Love of Heaven and Hell

Demons Among Us

John Watson was feared by all the evil that walked the Earth, vampires cringed at the sight of him, spirits cowered, demons hissed, there was nothing on this planet that John couldn't handle, except long lines. The cash register dinged pleasantly and a particularly fat lady bustled along with her shopping, making way for the third person up, a man, obviously an annoyed father, carrying his baby in one of those chest strap carry-ons, and the baby was making quite a fuss. John groaned, leaning on the shelf of the Dollar Tree and trying to resist pulling out the shotgun concealed in the waist band of his jeans to get things moving. He was a hunter, he tracked down the things that made grown men cry for their mommies and kept children up all night, staring at what they knew was waiting for them in the dark. He was only in this bloody store because he had left his last hotel in a hurry after tracking down and burning the bones of some very pesky poltergeist who liked to torment the residents of an apartment building. He would've stayed longer and made sure he didn't miss a spot or anything, but the manager may or may not have found out that his name wasn't actually Fredrick Newmanburg and that he didn't have a credit card, bank account, or anything but random poker money to his name. The line moved up once more, and John took a couple of paces up, groaning. He always forgot his stupid toothbrush, it just never crossed his mind as something to grab on his way out the door. It figures though, he needs to get his guns, knives, Latin ritual books, holy water, and anti-possession charms but he can't be bothered with his bloody toothbrush. Maybe this line would move faster if the store would be bothered to open up another register, because this little old lady who couldn't seem to move her arms fast enough. After a good twenty minutes John finally left the store to find that it was pouring down rain. Brilliant. Hunters also didn't care about silly things like rain; therefore they couldn't care less about buying an umbrella when they could buy ammo. John groaned, walking down the street to try to find his way back to his hotel, trying to huddle down into his coat collar to prevent himself from getting drenched. It's not like John necessarily wanted this pathetic lifestyle, living at the bottom of the food chain, risking your neck every other day but for what? No recognition, no pay, no praise, you simply just drove to the next town where there was some freaky accident, where ever this ruddy job took you. But it was better than sitting behind a desk being something like tech support, or having to work the cash registers at the Dollar Tree. John walked through the crowds; they would never know that they were passing a murderer of the spirit world, that he's killed more monsters than a cheesy horror movie special can cram into a film. It was like Frankenstein meets Wolfman vs. Dracula featuring the nameless zombie and Casper the not so friendly ghost, and all of these may be eighties creatures, but John had managed to exclude them from the human world for now. And all of these pathetic people thought those nightmares stretch only as far as the TV. John stopped at the street corner, groaning as it felt like someone was pouring a gallon of water on his head, soaking him to the bone. The traffic was passing heavily; everyone had resorted to confined methods of transportation since they were too scared to get their hair wet. John considered them pathetic, but he also was kind of envious. And then suddenly the rain just stopped, as if some miracle not a drop fell on his head. John looked up, about to praise his lucky stars, but instead he was greeted by an umbrella.
"Thought you looked a bit swamped." said a deep voice next to him. John looked up in shock, almost grabbing for his gun, when he saw that there was a man, a good head taller than him, smiling warmly down at him. The man was about his age, with dark black curls and smooth white skin, with such green eyes that he looked like a walking porcelain doll. He looked friendly enough, so John relaxed just a bit.
"Oh, thank you." John muttered, not sure what to say when a complete stranger offers you such kindness.
"No problem." He said with a small chuckle, as if John's thankfulness was amusing. "I'm Sherlock, and you are?" he asked, extending a leather clad hand.
"John." John said, shaking his hand. The man had a very firm handshake, as if he were trying to say whose boss as soon as he met someone. There was something very intimidating about his handshake, but John couldn't place what it was, or why it made him feel uneasy.
"It's quite a nasty day isn't it?" Sherlock asked, and John merely nodded.
"I've seen better." He agreed.
"Would you like a cigarette?" Sherlock asked, extending a pack.
"Oh, no thank you, I don't smoke." John muttered.
"Suit yourself." Sherlock shrugged, putting one to his lips and holding a lighter to the cigarette, cupping the flame with his hand to protect it from the chilly air that was threatening to snuff it out. The traffic started moving again, and John tore his eyes away from this strange man and started to walk, but the umbrella followed. Sherlock had quite a long stride, but he was walking just slowly enough so that John could stay under the protection of the fabric. It was all very kind and all, but John was wondering why this man was making such a fuss over a random guy in the street. There were plenty of people wandering around without umbrellas or rain coats, looking a lot more official and important than John, in his worn out leather jacket and faded jeans. He looked more like a hobo than someone who required special umbrella services.
"So, what brings you out into this downpour?" Sherlock asked, looking down on John as if he needed an explanation to be on the streets. John held up the bag.
"Toothbrush, I forgot one when I um, left home." John shrugged.
"Oh, so you're on vacation?" Sherlock asked. John nodded. He never told anyone that he moved from hotel to hotel under credit card fraud, or that he didn't have a home, and definitely not what he did for a living. When people asked he was an exterminator, which wasn't all that much of a lie, but what he exterminated was much more serious than a termite infestation.
"Let's get out of this wind, how about a drink?" Sherlock asked. What was with this guy and addictive substances? But this worried John a little bit; surely he didn't mean a date did he, because he definitely had the wrong man.
