Chapter Five: Viciously Lovely
"John. John, don't move."
John looks up from where he's studying an oddly faded patch on the wall to see Sherlock haloed in the doorway by the outside light. He's in the middle of popping up his coat collar, hands now still, fingers resting on the thick wool. John's ingrained instinct to react at the commanding boom of Sherlock's voice nevertheless doesn't stop the part of him following orders from the other part thatt's admiring the view.
"Good!" Sherlock shouts across the dining room, letting go his collar and holding one hand up high as if beckoning someone. "Now, walk towards me."
John frowns at the sickeningly obnoxious wallpaper that seems to now have something crawling beneath it. He steps back quickly, hands out in front of him as if to ward off an attack. Seeing spirits is one thing, but he's fairly certain he didn't sign up for creepy crawlies. Curiosity and horror mingle in his brain and he stares at rippling wall.
"I have no reason to believe it will hurt you, John. Come on."
Sherlock beckons to him again, though that isn't what makes John beat feet to the doorway. He turns to look over his shoulder just as the wallpaper rips and some dark, almost shapeless, thing is materializing out of it.
"Bloody hell!" John shouts as he dives for the door.
Sherlock shucks his coat as John ducks beneath his outstretched arms and Sherlock slams the door. John hits the pavement on his knees, completely blinded by a layer of expensive wool. His heart is pounding in his throat.
After five seconds, he gets his breath back and slowly pushes Sherlock's coat off his back. Trying to escape the penetrating gaze being leveled in his direction, he pats his pockets.
"Mike's going to kill me," he mutters. "I've left the EVP meter behind."
"No, it's right here. It fell out of your pocket when you did that baseball thing you just did."
That catches John off guard. "What?" he asks, checking to see if Sherlock recently grew a second head; apparently not. There's so much going on in that statement, he has no idea whete to start.
"Seriously, that was quite entertaining, John. You should do it again sometime." Sherlock continues.
Is that little smirk actually a grin? John shakes his head. "Well, maybe ten years ago, but no thanks." He brushes his knees off, giving his brain time to catch up. Best to ask the most important questin first. "What the hell was that thing, anyway?"
"You call yourself a ghost hunter," Sherlock snarks, sounding vaguely amused. He's produced a cigarette and a silver lighter from somewhere and now he's leaning against the brick house, taking a drag. The fag is tightly clamped in one corner of his mouth and he's talking out of the other one. A lazy tendril of smoke hangs in the air between them. The neighborhood is quiet, the majority of its residents sleeping.
John doesn't say anything as he rests his laurels on the stoop, his back towards Sherlock in a effort to hide his expression and red cheeks he can feel. Better to stare out into the darkness than keep staring at that mouth and wondering what other talents it possesses.
"That was a Class Three Demonic Entity, my dear Watson." Sherlock drawls.
John can easily picture smoke rings in his mind but he's sort of stuck on 'my dear.' Once again, he decides to leave it for the time being. "Right," he agrees. "A Demonic Entity isn't a corporeal spirit."
"A Class Three is. You just saw it. Actually, I'm not even going to handle this one, I know a couple of siblings who are best at sorting the angry ones*." There's the distinct sound of thumbs flying over the keyboard of a mobile as Sherlock rapidly sends a text message. "I hope they're both going to come this time…"
Without hearing him move, especially after listening to him mutter darkly to himself, suddenly Sherlock is right beside John, offering him a hand up. John nods sharply and accepts the help. With the other hand, Sherlock hands him the EVP machine. The little screen shines like a tiny sun, all lit up red and orange. He glares at it before realizing that Sherlock is moving towards the street.
"I guess I owe you my thanks." John calls, taking two steps for each one of Sherlock's before the psychic turns on his heels, coat fluttering behind him in the breeze kicking up.
"Anytime, John!" he calls out, waving one hand in the air. The supple black leather of his gloves has a definite shine beneath the street lamps.
John stands dumfounded for a moment, realizing that not only did he fail to actually do anything, he also completely forgot to ask Sherlock how he knew what was happening. Shaking his head again, he starts looking for a cab.
(* yes, I do mean Those brothers.)