The Devil Was Never Here

An Offer To Most Certainly Refuse

    He passed six dead people on his way three blocks, he counted. Four of them looked normal, old people who died of natural causes, but one was a middle aged woman in old Victorian like clothing, with blood all down her chin and the front of her dress. Tuberculosis, most likely. One man had a knife sticking out of his heart, but nevertheless he tipped his hat at Sherlock, and Sherlock smiled rather casually back. It was a very fearful world when the sun set, he felt chills going down his spine when he walked past a deserted alley and heard the telltale moans of a mindless spirit, wandering along carelessly. Sherlock always felt so alone in times like these, on this dreadful walk down to the bar, but he knew that once he arrived he wouldn't be alone for long. Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around himself and approached the doors, neon signs advertising different kinds of beer lighting up the night in a florescent glow. There were men and women all mingling about, some with drinks, others who look like they've had a bit too much. Some were leather clad, others looked like college girls going out for a night on the town, bars were always such an interesting melting pot of the world's lonely people. There were also the recognizable spirits hanging around in the sidewalks, the mobster with a huge whole in his chest, the biker who had a piece of glass stuck through his eye, and everyone's favorite, the woman seemingly impaled with the leg of a bar stool. The three of them were having grand old time outside the bar, talking and laughing, enjoying their drunkenness for all of eternity. Sherlock smiled at them, and they smiled back. The living people gave him a rather funny look, but Sherlock just smiled at them and pulled open the wooden door, getting hit with a cloud that smelled of cigarette smoke and alcohol. Sherlock walked right up to the counter, sitting next to a man with close cut brown hair and a strong smell of cologne. Seemed promising enough. Sherlock balanced on his stool and looked over for the bartender, who was pouring a woman in dire need of a higher shirt some sort of fancy feminine drink. Sherlock called him over and ordered some whiskey, just a little bit to distract himself from the dead mingling around near the living.
"Ah Sherlock, good to see you." The bartender said with a little laugh.
"It's been a while, hasn't it Gary?" Sherlock wondered, leaning over the waxy bar and smiling. He could only hope the man next to him noticed his exquisite cheekbones and the glow of his skin in this harsh lighting.
"Not too long, a week or so maybe. What have you been up to?" Gary wondered, pouring Sherlock his drink and sliding it over.
"Oh you know, the usual." Sherlock said with a sigh, untying his scarf and throwing it carelessly over his shoulder.
"Talking to the dead?" Gary wondered with a little laugh.
"You know it." Sherlock agreed, downing his drink in one sip and coughing and wincing.
"I just think that's an excuse for you talking to yourself." Gary decided, washing off a glass with a ratty looking towel and looking at Sherlock accusingly.
"Need I remind you that I told you of all of the deaths that happened in your bar since it was built?" Sherlock pointed out.
"You researched it, obviously." Gary insisted doubtfully.
"I knew, I saw them. They're around here." Sherlock insisted, sweeping his hand to prove his point. Gary just sighed, not looking too convinced.
"Whatever you're on Sherlock, I'd be willing to try it." he decided, and with that he walked over to refill some people's glasses. Sherlock sighed heavily, knocking his empty glass around in his fingers over the shiny countertop.
"You think you can see the dead?" asked the man next to him. Sherlock couldn't help but smile, looking over at him curiously. The man was handsome, Sherlock would give him that. He was burly but had a gentle face, and very nice green eyes. He'll definitely do.
"I don't just think I can." Sherlock said with a shrug.
"You really can?" he wondered. Sherlock nodded, repositioning himself on his stool so that he was facing the man, a small little smile playing across his lips flirtatiously.
"I've been able since I was a child, they just wander around, some talk, some don't." Sherlock admitted.
"What do they look like?" the man asked curiously.
"Oh, just the way they looked when they died." Sherlock said with a shrug. "Some of them have bloodstains all over them, some just look regular. Some are rather ugly I've got to admit, others have a sense of...curious beauty."
"You think the dead are beautiful?" the man wondered, his eyes widening in surprise.
"There are a lot of beautiful things in this world I do believe." Sherlock said with a shrug, spinning completely on his stool so that he was facing the man completely.
"I think I know of at least one beautiful thing." the man decided, his eyes sweeping over Sherlock curiously. Sherlock smiled modestly, he knew where this was going.