"Oh, um, I really shouldn't, I should get home and dry off a little bit, my uh, my wife will be expecting me." John lied quickly. Sherlock smiled pleasantly, as if that were some type of cute joke.
"Oh John, no wife would let their husband wander out without an umbrella, and certainly not without a toothbrush." Sherlock pointed out. Something about his words made John's blood run cold for some reason, what was he trying to say? Suddenly his gesture of kindness seemed more uneasy, and John thought he might prefer getting wet by the rain than being protected by this stranger's umbrella.
"Well, um, I really have to go, dinner reservations, thank you for you know, the umbrella, but I should get going." John decided, stepping out from underneath the umbrella quickly, and feeling the rain drop heavily onto his head.
"Let me at least walk you home, you don't want to catch a cold." Sherlock pointed out, putting the umbrella onto his shoulder and twirling it against his coat collar, which, for some reason, was turned up. There was a smile on his face that made John's heart beat a bit faster, he honestly was scared of this man, but he knew he shouldn't be. He was just being friendly wasn't he?
"Oh, no thanks, it's too far of a walk." John decided, picking up the pace a little bit.
"Very well Mr. Watson, whatever suits you." Sherlock decided. John gave him a farewell tilt of his head and scurried off faster, hoping he could find his hotel without too much of a fuss. He didn't exactly recall telling Sherlock his last name, how could he have known... John walked faster now, feeling like he wanted to grab his shot gun right now, but thought that just not be the greatest idea in a crowd full of people. John looked behind him a couple of blocks later, he could now see the neon sign advertising his hotel, not far now. Sherlock stuck out like a sore thumb, his black umbrella twirling on his shoulder still, his green eyes staring right back through the crowd. He was following John for some reason. No, of course not, he was only going the same way, there were plenty of other reasons to walk down a street weren't there? John was being paranoid, which was stupid, because he had dealt with much worse than a man walking the same direction he was. And he had been friendly, maybe all he wanted to was to exchange phone numbers or something, maybe he thought that John was in need of a friend, or he just wanted to hang out at the bar and discus the latest football match? Either way John was very relieved when he walked through the lobby and went up the elevator to his room. When he got there he shut the door, opening up his toothbrush and slathering it with the hotel toothpaste that was provided, he hadn't brushed his teeth in what felt like ages, which was absolutely disgusting of course, but it wasn't his fault he's been on the road for so long. He was only stopping in this town as a pit stop, waiting for his next big lead; he'd be out of here in no time. His mind wandered to what his sister, Harry, might be doing right now. No doubt kicking her feet up on the coffee table with Clara, watching some stupid sitcom and eating microwaved popcorn. He somewhat envied her, but then again he could never handle such a boring life of sitting around and doing nothing. Where was the excitement, other than when Danny ends up being his 'sisters' son? And even that wasn't all that exciting. John sighed, putting his toothbrush back in the plastic container he got it in and washing off his face with clean water. The rain water had been sticking to his hair, running uncomfortably down his face and all; it was quite unpleasant to be honest. He felt a lot better, a lot drier now. He peeled off his wet leather jacket and turned to hang it up somewhere when his heart stopped. Sherlock was leaning casually against the door, the umbrella folded up in his hand, and a big smile on his face.
"Saving me the trouble then, huh?" he asked with a flirtatious little laugh. John grabbed the nearest thing he could, the toothpaste, and brandished it like a sword.
"Get out of my room!" John demanded. Sherlock only laughed, swishing his curls across his forehead and smiling down at John.
"I must admit, you are terrifying." He moved closer, and John stepped back into the bathroom, holding the toothpaste as if it were a legitimate threat, but Sherlock was getting closer and closer and all John did was run into the counter top.
"Please, just leave!" John demanded. He looked around for maybe a razor or something, scissors, even a hairbrush would be better than a harmless tube of toothpaste. Sherlock's green eyes flashed and in a quick jolt he had pinned John against the counter, but he didn't have a gun or a weapon or anything, in fact it didn't seem like he was intending to hurt John in any way. Instead he took a deep breath, holding John where he was and hovering his face right above John's ear.
"Now then, that's better." He said in an exhale of breath. John tried to struggle, but Sherlock was so close and he was pinning his arms to the countertop, what was John to do? It's kind of sad that a hunter had been overpowered by a flirtatious man that was handy with a lock pick. Then John remembered, the gun in his back pocket, how could he have possibly forgotten, if he could just get it? Maybe he would just have to play along, and then reach for it and make the man leave. Maybe this freak could read minds though, because just as John thought about he felt a hand creeping along the bottom of his shirt, brushing against his back but clasping the gun in his hand.
"That's a bit rude isn't it?" Sherlock asked, pulling the gun from John's waistband and emptying the cartridge without even looking. The magazine spilled to the floor, bullets rolling everywhere, and he threw the empty gun across the room, where it landed softly on the carpeted floor. Sherlock moved his face closer, his cherry red lips just inches from John's, and he was moving closer, he was going to try to kiss him... John struggled now, more than ever, now that his last line of defense was gone he had to use every last inch of power he had in him to kick this man away.
"Get off of me!" John demanded, twisting his wrists underneath Sherlock's powerful grip.
"Aw, what's the matter, afraid of the dark?" Sherlock asked. As he said it he blinked, and instead of the sea green, his eyes were completely enveloped with black. Sherlock was possessed by a demon.