Fic: I'll Shake Hands With You In Hell, NC-17, John/Sherlock, Dean/Castiel - Part Three
Title: I’ll Shake Hands With You In Hell
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 55,000
Warnings: Explicit sex, alcohol abuse, graphic violence, angst, language, suicidal thoughts, gore, implied torture, dark themes.
A/N #1: Supernatural/Sherlock crossover (post-Reichenbach; goes AU after SPN 7.19).
A/N #2: Written for sncross_bigbang. Original story idea from the wonderful lunasky3. ♥
Awesome fanvid and fanmix by trickster88 can be found here. ♥♥♥
- - -
Summary: Less than two months after what the press have deemed ‘The Reichenbach Suicide’, John Watson makes a deal that condemns his soul to Hell for eternity. At the same time, Team Free Will - still struggling to send the leviathans back to Purgatory - stumbles upon a clue that leads them across the ocean, and straight into the path of two men who are desperately seeking a way to prevent Hell from collecting its due.
The result - an intersection of these two separate worlds, and the teaming up of some unlikely allies - is the story of how John Watson’s life collides with the world of demons and monsters, and of how he and Sherlock are given one final chance to make things right between them, even as a dangerous web begins to tighten its hold around London, and John’s clock starts to steadily tick down the days to his last night on Earth.
Part One - Part Two
- - -
John isn’t sure what he was expecting to happen when they get back to the apartment, but it hadn’t been for Dean to go straight to the kitchen table, plunk down a rucksack full of truly disconcerting weapons, and pull out a large bag of salt.
“Uh -”
“If you’re being chased my demons, salt is your friend.”
“Alright, then.”
The idea of salt being able to stop something as powerful as a demon seems somehow ridiculous, and John drags his eyes away from the unfortunate items in the rucksack to glance at Sherlock, who’s taken a seat in one of the sofa chairs, and is staring at the wall in front of him. On the other side of the room, standing motionless by the window, Castiel is watching the street below in silence, and John has a moment of wondering if this entire situation feels as surreal to everyone else as it does to him.
“So - why the salt, then?”
“You make a line of it, demons can’t get across. Salt your windows, your doors, your vents -anywhere that a demon could possibly get through.”
“I thought they were… well, they look like people.”
“A demon on its own is a cloud of black smoke. Their vessels are just the people they’re riding.”
It’s said casually, almost carelessly, as Dean goes back to digging through his bag, not a hint of expression on his face, and John feels himself swallow around something unpleasant in his throat. He knows what it’s like to be a soldier, knows how to see it in someone else - and while it’s clear that Dean is exactly that, John is pretty sure that he’s not like most of soldiers John had known in Afghanistan.
“And this, here - this knife kills demons. You saw me do it today. You stab one through the heart, it dies. Easy as that. Not that you’ll ever use it, but I wanted you to know, cause demons can’t be killed by anything other than this - so don’t ever go stabbing one. And you might as well dump the gun - it’s not gonna do ya any good. You can send a demon back to Hell instead - I’ll write ya out some basic exorcisms. And you’d better be relaying all this to your buddy over there.”
“I’m listening.”
Sherlock doesn’t look at them as he speaks, and Dean stares at him for a second, as though trying to figure him out, before he shakes his head slightly and turns back to John.
“You’re dealing with all this remarkably well. Most people would be curled up in a corner.”
“I - well, I guess I’ve been trained to function under pressure. I’m a soldier. Was, a soldier. In Afghanistan. Army doctor.”
“Sounds like fun times.”
There doesn’t seem to be even a hint of morbid humour there - only what sounds like weariness - and John suddenly wants to know exactly what is it about Dean that’s making John’s skin tighten uncomfortably. This man had saved his life not even an hour ago, yes, but there somehow seems to be something about Dean that seems darker than any soldier John has met before.
“Were you - have you been a soldier, before?”
“You could say that.”
“And where did you serve?”
Dean stares at him for a moment longer, before he goes back to digging through his rucksack, only meeting John’s eyes again once he’s lugged out a second bag of salt.
“I don’t trade war stories when I’m sober. Why don’t you take this - I’ll check the lines when you’re done. First I’m gonna paint some symbols that’ll help keep make place a bit safer, and then you and your boyfriend there can start reading over some exorcisms.”
“We’re not - he’s not -”
And then John bites off the protest, the same protest he’s made so many times before, finding himself suddenly stumbling over the words, somehow not able to argue against the assumption for once, and jesus, that’s awkward. Dean is staring at him with his eyebrows slightly raised, an utterly unreadable expression on his face, and, out of the corner of his eye, John can see Sherlock watching him in silence, and John suddenly has this horrible feeling that his cheeks are flushing.
“Look, buddy, I don’t care. S’long as you can carry a sack of salt and you’re not a demon, you can stay.”
Dean picks up a spray can and turns away with what’s probably meant to be an encouraging half-smile - an expression that just comes out looking a little pained - and John is left standing by the kitchen table, staring down at the bag of salt. Taking a moment to very deliberately not look at Sherlock, he gets his shit back together and moves across the kitchen to start with the windows in Sherlock’s room.
Apparently the boyfriend assumption was a lot easier to deal with before John realized that he was indeed in love with his flatmate.
Doing his best to shove that thought away - along with everything else he’s deliberately not thinking about - John sticks his gun into the drawer of Sherlock’s bedroom cabinet, and then focuses all his attention on salting the windows and vents in Sherlock’s room, before proceeding to cover the rest of the apartment, laying a line of salt anywhere that could be considered an entrance to the building. He might not have tangled with demons before, but he’s a soldier, and he knows how to follow directions. If Dean wants every entrance covered, then that’s exactly what’s he’s going to get.
It can’t take him more than twenty minutes to do the whole apartment, and he eventually finds himself back in the living room, where Sherlock is on his laptop, and Dean is standing beside a painted series of symbols on the floor. Castiel is still standing beside the window, and John watches as Dean darts an unreadable glance at him before turning to John.
“Alright. Devil’s trap. If a demon walks in, they can’t walk out until the line is broken. You can paint ’em on floors, ceilings - hide them under rugs, as long as you don’t smear the edges - whatever works. They’re good to have in doorways.”
“And they keep demons out?”
“Yup. And now that we’ve got this place on lockdown, we’re gonna all get comfy and have a chat.”
John can only nod, and they all eventually end up in various positions across the living room - Sherlock and John in the sofa chairs, and Dean sitting on the floor, leaning up against the wall. Castiel eventually comes to join them, leaving his position at the window to stand motionless beside Dean’s seated body, and John makes himself look long and hard at Castiel, suddenly trying to process the realization that an angel is standing in his living room.
“Alright, you two. Spill.”
Dean barely looks at them as he speaks, too busy opening the box of beer he’s got seated beside him, and John glances at Sherlock for a moment - watches the way Sherlock is silently watching everyone, trying to take in as much information about them as he can - before John decides that he might as well start talking.
“It’s a long story.”
“We have time. Sam’s not back yet, though he should be soon. Go.”
John is distantly aware that the bossiness should annoy him, but it somehow doesn’t - maybe because Dean has saved his life today, or maybe because Dean seems to be the only one here who knows what’s going on. Either way, John nods and then does his best to convey his thoughts in an order that make sense, starting with Moriarty and ending with the way he had promised his soul to get Sherlock back, and as soon as he finishes explaining that part, there is a visible line of tension spread out across every inch of Dean’s body.
“So you’ve got one year, huh.”
John has the distant thought that Dean is incredibly hard to read - much like Castiel, though in a different way - and when John simply nods, something painful shooting through him as he tries to not think about what’s he’s talking about, Dean simply closes his eyes and takes a long swig of his beer.
“Too bad self-sacrifice isn’t just a Winchester trait.”
John might not understand what exactly that means, or why he thinks he can hear some kind of unfortunate emotion finally slipping into Dean’s voice, but he doesn’t have time to read much more into it, because Sherlock suddenly sits up a little straighter in his chair.
“There’s more to this story. Elements that I haven’t shared with John yet, that you need to know. Such as how I survived the fall from the hospital roof.”
Sherlock pauses for a long moment, then crosses his fingers in front of him and glances out of the corner of his eye at John, something almost furtive flashing across his face - and while it’s true that John might not know yet how Sherlock survived the fall, he’s basically conversant in Sherlock’s facial expressions by now, and the one the detective is currently wearing is definitely apprehension.
“Sherlock, what -”
“I didn’t want you to know this. John, I - was going to find you a way out of your deal, and then I could have fixed my own situation, and you would have never needed to know.”
“Know what?”
John feels something ominous being to spread across his entire body, but Sherlock isn’t looking at him anymore - isn’t looking at anyone, his eyes instead trained on the hands in his own lap. He hesitates for a moment longer, and when he finally begins to speak again, the words are directed towards the floor.
“Moriarty had shooters trained on John, and on two other people of importance in my life. He was going to kill them all if I refused to commit suicide - and, although I had not known the specifics of his plan before I went onto that roof, I had most certainly been aware that he was going to find a way to ensure that I jumped.”
Sherlock pauses for a second, still not quite looking at John, and John wonders, faintly, if he’s ever going to reach the point of being immune to life-altering epiphanies. Based on the way his lungs are tightening up in his chest - his mind apparently unable to process the fact that Sherlock had jumped to save their lives, that Sherlock had slandered his own name and lied to John in an attempt to protect him - it’s not likely.
