kill anything."
"Anything like what?"
"Like the Devil."
"But you're a demon."
Crowley rolls his eyes. "Masterful deduction."
"I mean, why would you want to kill the Devil?"
"Survival. It's the Apocalypse-"
"It's what?"
"-and when he's done turning this world into a charred desert, we're next."
Lestrade takes a breath and leans against the wall. "It's the Apocalypse."
"Yeah, Lucifer out of the box, the Four Horsemen, rivers of blood, the whole thing." Crowley looks slightly... not apologetic, but slightly uncomfortable. "Probably should have mentioned that before."
"Right. Right." Lestrade closes his eyes. Apocalypse. Right. "So, for whatever reason, you want to kill Satan and stop the Apocalypse – why do you need my help?"
"You're a good hunter. And my little plan, cunning as it is, has a much better chance of success if I have someone to back me up."
"Well, why not get a demon to do it?"
Crowley gives Lestrade an odd look. "They're demons."
"Fair point."
"So? Are you in?"
Lestrade considers his options. Trust a demon. Go up against the armies of Hell. Or let the world burn.
It's really not much of a choice.
"I'll do it." He wearily passes a hand over his eyes. "And God help me."
"Excellent." The demon swings his feet off the desk and stands, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Now – traditionally, a pact between a human and a demon is sealed with a kiss-"
"Bugger off."
Crowley smiles that annoyingly smug, I-know-something-you-don't smile. "Pleasure doing business with you, Gregory."
"Don't call me that."
Crowley makes a small noise of amusement. "I'll be in touch."
And then, quite suddenly, he's gone.
A/N – Cookies if you got the (admittedly quite obscure) Discworld references!