Love of Heaven and Hell

Victory Goes to the Head

"John." Sherlock muttered, scrambling over Victor's dead body to come to his aid, examining the long scratches nervously.
"It's not that bad, we just need to get you home." He decided.
"You go, get the car, I can wait here." John assured.
"No way, something else could come, the demon could come back!" Sherlock pointed out.
"I think that's our guardian demon, it wants us alive." John pointed out, slouching farther down the wall and trying to position himself so that the scratches didn't hurt like fire.
"Go Sherlock, be quick." He insisted.
"Where are the keys?" Sherlock asked.
"In my pocket." John muttered. Sherlock slid his hand into John's pocket and dug out the keys, smiling triumphantly but looking worried all the same.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked.
"No I'm not okay, now get out of here!" John growled, and Sherlock nodded, scrambling away as if afraid John would yell at him. The door slammed and John was left sitting there with the mess they had made, the bleeding body of Victor lying sprawled out on the dusty carpet.
"So I guess this is how it ends." John muttered to the boy in the bloodstain. It didn't move, it didn't respond, but John could almost feel the last of Victor's presence trying to communicate somehow.
"All of that macho stuff, the sob story, the lies, thinking that maybe you can get through me with Sherlock, well guess what, here we are, and I can say," John repositioned himself so that he could stare straight into the eyes, the startling blue eyes that had haunted his dreams and life. "I win." John pointed out. He smiled victoriously, and it was true. He, John, had won the battle. He had allies of course, but now he was the one alive. John extended a foot and kicked Victor's head slightly. "I win." He repeated. John smiled again, feeling so good at the moment it might be disturbing. Kicking someone should not bring so much satisfaction. But, with an enormous amount of effort, he lifted himself onto his feet, careful not to use him shoulders too much, even though every twitch of them brought yet more pain. He limped carefully over to Victor and kicked him again, still lightly, in his face where he lay.
"I get the crown..." He insisted, kicking harder. Victor's head did a complete 180 on his neck, landing on the other side of the rug and probably snapping his neck. "I get the glory..." John pointed out, kicking the limp body with more and more force. "And best of all..." he planted a huge kick right over top of Victor's heart and then leaned down, close to his cold ear. "I get Sherlock." He muttered, smiling tauntingly at the corpse. "You hear that?" he asked, titling the head, now much too loose on the neck, it wobbled into his view. Victor looked in pain even though he couldn't feel anything, he looked sad even though he had no emotion. This was what victory felt like. "He may have wanted you, you may have had him, but he's all mine, and there's nothing you can do to stop it." John hissed. He almost saw the blue eyes blink.
"John, John I'm back, I'm back hold on!" cried a voice as the door banged open. Sherlock came running in with the first aid kit, his black hair looking windblown and sweaty, as if he sprinted to the car and back. "Someone's on the move." he decided, coming over and trying his best to support John without hurting his shoulders. In the end he was just kind of putting a supporting hand on his back.
"I'm fine, I can, I can walk." John assured, but he liked having Sherlock's hand on his back, it made him feel that at least someone was there in case he actually did fall.
"Oh, okay, then let's get you to the car, how bad are they?" he asked.
"No idea, they hurt, but not paralyzing." John decided.
"I guess that's good then." Sherlock decided. "Shouldn't we clean up, him?" Sherlock asked, looking down at Victor with worry.
"Nah. Someone will find him, eventually." John decided, starting to limp out the door.
"What happened to his neck?" Sherlock asked, looking down on the corpse with confusion.
"Nothing happened to his neck, he must have landed on it funny." John lied, already half way out of the sitting room. Sherlock shrugged and followed John out the door, still trying to support him even though John was capable of walking out of a bloody room without Life Alert swooping down on his every move. John was able to make it to the car okay, but sitting up in the uneven chair kind of bent his shoulders, so that was positively miserable. Sherlock was breaking every speed limit and John was sort of worried about his piece of junk car. Even though it was rubbish he would be lost if Sherlock crashed it, and he couldn't afford another car with credit card fraud. When they finally got to the hotel, not a scratch on the car thankfully, Sherlock rushed to open John's door and get him inside. John nudged him away the best he could with his elbow, but that hurt a lot so he retained from moving his arms too often.