“And so I was planning to go to Molly - the local mortician, who works at the hospital - and request her assistance in faking my own death. I had a plan, and it would have worked.”
“But?”
Dean twists the lid off another beer bottle as he asks, popping it into the box beside him. Sherlock’s lips press together a little more tightly, and John watches as his fingers twitch slightly in front of him, as though they’re looking for something to hold on to, some kind of distraction.
“By the time I got to Molly, she had already been possessed. And when the demon offered me a deal - I would survive the fall, beat Moriarty, and have three years on Earth to destroy the last of Moriarty’s web - I took it.”
The very air in the room seems to stop circulating. There’s a flash of something red at the edges of John’s vision, and then he’s out of his chair, his body flashing from hot to numb and back again, and he’s kneeling in front of Sherlock with his hands digging into the curves of Sherlock’s knees. He tries to speak, tries to make words form in his mouth, and he’s distantly aware of the three others watching the scene, but all John can do is stare up at Sherlock, his vision blurring from something that he distantly realizes is shock.
“You - you -”
“I didn’t want you to know.”
Sherlock isn’t looking at him, his eyes fixed firmly somewhere over John’s shoulder, and John feels a yell building in his throat, threatening to come up and swamp him - and he only realizes he’s trying to leave the room when Sherlock is suddenly on his feet, his hand curled around John’s elbow. John is distantly aware that Dean and Castiel are watching the entire scene, watching John’s world fall down around him all over again, but it seems far away, somehow, and all he can feel is Sherlock’s hand on his elbow, all he can see are Sherlock’s eyes, fixed on his own with an expression that looks almost pleading.
“John. If Dean and Sam and Castiel are going to attempt to help us, then they need the entire story, which means that you will hear it, too.”
“Sherlock, I can’t -”
“The demon informed me that she would kill you if I refused to make the deal. You were never supposed to know. I do not yet understand why we have both been targeted by demons, but we have been, and they knew exactly where our pressure points were.”
There’s silence, then, until John feels himself start to buckle, and then Sherlock’s easing him into a sofa chair, his hands never leaving John’s body, holding on tight and trying to keep him steady. There’s too much happening along the edges of John’s mind, too much emotion to be absorbed at the same time, and he’s flashing hot and cold again, waves of sensation that seem to seep down the entire length of his body. The voice, when it comes, seems to be very far away.
“Breathe, John. I know what you’re feeling, and it’s no picnic, but you’ve gotta breathe for us, alright?”
It’s not Sherlock’s voice, but there’s a steadiness in it that somehow promises some kind of safety, cuts through the noise inside his head, and he somehow makes himself concentrate on the sound of it, somehow manages to bring the room into focus around him again, only to find that someone - Dean - is bent down in front of him, his hands wrapped around his arms.
“You good, buddy? Back with us?”
The words seem to process, but John still can’t make himself answer, his eyes skittering away from Dean to find Sherlock, who’s standing beside the sofa chair, his hand still curled around John’s shoulder. There’s an expression of such regret on Sherlock’s face that John can barely make himself look at him, and he takes a long moment to simply breathe, doing as Dean said, before he feels his hand creep up to latch on to Sherlock’s fingers.
“Sherlock - you - you, how could -”
And then he just stops, unable to find anything else, unable to make the words happen. In front of him, Dean seems to study him for a moment longer before he nods once and then straightens up, glancing at Castiel and jerking his head in the direction of the doorway.
“We’ll be upstairs.”
John barely notices them leaving. Then, it’s just him and Sherlock in the room, and when Sherlock slides his hand out of John’s fingers and crosses over to the room, his back to him and his arms wrapped around himself, John somehow manages to get himself to his feet again.
“I was attempting to account for the demons and for Moriarty, and making the deal seemed like the only way to beat both. You were never supposed to know.”
John simply nods in response, and it comes to him, vaguely, that if this is how Sherlock had felt when he learned that John sold his soul for him, then it’s no wonder Sherlock was on his knees in the dirt with him at that crossroads, his cheeks stained with tears. There’s just - too much, all at once, and John doesn’t know how he can keep feeling like this and survive.
“Do you - do you wish for me to leave you alone now?”
Sherlock still hasn’t turned around, and something sudden and desperate sweeps through John, seizing up his lungs and bringing moisture to his eyes. He blinks hard against the sting and finds himself crossing the room without the consent of his legs, and then he’s putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the same way as that first morning when he’d woken up to find Sherlock sitting at the end of his bed. He might still be having trouble with words, might still have too much interference on the edges of his mind to put coherent thoughts together, but he owes it to Sherlock to at least try.
“You - Sherlock. You really weren’t going to tell me, were you.”
“I was going to discover a way to break a deal with a demon. Once I had done that, you could have gotten out of your deal, and I could have gotten out of mine. You would have never needed to know.”
“And if you hadn’t found a way?”
“You would have gone to Hell. I would have had two more years on this planet, and then I would have joined you. At least you would have never known I was following you down.”
“So everything you’ve done, everything you’ve been doing since - well, for months now, it’s all, truly, been -”
“Yes, John. It’s all been to protect you. We appear to have reached the point where my attempting to deny that would be futile.”
There’s a world of vulnerability in Sherlock’s voice, suddenly, an audible frustration with what John can only assume are what Sherlock perceives as his own weaknesses, and it somehow makes John think of Baskerville, makes him think of, I’ve always been able to keep myself distant, makes him think of the first time he had ever met Sherlock. The coldness and the aloofness, the way he had seemed made of steel, impenetrable, removed from everything, located somewhere high above the nasty tangle of human emotion - the way he had been completely different from what John is seeing right now. Somehow, John seems to have made an impact, seems to have gotten under Sherlock’s skin in ways that nobody else has, and the thought sends a shudder of steely resolve through him - because Sherlock has gotten under his own skin, too, he knows, has shaped his life in more ways than he can count, has given him a reason to keep getting up in the morning, and if they’re in this together, they’re going to solve it together.
“Friends actually do protect people, you know. And I’m not letting you go to Hell just as much as you’re not letting me go. I promise you that, Sherlock.”
John can feel the way the words settle across Sherlock’s body, the way his shoulders tense and then relax underneath John’s hand, and he finds himself holding his breath as he waits for some kind of response. After a long moment, Sherlock turns around, and then they’re just left staring at each other, Sherlock’s eyes trained on his face like nothing else in the world even matters.
“Are you - you have every right to be angry with me.”
“Sherlock -”
“I - I was so angry with you. I couldn’t help it. You - John, you should have never condemned yourself to Hell for me. I’m not -”
“If that sentence ends with ‘worth it’, then I am actually going to get angry.”
Something seems to crack across Sherlock’s expression, something that looks almost desperate, and then John’s entire body is washing white with heat as a hand slowly comes up to curl around his cheek, the pad of Sherlock’s thumb catching against his bottom lip, a single touch that brings his entire world crashing down around him. John can barely feel the touch at first, can barely think over the fracturing in his mind, and then the thumb slides across the sensitive skin, and sensation comes screaming back to his body.
“Sherlock -”
His voice is shredded, barely there, the movement of his lip moving Sherlock’s thumb with it, and Sherlock is still staring at him, his eyes slipping down to stare at John’s mouth - and then Sherlock moves a tiny step closer, his fingers never leaving the skin of John’s face, and there is - there is absolutely no misinterpreting this. There are things like sharing a bed and then there are things like this, and this is - this is Sherlock touching him with intent, this is Sherlock looking like him like he wants to crawl inside and make a home for himself, and John can distantly hear a needy noise he thinks he should be ashamed of, but he just simply cannot even begin to care.
“Sherlock,” he manages again, and then Sherlock is licking his own lips and glancing back up to John’s eyes, and John gives up on trying to talk. It’s late, it’s dark, there are lines of salt along the windows, protection to keep the demons out, and Sherlock is touching him like he means something by it, and there is simply no way that John could possibly make coherent thoughts happen right now.
“John, I - if we only have a year together - I have never had anyone who - there’s never been -”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
It’s about the best John can manage, his lungs and his heart and everything inside him getting twisted up in ways that feel like too much, too much to handle all at once, euphoria and need and desperation and relief mixing inside him to nearly knock him right off his feet, and then Sherlock is shaking his head and moving a bit closer.
“You were never ready to hear it. I still wasn’t sure that you would be, now. Then Dean assumed that we were together, and you couldn’t seem to argue it.”
There’s an audible hint of hesitation to the words, still, despite the way Sherlock is touching him, as though Sherlock is still expecting him to bolt, and when all John can manage is a nod against the careful press of Sherlock’s hand, Sherlock moves the tiniest bit closer to him before he seems to hesitate further, his eyes dropping down to John’s mouth, and a hint of colour sneaking across his normally pale cheeks.
“John -”
Whatever Sherlock was going to say is cut off by something that sounds like a crashing noise from upstairs, and the elation in John’s body whiplashes over to concern so quickly it’s almost painful. Sherlock’s hand is already gone off his face, and John takes a moment to silently curse everything in the entire damn world as he and Sherlock head for the stairs, making it up them in record time to find -
Castiel curled up on the floor of John’s bedroom, with Dean more or less wrapped around his body, and the bed completely overturned, a mess of wood and blankets and pillows. Castiel is shaking, visibly shaking, and the expression on Dean’s face is a level of desperation that John can understand clear as anything, the first time he’s been able to get a true read on the guy.