"Oh, aren't you going to buy me a drink first?" Sherlock wondered with a sigh.
"Do I really have to wait that long?" the man asked.
"Well, patience has never really been one of my strong points I suppose." Sherlock decided with a sigh, leaning back against the counter and letting the tips of his shoes skirt against the floor. He took one of the man's rough hands in his own, and was just about to lead him off of the stool when a phone rang, his phone to be exact. Sherlock sighed heavily, letting his head fall back as he dug around in his pocket, trying to silence his beautiful ringtone of Wanna Be by the Spice Girls.
"Just give me one second." Sherlock insisted, fishing his phone out and taking the call.
"Sherlock Holmes." He muttered with boredom, casting an impatient look over to his newfound companion.
"Sherlock?" asked a female voice at the other end of the line.
"Yes, that is what I just said." Sherlock sighed, kicking his feet through the air and spinning on his stool as he waited.
"It's Molly Hooper, remember, from high school?" Molly asked. Sherlock straightened up curiously, why in the world would Molly from high school want to talk to him now?
"Molly, what in the world do you want?" Sherlock asked curiously, waving for Gary to get him another drink. The man next to him was looking rather impatient, scanning the bar with his stunning green eyes as if trying to find an eligible bachelor that wasn't on the phone. Sherlock just winked at him, holding up a finger to say one more minute.
"Oh, well, I remember that you had that...um...gift..."
"Curse, but go on." Sherlock interrupted. Molly sighed nervously, but went on.
"Yes well, you can see the dead, right?" she wondered.
"Yes, get to the point Molly." Sherlock snapped.
"Well we've got an issue, back home." Molly muttered. "Involving dead people."
"I'm not going back home." Sherlock insisted, smiling thankfully at Gary as he refilled his glass. He heard Molly sigh on the other side of the phone, the little annoyed sigh she made when things weren't going her way, or when people were being especially difficult. Sherlock heard that sigh a lot from her, because he was always especially difficult.
"Sherlock come on, it's an issue everyone's worried about, this poor man..."
"What does he look like?" Sherlock wondered, taking a sip of his drink and leaning up on his elbows.
"I'm sorry?" Molly wondered, obviously a little bit taken aback by his question.
"I asked you what he looked like." Sherlock repeated.
"How in the world will that help?" Molly exclaimed. Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another sip.
"Just tell me Molly." He insisted. There was a pause, and Sherlock looked over at the man, who raised his eyebrows in annoyance. Sherlock sighed heavily, but just waved him off, finishing his drink and leaving the money that was due on the counter. He hoped off of the barstool and walked outside, deciding that there was no way tonight could end the way he wanted it to.
"He's blonde, shortish I guess, um...brown eyes? Wears a lot of sweaters? I don't know, how does this help?" Molly wondered.
"Is he hot?" Sherlock asked, getting right to the main question. There was a heavy sigh from across the line, and Sherlock could only laugh, making his way back down the darkened sidewalk.
"Oh ya, I forgot you were..." Molly's sentence trailed off, as if she didn't want to say it.
"Gay?" Sherlock offered quickly.
"Ya, gay." Molly agreed in a small voice.
"Shockingly enough it's not the most interesting thing about me." Sherlock said with a shrug, nodding once more to the man with the knife in his heart.
"Well I know that, that's why I'm asking for your help! The man's wife thinks he's possessed or something, says he's been acting strange. We can't tell if it's true or not, but they have a daughter, and we don't want her to get hurt." Molly muttered. Sherlock sighed in disappointment, making his way through the light of the street lamps.
"Sorry Molly, I can't." Sherlock said with a regretful sigh.
"Why not?" Molly insisted.
"He's straight and married. Also, I'm not going back there again, I don't want to be reminded of what I did." Sherlock insisted.
"Sherlock, Victor's death wasn't your fault!" Molly exclaimed. Sherlock just shook his head, holding the phone away from his ear a little bit so as to block out Molly's words. He didn't want to hear that name; he didn't want to be reminded.
"Molly it was my fault, and I basically ran away from that place. Everyone there thought I was a freak, a freak and a murderer. My own parents kicked me out." Sherlock insisted.
"But we need you again, you can prove yourself to them, that you're not a freak, you're a hero." Molly insisted. Sherlock paused for a moment, he had to admit, it was tempting.