"I'm fine Sherlock, really." John insisted, shooing him away once more. Sherlock opened the door to the motel room, which John had to admit he wouldn't have been able to do, but walked himself into the room and sank down onto one of the mattresses. He kept pressure on his wounds the best he could, but it hurt a lot when he did that even though it was the best he could do for himself at the moment.
"Alright, let's get you cleaned up." Sherlock decided, popping open the first aid kit and examining the content. He hummed a little bit, but plucked up a cloth and soaked it in disinfectant.
"This is going to hurt." he warned with a teasing smile.
"No really?" John muttered. Sherlock frowned though; obviously there was a barrier he hadn't thought of before.
"You're going to have to take off your shirt." He pointed out rather awkwardly. Brilliant, how in the world was John supposed to do that?
"I can't, just go around." John insisted.
"There's too much cloth and all that, sorry John, but I'm sure there is blood underneath too, you'll have to take it off." Sherlock pointed out.
"You just want to see me shirtless." John laughed.
"No! No I most certainly do not!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping back in embarrassment and turning a miserable shade of scarlet. "It's for medical reasons, that's all." He insisted.
"I know, I was joking with you." John assured with a shy laugh. He hated to admit it, but he was glowing as well. Sherlock didn't look all that keen on cleaning him up now, but he came closer and sighed.
"Really, you have to." He pointed out. John groaned, but tried to lift up the bottom of his shirt. As soon as he did his shoulders felt like someone drenched them in alcohol and lit them on fire.
"Oh god, god are you okay?" Sherlock insisted, dropping the cloth to try to comfort John.
"Sherlock I'm fine, really...just cut it off." John decided.
"What?" Sherlock asked, taken aback.
"The shirt! It's ruined anyway, just cut it off." John insisted, nodding to the silver knife, which was sitting on the bed next to him.
"What if I cut you?" Sherlock asked uncertainly.
"For God's sake Sherlock, just do what I tell you!" John snapped, and Sherlock nodded rigorously, as if showing how loyal he was.
"Yes, yes okay." Sherlock assured, looking upset with himself for some reason. John sighed with annoyance, sure he was adorable and innocent, but he could also be the biggest pain in the butt that John had ever met.
"Carefully." John insisted as Sherlock raised the blade to the cloth. He looked ridiculously nervous; like he was afraid he'd make more injuries as he tried to heal the old ones.
"You'll be fine, just, carefully." John assured.
"Carefully." Sherlock muttered, and lifted up the ruined front of the shirt, starting to tear through the blood soaked shirt.
"Perfect, see, nothing wrong with that is there?" John asked, not daring enough to laugh in case it would knock the knife off course. The fabric was ripping slowly and Sherlock was obviously terrified, but after a good ten minutes the shirt was now nothing but a bunch of ripped shreds all over the bed. John was grimacing with pain now, he could see the cuts clearly, he could see the blood that was still oozing, it was a sight that would make most anyone throw up.
"Alright, this will hurt." Sherlock decided, dousing the cloth in more disinfectant and pressing it carefully to the wound. John couldn't help it, he cried out in sudden pain, gripping the corner of the mattress so hard he wouldn't be surprised it cotton started to come out. John closed his eyes and tried to get his breathing back to normal, tried not to focus on the miserable pain that flowing through his body, flowing through his very soul...
"You're okay, you'll be okay." Sherlock assured.
"I know that dang it! Just get it over with!" John growled. Sherlock nodded on repeat once again and drenched another fresh towel in the disinfectant, pressing it to the other cut without warning and making John go through yet another spasm of unbearable pain.