“Goddammit - Cas, buddy, you’ve gotta listen - you’ve gotta hear me, come on. You know my voice. We’ve been through this. Fight it, breathe through it. Count your breaths, and focus on me. My voice, my body, my damn soul - whatever you can anchor to. I’m here, alright?”
Dean’s voice is shaking nearly as bad as Castiel’s body, and then Castiel makes a whimpering sound, the noise sounding like it’s come from an injured animal, but John has no idea what’s going on, has no idea why there’s an angel in pain on his bedroom floor, and he certainly has no idea how to help.
“Come on, Cas - you know me. Here -” And then Dean is grabbing Castiel’s hand, shoving it hard against his own chest, over his heart, and putting his own hand on it. “Come on, Cas. I’m real. Concentrate on me. You know me -”
“Dean,” Castiel rasps suddenly, his eyes screwing even tighter shut as his fingers scrabble against Dean’s chest - and then, with a final shudder, Castiel stops shaking and curls in on himself, his entire body seeming to go limp in a way that doesn’t look healthy at all. There’s nothing but Dean’s ragged breathing for a long moment, and then he’s rolling Castiel’s body off his knees and climbing to his feet with a quiet groan, not quite looking at them as he straightens out his jeans.
“Cas’ll put the bed back later.”
And then Dean is turning to the mess of broken bed and destroyed sheets, turning back with a pillow to stick underneath Castiel’s head, and a blanket to throw over top of him. Once that’s done - with Castiel not moving the entire time - Dean straightens up and swallows hard, and John is aware that he and Sherlock are both staring rather rudely, but he can’t seem to make himself stop.
“Alright, yeah - long story. Let’s - back downstairs, and keep the movements slow and quiet, alright?”
Dean jerks his head at the door, wiping a swear of blood on the back of his hand, something visibly haunted in his eyes as glances down at Castiel one last time, and then John is nodding and following Sherlock out of the room, aware of Dean’s footsteps behind him for the entire trip back to the living room. Once they get back down there, John turns to Dean and opens his mouth on a question, but Dean shakes his head curtly, eyes snapping up to the clock.
“Storytime’s gonna have to wait. Sam’s not answering his phone. And he should have been back by now.”
“We’re coming with you.”
A quick glance at Sherlock confirms John’s words, the slight nod in response, but Dean shakes his head again, barely looking at them as he heads for the kitchen, pulling a couple of water bottles out of his rucksack.
“Too dangerous.”
“We’re not useless, you know.”
“I don’t work with amateurs.”
“Look, alright - demons might be new to us, sure. But we’re not naive. You could use us. I’m a soldier and a doctor, and Sherlock’s the smartest man you’ll ever meet.”
“Is that so?”
Dean still is barely looking at them, too busy checking the salt lines on the windows, his bag thrown down by the main doorway - and when John opens his mouth to argue again, there’s the sudden press of a hand against the bottom of his back, and he loses his words on the wave of heat that shoots through him. Sherlock is suddenly quite close, has moved to stand beside him, and all John can do is swallow hard, not even bothering to fight the pulse of want that attempts to spread out across his skin, because now he doesn’t have to, and that knowledge is enough to make his knees weak.
“Yes. I am. And John’s right. You could use us.”
“I don’t -”
“You need me to prove it?”
“Buddy, I really don’t give a damn -”
“I know that Sam is your brother, and that Castiel is your lover.”
Dean isn’t the only one who goes completely still at the words, freezing in the action of bending to get something out of his rucksack. John distantly realizes that he’s full on gaping, his mouth actually hanging open, but based on the way Dean’s face has gone an interesting shade of red, and because when Sherlock says something, then it must be true - then, just, wow. Dean and Castiel. Dean, sleeping with an angel. A male angel. That… that one, John had not seen coming.
“How the fuck could you even -”
“I observe. I use my brain. I also know how to analyse a situation and figure out the best ways to navigate it. Between my intellect and your knowledge of the supernatural, we would be a viable threat to any demon. And John’s stubbornness and loyalty are not weapons that you want to be leave at home when you’re going into battle.”
The words send a wave of warmth across John’s skin, and although Sherlock delivers them with what seems like perfect impassivity, his hand is still pressed lightly against John’s back, the fingers shifting slightly in a movement that John feels across his entire body, and it’s suddenly taking everything John has to pay attention to the man in front of them, who’s scowling at them and looking generally displeased with the entire situation.
“Alright, you with your big damn intellect. Can you read Latin?”
“Of course.”
“Then you carry the exorcism rite, and you be damn well ready to spew it out when I say so. And I’m gonna give ya both a thing of holy water - yeah, it’s exactly what it sounds like - because it’s like acid to demons. If one gets close, douse the fucker. We can come up with a better plan once I’ve seen the actual building.”
Dean walks out the door without stopping for either of them to say a word, carefully stepping around the paint on the floor to avoid smudging the lines, and then John’s left staring after him. Sherlock, standing beside him, removes his hand from John’s back, and John does his best to not press backwards in an effort to keep it there.
“You’d best find your medical kit. We may have need of it.”
Sherlock’s voice is low and tinted with audible warmth, now that Dean is no longer in the room, and John breathes through the sudden flipping of his stomach as he turns to face Sherlock again. Sherlock meets his eyes without flinching, but John thinks he can see tiny hints of uncertainty still lurking on the edges in his expression, and the last thing he wants right now - as they make plans to go into a possible den of demons - is for Sherlock to think, even for a second, that John might ever change his mind about this.
“We’re good, Sherlock. More than good, if you’re sure about this.”
“I’m sure.”
Sherlock is still staring at him, the same way he’s done so many times before, but this time there’s so much more there, a new promise in his eyes that John can barely even believe he’s seeing, and John can’t seem to stop the heat that’s building across his body, the way his legs no longer seem to be holding quite steady beneath him.
“Sherlock -”
A car horn blasts through the apartment, followed by the sound of Dean yelling at them from the bottom of the stairs, and John stares at Sherlock for a second longer before he reluctantly moves away, heading across the apartment to grab his medical kit, and feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him the entire time. They can do this - can go save Sam, and be Mycroft’s knights in shining armour - and then they can come back here, and… and explore this further, whatever this is.
Sherlock’s intense gaze suddenly slips into his mind again, and John doesn’t quite manage to hold back a shiver. He knows there are still important things to worry about - things like demons and deals and holy water and exorcisms - but with this new realization that Sherlock wants him in return, all the insanity in their lives somehow seems just a little bit easier to deal with.
- - -
“That’s your brother’s idea of a house?”
“Mycroft has a certain need for theatrics.”
“So I see.”
Sherlock, Dean and John are crouched behind a bush on the edge of Mycroft’s lawn, staring at the towering white building. John has a moment of marvelling at what he’s going into battle with - he’s got a small selection of medical supplies strapped onto his belt, but there’s a giant bottle of holy water in his hand, instead of a gun - and the surreal feeling only increases as he watches Sherlock glance down at the exorcism ritual he’s got in his hand, holding a bottle of holy water in the other.
“This will send a demon back to Hell?”
“If you can get it out before the demon guts ya, then yes.”
Dean’s eyes are on the house as he speaks, his gaze tracking across every inch of it, and John watches as he checks his phone again, his face tightening a little further at the apparent lack of message of Sam. Shifting a bit, feeling the damp dirt begin to press through the knees of his jeans, John finds himself wondering, again, what the story is behind Dean and his brother, and how this came to be the life they seem to lead.
“I am familiar with my brother’s surveillance system. There is not an inch of space in that building - and on the surrounding lawn - that isn’t watched.”
“So what’s your brilliant idea, then?”
“One of my colleagues has an acquaintance at the local electrical company whom can be blackmailed into shutting down power to this sector. She knew what he liked, so to speak, and it shall now act as rather damning currency against him.”
Sherlock doesn’t quite look at John as he delivers the news, and John knows he’s gaping, knows he’s staring in a way that’s got to be quite unattractive, but he can’t quite seem to close his jaw.
“Irene Adler is alive? But -”
“Yes, she is alive, and I will tell you how later. For now, I only need send her the final confirmation, and she will inform her acquaintance to remove power from this sector of the city - along with several other sectors, so as to spread out the ensuing police and government response. Once this building has been stripped of its electricity, it will take Mycroft’s back-up generators three minutes and thirty seven seconds to reach full capacity - a fact that has caused him no small amount of unhappiness, I assure you. It is not much of a window, but three minutes should allow us to get to the main control room, where you two can provide protection for me. We will wait for the surveillance system to come back on, so as to locate our brothers, and then I will permanently disable the system, and we can then secure Mycroft and Sam.”
“That’s… quite a solid plan, actually.”
Dean seems as much surprised as he is impressed, as though - until now - he hadn’t believed that Sherlock would be anything but a liability, and Sherlock’s lips twitch up just slightly at the corners in response. Something, though, isn’t quite sitting well with John, and damn his annoying conscience.
“So we’re gonna blackmail some poor sod at the electricity company?”
“If my brother is taken by the demons, there will be serious consequences for the British government. As incompetent as our government is, I would prefer it to not be controlled by demons.”
“But -”
“If it soothes your conscience, Irene is going to help this acquaintance of hers clear his tracks at the company. Nobody will ever know it was him.”
That’s… somewhat reassuring, actually, and when Sherlock raises his phone and arches his eyebrows in question, John nods, and Sherlock’s thumb presses down on the send key. They wait in silence, then, nothing but the steady sound of their own breathing, John feeling his nerves string a little bit tighter with each passing minute - and then, like a wave of darkness, every light in the area goes out, leaving the only light around them the light from the moon.
“Alright,” he hears Dean whisper, just barely visible in the darkness, “I’m going first. John, behind me. Once we get inside, switch it up to put Sherlock in the middle, so he can give me directions. Let’s go.”
And then Dean is gone, and John clutches tight to the holy water in his hand and follows, ducking down and following as Dean seems to cling to the darkest shadows he can find. The moon’s not that bright, but it’s still brighter than John would have liked, and he half expects a bullet to tear into him as they run across the law. It’s only when they reach the door that he allows himself to take a deep and steadying breath, and then Sherlock is all but pushed up against him in the dark, his front pressed against John’s back.
“The black-out should have disabled the security system. You don’t need the pass code.”
Dean had been hovering in front of the door, and John can just see him nod as he pushes the door open, and then they’re in, all three of them, and Sherlock pushes himself in between Dean and John, and John can hear him begin to murmur directions as they move forward. He tries to keep track of them in his head, is pretty sure he knows which way they’re going, but his main concern is tracking the darkness for anything that looks like movement. It’s only when they reach the computer control room, and Sherlock is standing by the computers, leaving Dean and John to stand guard by the door, that John feels his face crease into a frown. He’s gone into battle often enough to recognize when something doesn’t feel right, and this… something’s off here.
“We should have met someone by now.”
“I know.”
Dean’s voice is short and clipped, and John does his best to not grind his teeth together as he glances from the door to Sherlock, who’s all but vibrating in front of the dark computer screens, his bottle of holy water just visible as it sits on the edge of the desk. John can hear him counting to himself, literally counting down the seconds, and then suddenly the lights and computers come to life again, leaving John blinking against the sudden brightness.
“There. Mycroft and Sam are both being held in the northern most corner room, on the second floor. There are three people with them.”
“Fine. Now disable those -”
Dean doesn’t get a chance to finish, because Sherlock is already crawling under the table, the flash of a knife showing in his hand. In about five seconds, the screens go completely dark again, and John watches as Sherlock crawls out from under the tables again, slipping the knife back into his pocket and pulling out the exorcism rite instead.
“And here I was expecting some genius computer thing.”
Dean doesn’t take his eyes from the outside hallway as he speaks, and Sherlock doesn’t look at him, either, too busy grabbing the bottle of holy water from the table, holding it in one hand and the exorcism rite in the other.
“Cutting the cables was quicker.”
Sherlock’s already moving, coming to stand beside John and Dean, and all three of them end up leaning out the doorway, staring down the brightly lit hall. There’s still no hint of movement - nothing at all - and from the look on Sherlock’s face, he is just as unimpressed as Dean and John.
“We should have encountered resistance.”
“Yeah. Bit late to worry about that now. Let’s go get our brothers, and you two keep your hands on that holy water.”
Sherlock makes a noise that doesn’t sound at all happy, and then they’re off again, single file down the hallway, with Sherlock in the middle again, giving Dean directions, and it can’t take them more than two minutes to make it to the right room. There’s still not a hint of resistance the entire time, and John’s about ready to claw off his skin in frustration, even as Dean turns to them with an equally unimpressed expression.
“Alright. John, you and I are responsible for covering Sherlock. We go first. Sherlock, start with that exorcism as soon as we get in the room.”
Dean barely gives them time to nod before he pushes open the door, and Sherlock’s spitting out Latin behind them, even as John tears into the room to find Dean launching himself at one of the men, the knife flashing as it sinks into his shoulder. There’s no time to watch, though, because John is already throwing water on the woman standing beside Mycroft, his skin strung tight as he waits for something to happen -
But there’s nothing. And, beside him, Dean is being kicked to the ground, the demon pulling Dean’s knife out of his shoulder, carelessly throwing it down on the ground beside him. Dean scrambles to pick it up again, getting up onto his knees, but Sam is shouting something from where he’s tied to a chair, and Sherlock’s voice is faltering, and John’s suddenly backhanded onto the ground so hard the room starts to spin around him. When it begins to right itself again, Sherlock is down on the ground with a woman standing over him, and Dean is back on his feet, shoving the knife into his pocket, and pulling out something that looks like a tiny spray bottle.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
John distantly processes the incredulity in Dean’s voice, barely able to hear anything through the ringing in his ears, and then Dean is launching himself at the woman, spraying her in the face with whatever’s in the bottle - but even as she screams she twists her body sharply, and Dean flies off her and lands sprawled out beside Sherlock, who’s already scrambling for the bottle that’s flown out of Dean’s hand. John lifts up his hand just in time to catch it, the bottle arcing from Sherlock to him, and John doesn’t know what’s going on, but he tries to turn the bottle on the man - and then finds himself back down on the ground again, the second woman sending him crashing to the knees with a single blow against his shoulder.
“Well, aren’t you a tenacious little thing, doctor.”
John just barely hears the words, and then there’s what seems to be a very long silence. When he cautiously lifts his head from the floor, it’s to find Sherlock balancing on his knees, and Dean standing beside him with an expression that’s gone completely devoid of colour. Behind the man, John can just make out the sight of both Mycroft and Sam tied to chairs, Mycroft with a dark bruise colouring his cheek.
“A Borax spray bottle. Cute, Winchester.”
The woman who had knocked John down leans to pick up the bottle, and then chucks it across the room, landing it in the corner. Even as John watches, sudden fear sweeping across his body at the realization that their plan seems to have been completely derailed, the other woman’s face begins to reform itself, changing from a mangled mess to a normal human face again.
“Who would have ever guessed. I came here looking for the Holmes brothers, and I get the Winchesters as well. My boss is going to be ever so pleased with me. You’ve been giving him such trouble over in America.”
The one standing beside John is the one speaking, and he shakes his head as he tries to clear it, his eyes cutting to Sherlock, who’s watching the woman with an expression of such frustration it almost hurts to look at. Beside Sherlock, Dean looks ready to start clawing into these creatures - whatever they are - with only his fingernails, his eyes never shifting away from the woman who seems to be the ringleader.
“You okay, Sammy?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Sam sounds just as angry as Dean, but there’s something else there - something that sounds like bravery in the face of impossible odds, as though he knows that, whatever they’ve stumbled into, it’s too big to fight. John’s been a solider long enough to recognize it, and he can’t quite the wave of helplessness that sweeps across his body, squeezing his lungs too tight in his chest.
“And what, exactly, did you want from Sherlock and I?”
Mycroft’s voice cuts sharply through the room, his customary composure replaced by an audible anger that seems to lace every word, and a small smirk spreads across the ringleader woman’s face.
“Haven’t you guessed? You more or less run the British government, my dear. Some people - such as yourself - simply cannot be duplicated, which means we need you alive. And the best way to ensure your cooperation is to start cutting off your little brother’s fingers, one by one.”
John fights down the violent surge of nausea, the wave of blind panic. Still kneeling on the floor beside Dean, Sherlock’s face goes a shade of white that John’s never seen on anyone before, and it takes everything John has stay where he is, to keep himself from starting to claw at the woman standing beside him.
“Kill the doctor. Then bring the Winchesters and the Holmes boys to me. I have such delicious fun planned for all four of you.”
She turns and walks out the door, aiming a final smirk in Dean’s direction, and after a second of silence Sherlock is scrambling to his feet again even as Dean springs backwards, aiming for spray bottle in the corner, the male monster following after him with what sounds like a laugh. John barely has time to get to his own feet before he’s being spun around, one of the creatures pulling him against her even as her mouth tips back and - and all John can see is teeth, teeth and tongue and he hears himself yelling as he tries to pull away, tries to put his fist into her throat, tries to hit her anywhere he can reach -
He doesn’t realize he’s hit the floor until he’s on it, Sherlock sprawled out on top of the woman, fists flying everywhere - and then Sherlock is hitting the floor, hard, and the woman is balanced over top of him, her mouth still open, and no, Sherlock, please no -
“Sherlock!”
He’s back on his knees, his hands sinking into the creature’s shoulders to pull her backwards - just in time to be knocked over as someone else barrels into the woman, a flash of trench coat and limbs and fists - and then Castiel is across the room, grabbing hold of Dean and vanishing, appearing again to grab Sam and Mycroft before they all vanish, and then it’s just John and Sherlock in the room, lying on the floor beside each other, staring up at the two creatures as they turn towards them, mouths still open -
A flutter of feathers, a flash of coat, and Castiel is suddenly in between them, a hand on each of their shoulders. Next thing John is aware of, the entire world is suddenly spinning around him, slowly solidifying to bring in the unfathomable sight of trees around them, moonlight making it just possible to see - and John feels his knees go out from underneath him even as Castiel crashes into a nearby tree, wood cracking and splintering through the air as the angel smashes off the tree and lands on the ground, unmoving. John wants to get up and do something to help, wants to go to Castiel, thank him from the bottom of his very soul for the rescue - but his legs don’t seem ready to move yet, and then suddenly Sherlock is on the ground with him, his arms wrapped tight around John’s body and his face pressed in hard against the curve of John’s neck, and all John can do is cling right back and hold on as tight as he can, both of them shaking so hard it almost hurts.