"Okay, we're done! See, that wasn't too hard!" Sherlock decided, throwing the towel into the trash and rubbing some weird cream over the cuts to help the healing process.
"Just lie back." He decided.
"You've got to cover them!" John pointed out.
"Oh, ya, well I'll put the bandages on and then you can just lie back." Sherlock decided, slapping on two bandages over the long cuts. John lay back on the pillows and stared up into the ceiling, wincing every time his breathing made his shoulders move. It wasn't that deep of a cut after all, it was just long, it stretched from his shoulder down to his stomach, Victor had probably made a permanent mark. Now Sherlock was trying to path his cheek up, the three scratches were still deep and quite vicious looking.
"Look at us, we're cripples." John decided with a shy laugh, letting his head fall back on the pillows.
"We're warriors." Sherlock pointed out. John nodded, that sounded a lot better. Sherlock sat on the other bed and looked at John uneasily; obviously he had a lot of questions going through his mind.
"Why did the same demon that possessed me want to save me?" Sherlock asked.
"I have no idea." John admitted. "It all seems way too funny not to check out. Technically it got you, brought you to kill me, but then it left as soon as I started to fight back. Now it comes back and shoots a werewolf that is about to kill you." John sighed.
"What did he mean pieces of the puzzle, is there something that we're missing?" Sherlock asked.
"Undoubtedly." John decided. "What's the date?" Sherlock looked at him as if he were slightly crazy, but thought really hard.
"The sixteenth, August." Sherlock decided. John sighed, but nodded, if it were the sixteenth then that meant... no, don't think of that just yet.
"Alright." He decided.
"Is there something wrong with the sixteenth?" Sherlock asked.
"No, no there isn't." John assured.
"What did the demon say to you when he possessed me?" Sherlock asked. John blushed a little bit, remembering the encounter all too well.
"Well, he offered me a cigarette." John pointed out, wracking his brain to try to remember what else. "He said he was guiding home a lost sheep." John remembered, getting an awful flashback of that hellish creature and shuddering a little bit.
"So that must've been me?" Sherlock asked.
"I don't know, I really don't. I've never seen a demon transport a human like that, just possess them and bring them to where they're supposed to be, like a car." John pointed out.
"So it was doing us a favor, somehow, but how could've been? It killed my landlord it would've killed you next." Sherlock pointed out.
"It wasn't going to kill me." John pointed out.
"Well of course it was, it's a demon." Sherlock defended.
"No, but it wasn't. You were there, you saw what happened, it didn't have a weapon, it didn't even want to fight. As soon as I started the ritual it left." John pointed out.
"So it didn't want to be forced back to Hell, what's wrong with that?" Sherlock asked.
"He's watching right now. He said he would be." John pointed out.
"Probably laughing at us." Sherlock decided.
"He's a demon. Of course he's laughing." John agreed.
"He won't hurt us, will he?" Sherlock asked uncertainly.
"No, he won't." John decided, but he wasn't even sure. Sherlock nodded, but he didn't seem positive as well. This whole operation was miserable, and of course John was leading.
"Well, we should get some sleep, we'll probably split town tomorrow." John decided.
"Where will we go?" Sherlock asked.
"It's up to you. Where do you want to go?" he asked. Sherlock looked at him uncertainly, as if piecing together what this meant.
"I want to come with you, of course I want to come with you." Sherlock pointed out.
"I thought that much. But Sherlock, it'll be dangerous, are you sure you can handle it?" John asked.
"Of course I can, I'll handle it, and then I'll be professional, just like you." Sherlock decided with an adorable, childish smile.
"It's no picnic." John warned.
"I don't want a picnic. There are ants everywhere and you have to sit in the sun and eat forty different macaroni salad and it's pretty miserable." Sherlock decided. John just laughed, and wiggled his legs underneath the blankets.
"Good night Sherlock." He decided.
"Good night John." Sherlock agreed, flicking off the lamp light.