- - -
Part Four
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 55,000
Warnings: Explicit sex, alcohol abuse, graphic violence, angst, language, suicidal thoughts, gore, implied torture, dark themes.
A/N #1: Supernatural/Sherlock crossover (post-Reichenbach; goes AU after SPN 7.19).
A/N #2: Written for sncross_bigbang. Original story idea from the wonderful lunasky3. ♥
Awesome fanvid and fanmix by trickster88 can be found here. ♥♥♥
- - -
Summary: Less than two months after what the press have deemed ‘The Reichenbach Suicide’, John Watson makes a deal that condemns his soul to Hell for eternity. At the same time, Team Free Will - still struggling to send the leviathans back to Purgatory - stumbles upon a clue that leads them across the ocean, and straight into the path of two men who are desperately seeking a way to prevent Hell from collecting its due.
The result - an intersection of these two separate worlds, and the teaming up of some unlikely allies - is the story of how John Watson’s life collides with the world of demons and monsters, and of how he and Sherlock are given one final chance to make things right between them, even as a dangerous web begins to tighten its hold around London, and John’s clock starts to steadily tick down the days to his last night on Earth.
Part One - Part Two
- - -
John isn’t sure what he was expecting to happen when they get back to the apartment, but it hadn’t been for Dean to go straight to the kitchen table, plunk down a rucksack full of truly disconcerting weapons, and pull out a large bag of salt.
“Uh -”
“If you’re being chased my demons, salt is your friend.”
“Alright, then.”
The idea of salt being able to stop something as powerful as a demon seems somehow ridiculous, and John drags his eyes away from the unfortunate items in the rucksack to glance at Sherlock, who’s taken a seat in one of the sofa chairs, and is staring at the wall in front of him. On the other side of the room, standing motionless by the window, Castiel is watching the street below in silence, and John has a moment of wondering if this entire situation feels as surreal to everyone else as it does to him.
“So - why the salt, then?”
“You make a line of it, demons can’t get across. Salt your windows, your doors, your vents -anywhere that a demon could possibly get through.”
“I thought they were… well, they look like people.”
“A demon on its own is a cloud of black smoke. Their vessels are just the people they’re riding.”
It’s said casually, almost carelessly, as Dean goes back to digging through his bag, not a hint of expression on his face, and John feels himself swallow around something unpleasant in his throat. He knows what it’s like to be a soldier, knows how to see it in someone else - and while it’s clear that Dean is exactly that, John is pretty sure that he’s not like most of soldiers John had known in Afghanistan.
“And this, here - this knife kills demons. You saw me do it today. You stab one through the heart, it dies. Easy as that. Not that you’ll ever use it, but I wanted you to know, cause demons can’t be killed by anything other than this - so don’t ever go stabbing one. And you might as well dump the gun - it’s not gonna do ya any good. You can send a demon back to Hell instead - I’ll write ya out some basic exorcisms. And you’d better be relaying all this to your buddy over there.”
“I’m listening.”
Sherlock doesn’t look at them as he speaks, and Dean stares at him for a second, as though trying to figure him out, before he shakes his head slightly and turns back to John.
“You’re dealing with all this remarkably well. Most people would be curled up in a corner.”
“I - well, I guess I’ve been trained to function under pressure. I’m a soldier. Was, a soldier. In Afghanistan. Army doctor.”
“Sounds like fun times.”
There doesn’t seem to be even a hint of morbid humour there - only what sounds like weariness - and John suddenly wants to know exactly what is it about Dean that’s making John’s skin tighten uncomfortably. This man had saved his life not even an hour ago, yes, but there somehow seems to be something about Dean that seems darker than any soldier John has met before.
“Were you - have you been a soldier, before?”
“You could say that.”
“And where did you serve?”
Dean stares at him for a moment longer, before he goes back to digging through his rucksack, only meeting John’s eyes again once he’s lugged out a second bag of salt.
“I don’t trade war stories when I’m sober. Why don’t you take this - I’ll check the lines when you’re done. First I’m gonna paint some symbols that’ll help keep make place a bit safer, and then you and your boyfriend there can start reading over some exorcisms.”
“We’re not - he’s not -”
And then John bites off the protest, the same protest he’s made so many times before, finding himself suddenly stumbling over the words, somehow not able to argue against the assumption for once, and jesus, that’s awkward. Dean is staring at him with his eyebrows slightly raised, an utterly unreadable expression on his face, and, out of the corner of his eye, John can see Sherlock watching him in silence, and John suddenly has this horrible feeling that his cheeks are flushing.
“Look, buddy, I don’t care. S’long as you can carry a sack of salt and you’re not a demon, you can stay.”
Dean picks up a spray can and turns away with what’s probably meant to be an encouraging half-smile - an expression that just comes out looking a little pained - and John is left standing by the kitchen table, staring down at the bag of salt. Taking a moment to very deliberately not look at Sherlock, he gets his shit back together and moves across the kitchen to start with the windows in Sherlock’s room.
Apparently the boyfriend assumption was a lot easier to deal with before John realized that he was indeed in love with his flatmate.
Doing his best to shove that thought away - along with everything else he’s deliberately not thinking about - John sticks his gun into the drawer of Sherlock’s bedroom cabinet, and then focuses all his attention on salting the windows and vents in Sherlock’s room, before proceeding to cover the rest of the apartment, laying a line of salt anywhere that could be considered an entrance to the building. He might not have tangled with demons before, but he’s a soldier, and he knows how to follow directions. If Dean wants every entrance covered, then that’s exactly what’s he’s going to get.
It can’t take him more than twenty minutes to do the whole apartment, and he eventually finds himself back in the living room, where Sherlock is on his laptop, and Dean is standing beside a painted series of symbols on the floor. Castiel is still standing beside the window, and John watches as Dean darts an unreadable glance at him before turning to John.
“Alright. Devil’s trap. If a demon walks in, they can’t walk out until the line is broken. You can paint ’em on floors, ceilings - hide them under rugs, as long as you don’t smear the edges - whatever works. They’re good to have in doorways.”
“And they keep demons out?”
“Yup. And now that we’ve got this place on lockdown, we’re gonna all get comfy and have a chat.”
John can only nod, and they all eventually end up in various positions across the living room - Sherlock and John in the sofa chairs, and Dean sitting on the floor, leaning up against the wall. Castiel eventually comes to join them, leaving his position at the window to stand motionless beside Dean’s seated body, and John makes himself look long and hard at Castiel, suddenly trying to process the realization that an angel is standing in his living room.
“Alright, you two. Spill.”
Dean barely looks at them as he speaks, too busy opening the box of beer he’s got seated beside him, and John glances at Sherlock for a moment - watches the way Sherlock is silently watching everyone, trying to take in as much information about them as he can - before John decides that he might as well start talking.
“It’s a long story.”
“We have time. Sam’s not back yet, though he should be soon. Go.”
John is distantly aware that the bossiness should annoy him, but it somehow doesn’t - maybe because Dean has saved his life today, or maybe because Dean seems to be the only one here who knows what’s going on. Either way, John nods and then does his best to convey his thoughts in an order that make sense, starting with Moriarty and ending with the way he had promised his soul to get Sherlock back, and as soon as he finishes explaining that part, there is a visible line of tension spread out across every inch of Dean’s body.
“So you’ve got one year, huh.”
John has the distant thought that Dean is incredibly hard to read - much like Castiel, though in a different way - and when John simply nods, something painful shooting through him as he tries to not think about what’s he’s talking about, Dean simply closes his eyes and takes a long swig of his beer.
“Too bad self-sacrifice isn’t just a Winchester trait.”
John might not understand what exactly that means, or why he thinks he can hear some kind of unfortunate emotion finally slipping into Dean’s voice, but he doesn’t have time to read much more into it, because Sherlock suddenly sits up a little straighter in his chair.
“There’s more to this story. Elements that I haven’t shared with John yet, that you need to know. Such as how I survived the fall from the hospital roof.”
Sherlock pauses for a long moment, then crosses his fingers in front of him and glances out of the corner of his eye at John, something almost furtive flashing across his face - and while it’s true that John might not know yet how Sherlock survived the fall, he’s basically conversant in Sherlock’s facial expressions by now, and the one the detective is currently wearing is definitely apprehension.
“Sherlock, what -”
“I didn’t want you to know this. John, I - was going to find you a way out of your deal, and then I could have fixed my own situation, and you would have never needed to know.”
“Know what?”
John feels something ominous being to spread across his entire body, but Sherlock isn’t looking at him anymore - isn’t looking at anyone, his eyes instead trained on the hands in his own lap. He hesitates for a moment longer, and when he finally begins to speak again, the words are directed towards the floor.
“Moriarty had shooters trained on John, and on two other people of importance in my life. He was going to kill them all if I refused to commit suicide - and, although I had not known the specifics of his plan before I went onto that roof, I had most certainly been aware that he was going to find a way to ensure that I jumped.”
Sherlock pauses for a second, still not quite looking at John, and John wonders, faintly, if he’s ever going to reach the point of being immune to life-altering epiphanies. Based on the way his lungs are tightening up in his chest - his mind apparently unable to process the fact that Sherlock had jumped to save their lives, that Sherlock had slandered his own name and lied to John in an attempt to protect him - it’s not likely.
“And so I was planning to go to Molly - the local mortician, who works at the hospital - and request her assistance in faking my own death. I had a plan, and it would have worked.”
“But?”
Dean twists the lid off another beer bottle as he asks, popping it into the box beside him. Sherlock’s lips press together a little more tightly, and John watches as his fingers twitch slightly in front of him, as though they’re looking for something to hold on to, some kind of distraction.
“By the time I got to Molly, she had already been possessed. And when the demon offered me a deal - I would survive the fall, beat Moriarty, and have three years on Earth to destroy the last of Moriarty’s web - I took it.”
The very air in the room seems to stop circulating. There’s a flash of something red at the edges of John’s vision, and then he’s out of his chair, his body flashing from hot to numb and back again, and he’s kneeling in front of Sherlock with his hands digging into the curves of Sherlock’s knees. He tries to speak, tries to make words form in his mouth, and he’s distantly aware of the three others watching the scene, but all John can do is stare up at Sherlock, his vision blurring from something that he distantly realizes is shock.
“You - you -”
“I didn’t want you to know.”
Sherlock isn’t looking at him, his eyes fixed firmly somewhere over John’s shoulder, and John feels a yell building in his throat, threatening to come up and swamp him - and he only realizes he’s trying to leave the room when Sherlock is suddenly on his feet, his hand curled around John’s elbow. John is distantly aware that Dean and Castiel are watching the entire scene, watching John’s world fall down around him all over again, but it seems far away, somehow, and all he can feel is Sherlock’s hand on his elbow, all he can see are Sherlock’s eyes, fixed on his own with an expression that looks almost pleading.
“John. If Dean and Sam and Castiel are going to attempt to help us, then they need the entire story, which means that you will hear it, too.”
“Sherlock, I can’t -”
“The demon informed me that she would kill you if I refused to make the deal. You were never supposed to know. I do not yet understand why we have both been targeted by demons, but we have been, and they knew exactly where our pressure points were.”
There’s silence, then, until John feels himself start to buckle, and then Sherlock’s easing him into a sofa chair, his hands never leaving John’s body, holding on tight and trying to keep him steady. There’s too much happening along the edges of John’s mind, too much emotion to be absorbed at the same time, and he’s flashing hot and cold again, waves of sensation that seem to seep down the entire length of his body. The voice, when it comes, seems to be very far away.
“Breathe, John. I know what you’re feeling, and it’s no picnic, but you’ve gotta breathe for us, alright?”
It’s not Sherlock’s voice, but there’s a steadiness in it that somehow promises some kind of safety, cuts through the noise inside his head, and he somehow makes himself concentrate on the sound of it, somehow manages to bring the room into focus around him again, only to find that someone - Dean - is bent down in front of him, his hands wrapped around his arms.
“You good, buddy? Back with us?”
The words seem to process, but John still can’t make himself answer, his eyes skittering away from Dean to find Sherlock, who’s standing beside the sofa chair, his hand still curled around John’s shoulder. There’s an expression of such regret on Sherlock’s face that John can barely make himself look at him, and he takes a long moment to simply breathe, doing as Dean said, before he feels his hand creep up to latch on to Sherlock’s fingers.
“Sherlock - you - you, how could -”
And then he just stops, unable to find anything else, unable to make the words happen. In front of him, Dean seems to study him for a moment longer before he nods once and then straightens up, glancing at Castiel and jerking his head in the direction of the doorway.
“We’ll be upstairs.”
John barely notices them leaving. Then, it’s just him and Sherlock in the room, and when Sherlock slides his hand out of John’s fingers and crosses over to the room, his back to him and his arms wrapped around himself, John somehow manages to get himself to his feet again.
“I was attempting to account for the demons and for Moriarty, and making the deal seemed like the only way to beat both. You were never supposed to know.”
John simply nods in response, and it comes to him, vaguely, that if this is how Sherlock had felt when he learned that John sold his soul for him, then it’s no wonder Sherlock was on his knees in the dirt with him at that crossroads, his cheeks stained with tears. There’s just - too much, all at once, and John doesn’t know how he can keep feeling like this and survive.
“Do you - do you wish for me to leave you alone now?”
Sherlock still hasn’t turned around, and something sudden and desperate sweeps through John, seizing up his lungs and bringing moisture to his eyes. He blinks hard against the sting and finds himself crossing the room without the consent of his legs, and then he’s putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the same way as that first morning when he’d woken up to find Sherlock sitting at the end of his bed. He might still be having trouble with words, might still have too much interference on the edges of his mind to put coherent thoughts together, but he owes it to Sherlock to at least try.
“You - Sherlock. You really weren’t going to tell me, were you.”
“I was going to discover a way to break a deal with a demon. Once I had done that, you could have gotten out of your deal, and I could have gotten out of mine. You would have never needed to know.”
“And if you hadn’t found a way?”
“You would have gone to Hell. I would have had two more years on this planet, and then I would have joined you. At least you would have never known I was following you down.”
“So everything you’ve done, everything you’ve been doing since - well, for months now, it’s all, truly, been -”
“Yes, John. It’s all been to protect you. We appear to have reached the point where my attempting to deny that would be futile.”
There’s a world of vulnerability in Sherlock’s voice, suddenly, an audible frustration with what John can only assume are what Sherlock perceives as his own weaknesses, and it somehow makes John think of Baskerville, makes him think of, I’ve always been able to keep myself distant, makes him think of the first time he had ever met Sherlock. The coldness and the aloofness, the way he had seemed made of steel, impenetrable, removed from everything, located somewhere high above the nasty tangle of human emotion - the way he had been completely different from what John is seeing right now. Somehow, John seems to have made an impact, seems to have gotten under Sherlock’s skin in ways that nobody else has, and the thought sends a shudder of steely resolve through him - because Sherlock has gotten under his own skin, too, he knows, has shaped his life in more ways than he can count, has given him a reason to keep getting up in the morning, and if they’re in this together, they’re going to solve it together.
“Friends actually do protect people, you know. And I’m not letting you go to Hell just as much as you’re not letting me go. I promise you that, Sherlock.”
John can feel the way the words settle across Sherlock’s body, the way his shoulders tense and then relax underneath John’s hand, and he finds himself holding his breath as he waits for some kind of response. After a long moment, Sherlock turns around, and then they’re just left staring at each other, Sherlock’s eyes trained on his face like nothing else in the world even matters.
“Are you - you have every right to be angry with me.”
“Sherlock -”
“I - I was so angry with you. I couldn’t help it. You - John, you should have never condemned yourself to Hell for me. I’m not -”
“If that sentence ends with ‘worth it’, then I am actually going to get angry.”
Something seems to crack across Sherlock’s expression, something that looks almost desperate, and then John’s entire body is washing white with heat as a hand slowly comes up to curl around his cheek, the pad of Sherlock’s thumb catching against his bottom lip, a single touch that brings his entire world crashing down around him. John can barely feel the touch at first, can barely think over the fracturing in his mind, and then the thumb slides across the sensitive skin, and sensation comes screaming back to his body.
“Sherlock -”
His voice is shredded, barely there, the movement of his lip moving Sherlock’s thumb with it, and Sherlock is still staring at him, his eyes slipping down to stare at John’s mouth - and then Sherlock moves a tiny step closer, his fingers never leaving the skin of John’s face, and there is - there is absolutely no misinterpreting this. There are things like sharing a bed and then there are things like this, and this is - this is Sherlock touching him with intent, this is Sherlock looking like him like he wants to crawl inside and make a home for himself, and John can distantly hear a needy noise he thinks he should be ashamed of, but he just simply cannot even begin to care.
“Sherlock,” he manages again, and then Sherlock is licking his own lips and glancing back up to John’s eyes, and John gives up on trying to talk. It’s late, it’s dark, there are lines of salt along the windows, protection to keep the demons out, and Sherlock is touching him like he means something by it, and there is simply no way that John could possibly make coherent thoughts happen right now.
“John, I - if we only have a year together - I have never had anyone who - there’s never been -”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
It’s about the best John can manage, his lungs and his heart and everything inside him getting twisted up in ways that feel like too much, too much to handle all at once, euphoria and need and desperation and relief mixing inside him to nearly knock him right off his feet, and then Sherlock is shaking his head and moving a bit closer.
“You were never ready to hear it. I still wasn’t sure that you would be, now. Then Dean assumed that we were together, and you couldn’t seem to argue it.”
There’s an audible hint of hesitation to the words, still, despite the way Sherlock is touching him, as though Sherlock is still expecting him to bolt, and when all John can manage is a nod against the careful press of Sherlock’s hand, Sherlock moves the tiniest bit closer to him before he seems to hesitate further, his eyes dropping down to John’s mouth, and a hint of colour sneaking across his normally pale cheeks.
“John -”
Whatever Sherlock was going to say is cut off by something that sounds like a crashing noise from upstairs, and the elation in John’s body whiplashes over to concern so quickly it’s almost painful. Sherlock’s hand is already gone off his face, and John takes a moment to silently curse everything in the entire damn world as he and Sherlock head for the stairs, making it up them in record time to find -
Castiel curled up on the floor of John’s bedroom, with Dean more or less wrapped around his body, and the bed completely overturned, a mess of wood and blankets and pillows. Castiel is shaking, visibly shaking, and the expression on Dean’s face is a level of desperation that John can understand clear as anything, the first time he’s been able to get a true read on the guy.
“Goddammit - Cas, buddy, you’ve gotta listen - you’ve gotta hear me, come on. You know my voice. We’ve been through this. Fight it, breathe through it. Count your breaths, and focus on me. My voice, my body, my damn soul - whatever you can anchor to. I’m here, alright?”
Dean’s voice is shaking nearly as bad as Castiel’s body, and then Castiel makes a whimpering sound, the noise sounding like it’s come from an injured animal, but John has no idea what’s going on, has no idea why there’s an angel in pain on his bedroom floor, and he certainly has no idea how to help.
“Come on, Cas - you know me. Here -” And then Dean is grabbing Castiel’s hand, shoving it hard against his own chest, over his heart, and putting his own hand on it. “Come on, Cas. I’m real. Concentrate on me. You know me -”
“Dean,” Castiel rasps suddenly, his eyes screwing even tighter shut as his fingers scrabble against Dean’s chest - and then, with a final shudder, Castiel stops shaking and curls in on himself, his entire body seeming to go limp in a way that doesn’t look healthy at all. There’s nothing but Dean’s ragged breathing for a long moment, and then he’s rolling Castiel’s body off his knees and climbing to his feet with a quiet groan, not quite looking at them as he straightens out his jeans.
“Cas’ll put the bed back later.”
And then Dean is turning to the mess of broken bed and destroyed sheets, turning back with a pillow to stick underneath Castiel’s head, and a blanket to throw over top of him. Once that’s done - with Castiel not moving the entire time - Dean straightens up and swallows hard, and John is aware that he and Sherlock are both staring rather rudely, but he can’t seem to make himself stop.
“Alright, yeah - long story. Let’s - back downstairs, and keep the movements slow and quiet, alright?”
Dean jerks his head at the door, wiping a swear of blood on the back of his hand, something visibly haunted in his eyes as glances down at Castiel one last time, and then John is nodding and following Sherlock out of the room, aware of Dean’s footsteps behind him for the entire trip back to the living room. Once they get back down there, John turns to Dean and opens his mouth on a question, but Dean shakes his head curtly, eyes snapping up to the clock.
“Storytime’s gonna have to wait. Sam’s not answering his phone. And he should have been back by now.”
“We’re coming with you.”
A quick glance at Sherlock confirms John’s words, the slight nod in response, but Dean shakes his head again, barely looking at them as he heads for the kitchen, pulling a couple of water bottles out of his rucksack.
“Too dangerous.”
“We’re not useless, you know.”
“I don’t work with amateurs.”
“Look, alright - demons might be new to us, sure. But we’re not naive. You could use us. I’m a soldier and a doctor, and Sherlock’s the smartest man you’ll ever meet.”
“Is that so?”
Dean still is barely looking at them, too busy checking the salt lines on the windows, his bag thrown down by the main doorway - and when John opens his mouth to argue again, there’s the sudden press of a hand against the bottom of his back, and he loses his words on the wave of heat that shoots through him. Sherlock is suddenly quite close, has moved to stand beside him, and all John can do is swallow hard, not even bothering to fight the pulse of want that attempts to spread out across his skin, because now he doesn’t have to, and that knowledge is enough to make his knees weak.
“Yes. I am. And John’s right. You could use us.”
“I don’t -”
“You need me to prove it?”
“Buddy, I really don’t give a damn -”
“I know that Sam is your brother, and that Castiel is your lover.”
Dean isn’t the only one who goes completely still at the words, freezing in the action of bending to get something out of his rucksack. John distantly realizes that he’s full on gaping, his mouth actually hanging open, but based on the way Dean’s face has gone an interesting shade of red, and because when Sherlock says something, then it must be true - then, just, wow. Dean and Castiel. Dean, sleeping with an angel. A male angel. That… that one, John had not seen coming.
“How the fuck could you even -”
“I observe. I use my brain. I also know how to analyse a situation and figure out the best ways to navigate it. Between my intellect and your knowledge of the supernatural, we would be a viable threat to any demon. And John’s stubbornness and loyalty are not weapons that you want to be leave at home when you’re going into battle.”
The words send a wave of warmth across John’s skin, and although Sherlock delivers them with what seems like perfect impassivity, his hand is still pressed lightly against John’s back, the fingers shifting slightly in a movement that John feels across his entire body, and it’s suddenly taking everything John has to pay attention to the man in front of them, who’s scowling at them and looking generally displeased with the entire situation.
“Alright, you with your big damn intellect. Can you read Latin?”
“Of course.”
“Then you carry the exorcism rite, and you be damn well ready to spew it out when I say so. And I’m gonna give ya both a thing of holy water - yeah, it’s exactly what it sounds like - because it’s like acid to demons. If one gets close, douse the fucker. We can come up with a better plan once I’ve seen the actual building.”
Dean walks out the door without stopping for either of them to say a word, carefully stepping around the paint on the floor to avoid smudging the lines, and then John’s left staring after him. Sherlock, standing beside him, removes his hand from John’s back, and John does his best to not press backwards in an effort to keep it there.
“You’d best find your medical kit. We may have need of it.”
Sherlock’s voice is low and tinted with audible warmth, now that Dean is no longer in the room, and John breathes through the sudden flipping of his stomach as he turns to face Sherlock again. Sherlock meets his eyes without flinching, but John thinks he can see tiny hints of uncertainty still lurking on the edges in his expression, and the last thing he wants right now - as they make plans to go into a possible den of demons - is for Sherlock to think, even for a second, that John might ever change his mind about this.
“We’re good, Sherlock. More than good, if you’re sure about this.”
“I’m sure.”
Sherlock is still staring at him, the same way he’s done so many times before, but this time there’s so much more there, a new promise in his eyes that John can barely even believe he’s seeing, and John can’t seem to stop the heat that’s building across his body, the way his legs no longer seem to be holding quite steady beneath him.
“Sherlock -”
A car horn blasts through the apartment, followed by the sound of Dean yelling at them from the bottom of the stairs, and John stares at Sherlock for a second longer before he reluctantly moves away, heading across the apartment to grab his medical kit, and feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him the entire time. They can do this - can go save Sam, and be Mycroft’s knights in shining armour - and then they can come back here, and… and explore this further, whatever this is.
Sherlock’s intense gaze suddenly slips into his mind again, and John doesn’t quite manage to hold back a shiver. He knows there are still important things to worry about - things like demons and deals and holy water and exorcisms - but with this new realization that Sherlock wants him in return, all the insanity in their lives somehow seems just a little bit easier to deal with.
- - -
“That’s your brother’s idea of a house?”
“Mycroft has a certain need for theatrics.”
“So I see.”
Sherlock, Dean and John are crouched behind a bush on the edge of Mycroft’s lawn, staring at the towering white building. John has a moment of marvelling at what he’s going into battle with - he’s got a small selection of medical supplies strapped onto his belt, but there’s a giant bottle of holy water in his hand, instead of a gun - and the surreal feeling only increases as he watches Sherlock glance down at the exorcism ritual he’s got in his hand, holding a bottle of holy water in the other.
“This will send a demon back to Hell?”
“If you can get it out before the demon guts ya, then yes.”
Dean’s eyes are on the house as he speaks, his gaze tracking across every inch of it, and John watches as he checks his phone again, his face tightening a little further at the apparent lack of message of Sam. Shifting a bit, feeling the damp dirt begin to press through the knees of his jeans, John finds himself wondering, again, what the story is behind Dean and his brother, and how this came to be the life they seem to lead.
“I am familiar with my brother’s surveillance system. There is not an inch of space in that building - and on the surrounding lawn - that isn’t watched.”
“So what’s your brilliant idea, then?”
“One of my colleagues has an acquaintance at the local electrical company whom can be blackmailed into shutting down power to this sector. She knew what he liked, so to speak, and it shall now act as rather damning currency against him.”
Sherlock doesn’t quite look at John as he delivers the news, and John knows he’s gaping, knows he’s staring in a way that’s got to be quite unattractive, but he can’t quite seem to close his jaw.
“Irene Adler is alive? But -”
“Yes, she is alive, and I will tell you how later. For now, I only need send her the final confirmation, and she will inform her acquaintance to remove power from this sector of the city - along with several other sectors, so as to spread out the ensuing police and government response. Once this building has been stripped of its electricity, it will take Mycroft’s back-up generators three minutes and thirty seven seconds to reach full capacity - a fact that has caused him no small amount of unhappiness, I assure you. It is not much of a window, but three minutes should allow us to get to the main control room, where you two can provide protection for me. We will wait for the surveillance system to come back on, so as to locate our brothers, and then I will permanently disable the system, and we can then secure Mycroft and Sam.”
“That’s… quite a solid plan, actually.”
Dean seems as much surprised as he is impressed, as though - until now - he hadn’t believed that Sherlock would be anything but a liability, and Sherlock’s lips twitch up just slightly at the corners in response. Something, though, isn’t quite sitting well with John, and damn his annoying conscience.
“So we’re gonna blackmail some poor sod at the electricity company?”
“If my brother is taken by the demons, there will be serious consequences for the British government. As incompetent as our government is, I would prefer it to not be controlled by demons.”
“But -”
“If it soothes your conscience, Irene is going to help this acquaintance of hers clear his tracks at the company. Nobody will ever know it was him.”
That’s… somewhat reassuring, actually, and when Sherlock raises his phone and arches his eyebrows in question, John nods, and Sherlock’s thumb presses down on the send key. They wait in silence, then, nothing but the steady sound of their own breathing, John feeling his nerves string a little bit tighter with each passing minute - and then, like a wave of darkness, every light in the area goes out, leaving the only light around them the light from the moon.
“Alright,” he hears Dean whisper, just barely visible in the darkness, “I’m going first. John, behind me. Once we get inside, switch it up to put Sherlock in the middle, so he can give me directions. Let’s go.”
And then Dean is gone, and John clutches tight to the holy water in his hand and follows, ducking down and following as Dean seems to cling to the darkest shadows he can find. The moon’s not that bright, but it’s still brighter than John would have liked, and he half expects a bullet to tear into him as they run across the law. It’s only when they reach the door that he allows himself to take a deep and steadying breath, and then Sherlock is all but pushed up against him in the dark, his front pressed against John’s back.
“The black-out should have disabled the security system. You don’t need the pass code.”
Dean had been hovering in front of the door, and John can just see him nod as he pushes the door open, and then they’re in, all three of them, and Sherlock pushes himself in between Dean and John, and John can hear him begin to murmur directions as they move forward. He tries to keep track of them in his head, is pretty sure he knows which way they’re going, but his main concern is tracking the darkness for anything that looks like movement. It’s only when they reach the computer control room, and Sherlock is standing by the computers, leaving Dean and John to stand guard by the door, that John feels his face crease into a frown. He’s gone into battle often enough to recognize when something doesn’t feel right, and this… something’s off here.
“We should have met someone by now.”
“I know.”
Dean’s voice is short and clipped, and John does his best to not grind his teeth together as he glances from the door to Sherlock, who’s all but vibrating in front of the dark computer screens, his bottle of holy water just visible as it sits on the edge of the desk. John can hear him counting to himself, literally counting down the seconds, and then suddenly the lights and computers come to life again, leaving John blinking against the sudden brightness.
“There. Mycroft and Sam are both being held in the northern most corner room, on the second floor. There are three people with them.”
“Fine. Now disable those -”
Dean doesn’t get a chance to finish, because Sherlock is already crawling under the table, the flash of a knife showing in his hand. In about five seconds, the screens go completely dark again, and John watches as Sherlock crawls out from under the tables again, slipping the knife back into his pocket and pulling out the exorcism rite instead.
“And here I was expecting some genius computer thing.”
Dean doesn’t take his eyes from the outside hallway as he speaks, and Sherlock doesn’t look at him, either, too busy grabbing the bottle of holy water from the table, holding it in one hand and the exorcism rite in the other.
“Cutting the cables was quicker.”
Sherlock’s already moving, coming to stand beside John and Dean, and all three of them end up leaning out the doorway, staring down the brightly lit hall. There’s still no hint of movement - nothing at all - and from the look on Sherlock’s face, he is just as unimpressed as Dean and John.
“We should have encountered resistance.”
“Yeah. Bit late to worry about that now. Let’s go get our brothers, and you two keep your hands on that holy water.”
Sherlock makes a noise that doesn’t sound at all happy, and then they’re off again, single file down the hallway, with Sherlock in the middle again, giving Dean directions, and it can’t take them more than two minutes to make it to the right room. There’s still not a hint of resistance the entire time, and John’s about ready to claw off his skin in frustration, even as Dean turns to them with an equally unimpressed expression.
“Alright. John, you and I are responsible for covering Sherlock. We go first. Sherlock, start with that exorcism as soon as we get in the room.”
Dean barely gives them time to nod before he pushes open the door, and Sherlock’s spitting out Latin behind them, even as John tears into the room to find Dean launching himself at one of the men, the knife flashing as it sinks into his shoulder. There’s no time to watch, though, because John is already throwing water on the woman standing beside Mycroft, his skin strung tight as he waits for something to happen -
But there’s nothing. And, beside him, Dean is being kicked to the ground, the demon pulling Dean’s knife out of his shoulder, carelessly throwing it down on the ground beside him. Dean scrambles to pick it up again, getting up onto his knees, but Sam is shouting something from where he’s tied to a chair, and Sherlock’s voice is faltering, and John’s suddenly backhanded onto the ground so hard the room starts to spin around him. When it begins to right itself again, Sherlock is down on the ground with a woman standing over him, and Dean is back on his feet, shoving the knife into his pocket, and pulling out something that looks like a tiny spray bottle.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
John distantly processes the incredulity in Dean’s voice, barely able to hear anything through the ringing in his ears, and then Dean is launching himself at the woman, spraying her in the face with whatever’s in the bottle - but even as she screams she twists her body sharply, and Dean flies off her and lands sprawled out beside Sherlock, who’s already scrambling for the bottle that’s flown out of Dean’s hand. John lifts up his hand just in time to catch it, the bottle arcing from Sherlock to him, and John doesn’t know what’s going on, but he tries to turn the bottle on the man - and then finds himself back down on the ground again, the second woman sending him crashing to the knees with a single blow against his shoulder.
“Well, aren’t you a tenacious little thing, doctor.”
John just barely hears the words, and then there’s what seems to be a very long silence. When he cautiously lifts his head from the floor, it’s to find Sherlock balancing on his knees, and Dean standing beside him with an expression that’s gone completely devoid of colour. Behind the man, John can just make out the sight of both Mycroft and Sam tied to chairs, Mycroft with a dark bruise colouring his cheek.
“A Borax spray bottle. Cute, Winchester.”
The woman who had knocked John down leans to pick up the bottle, and then chucks it across the room, landing it in the corner. Even as John watches, sudden fear sweeping across his body at the realization that their plan seems to have been completely derailed, the other woman’s face begins to reform itself, changing from a mangled mess to a normal human face again.
“Who would have ever guessed. I came here looking for the Holmes brothers, and I get the Winchesters as well. My boss is going to be ever so pleased with me. You’ve been giving him such trouble over in America.”
The one standing beside John is the one speaking, and he shakes his head as he tries to clear it, his eyes cutting to Sherlock, who’s watching the woman with an expression of such frustration it almost hurts to look at. Beside Sherlock, Dean looks ready to start clawing into these creatures - whatever they are - with only his fingernails, his eyes never shifting away from the woman who seems to be the ringleader.
“You okay, Sammy?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Sam sounds just as angry as Dean, but there’s something else there - something that sounds like bravery in the face of impossible odds, as though he knows that, whatever they’ve stumbled into, it’s too big to fight. John’s been a solider long enough to recognize it, and he can’t quite the wave of helplessness that sweeps across his body, squeezing his lungs too tight in his chest.
“And what, exactly, did you want from Sherlock and I?”
Mycroft’s voice cuts sharply through the room, his customary composure replaced by an audible anger that seems to lace every word, and a small smirk spreads across the ringleader woman’s face.
“Haven’t you guessed? You more or less run the British government, my dear. Some people - such as yourself - simply cannot be duplicated, which means we need you alive. And the best way to ensure your cooperation is to start cutting off your little brother’s fingers, one by one.”
John fights down the violent surge of nausea, the wave of blind panic. Still kneeling on the floor beside Dean, Sherlock’s face goes a shade of white that John’s never seen on anyone before, and it takes everything John has stay where he is, to keep himself from starting to claw at the woman standing beside him.
“Kill the doctor. Then bring the Winchesters and the Holmes boys to me. I have such delicious fun planned for all four of you.”
She turns and walks out the door, aiming a final smirk in Dean’s direction, and after a second of silence Sherlock is scrambling to his feet again even as Dean springs backwards, aiming for spray bottle in the corner, the male monster following after him with what sounds like a laugh. John barely has time to get to his own feet before he’s being spun around, one of the creatures pulling him against her even as her mouth tips back and - and all John can see is teeth, teeth and tongue and he hears himself yelling as he tries to pull away, tries to put his fist into her throat, tries to hit her anywhere he can reach -
He doesn’t realize he’s hit the floor until he’s on it, Sherlock sprawled out on top of the woman, fists flying everywhere - and then Sherlock is hitting the floor, hard, and the woman is balanced over top of him, her mouth still open, and no, Sherlock, please no -
“Sherlock!”
He’s back on his knees, his hands sinking into the creature’s shoulders to pull her backwards - just in time to be knocked over as someone else barrels into the woman, a flash of trench coat and limbs and fists - and then Castiel is across the room, grabbing hold of Dean and vanishing, appearing again to grab Sam and Mycroft before they all vanish, and then it’s just John and Sherlock in the room, lying on the floor beside each other, staring up at the two creatures as they turn towards them, mouths still open -
A flutter of feathers, a flash of coat, and Castiel is suddenly in between them, a hand on each of their shoulders. Next thing John is aware of, the entire world is suddenly spinning around him, slowly solidifying to bring in the unfathomable sight of trees around them, moonlight making it just possible to see - and John feels his knees go out from underneath him even as Castiel crashes into a nearby tree, wood cracking and splintering through the air as the angel smashes off the tree and lands on the ground, unmoving. John wants to get up and do something to help, wants to go to Castiel, thank him from the bottom of his very soul for the rescue - but his legs don’t seem ready to move yet, and then suddenly Sherlock is on the ground with him, his arms wrapped tight around John’s body and his face pressed in hard against the curve of John’s neck, and all John can do is cling right back and hold on as tight as he can, both of them shaking so hard it almost hurts.
- - -
Part Four