"A possession you say?" Sherlock wondered, pulling his scarf around his neck with his free hand to fight off the chilly wind that was blowing through the empty streets.
"Yes, a possession, she said that he was wandering around, acting strange. It only happens at night, and she just thought it was sleep walking until he spoke in someone else's voice." Molly muttered.
"Who's voice?" Sherlock wondered. Molly paused, as if she were too scared to even say such a thing.
"She said it sounded like the Devil." Molly whispered.
"That's rubbish; no one's ever heard the Devil." Sherlock decided carelessly, approaching his apartment and taking his key out of his pocket.
"Could you please just try to help him? Talk to the spirit, or whatever it is?" Molly begged.
"Molly this is just preposterous, I don't have the time, the money, or the motive." Sherlock insisted.
"You can come live with me, I've got a fabulous spare bedroom in my apartment, it's right on Main Street." Molly insisted. Sherlock sighed, jumping up the steps to his door and unlocking it quickly.
"Is there money involved?" he wondered hopefully, swinging open the door and turning on the light.
"The wife will offer one thousand dollars to whoever can cure her husband." Molly said plainly, as if she knew that fact by heart.
"Will she now? This is tempting." Sherlock decided, pulling off his scarf and coat and hanging them up.
"Please Sherlock, please?" Molly begged. Sherlock sighed heavily, he didn't want to go home, he didn't want to be reminded of Victor any more than he had to.
"I'll talk to my landlady about it. I'll call you back tomorrow with my answer." Sherlock decided.
"Please consider it Sherlock, please. We're all counting on you." Molly insisted. Sherlock just nodded with a sigh, and hung up the phone, looking around the house to see where Mrs. Hudson might be hiding.
"Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out!" Sherlock exclaimed. She suddenly appeared at the kitchen door, wearing the same outfit she was always in, but wearing a look of concern on her face.
"But you just went out? And came back alone I see, that's good." Mrs. Hudson decided, walking closer.
"It wasn't my fault, I was just about to leave with someone when I got a phone call." Sherlock growled.
"A phone call?From who? Who would want to call you?" Mrs. Hudson asked with a teasing smile. Sherlock glared at her to make sure she knew he didn't appreciate her humor.
"It was someone from high school, apparently there's a paranormal mishap going on back home." Sherlock muttered, picking at a loose thread on his shirt rather than look over at Mrs. Hudson.
"Back home? Are you going to go?" she wondered, sounding very hopeful. She was always trying to get him to pack up his things and go reunite with his parents, with his idiotic siblings. But it was difficult, it was nearly impossible. They'd never want him back after the mess he had caused, after proving to be a catastrophic family embarrassment.
"I don't know, I don't even care! Some guy claims to be possessed, he's 'acting strange'. They probably just want attention." Sherlock growled. "And he's married! So that's no fun, is it?"
"Sherlock you can help save a man's life, who cares if you hook up with him in the process?" Mrs. Hudson wondered, looking almost disappointed at Sherlock's priorities.
"Because I don't care about his pathetic life, not enough to go back there. You know what will happen, word will get out, they'll start coming around, it'll just go downhill from there." Sherlock insisted with a groan.
"Will they pay you?" Mrs. Hudson wondered. God, she knew how to persuade him didn't she? Sherlock only cared about two things, money and men, and surely she'll mention the men next.
"Yes, of course there's money, one thousand dollars." Sherlock agreed.
"That's very nice, think of what you could do with one thousand dollars." Mrs. Hudson insisted. Sherlock sighed, but for once he lets his thoughts wander to what he might do with that kind of money...oh ya, waste it all on drinks for men he didn't even know. Sounds like fun, right?
"I don't want to go back there Mrs. Hudson, I just don't." Sherlock insisted.
"Maybe it's time you faced your fears. Why don't you try to find Victor, talk to him?"Mrs. Hudson suggested.
"I tried that before, remember? Right after the funeral I went back to the house and he wasn't there. I don't know where his spirit went, but it's not on Earth. Or at least it doesn't want to show himself to me." Sherlock muttered.
"Sleep on it Sherlock, think it over." Mrs. Hudson insisted, walking over and trying to give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Instead, of course, her hand just sailed right through him, sending horrible ghost induced shivers up his spine.
"Oh dear, sometimes it's hard to mother you when I'm just cold air." Mrs. Hudson muttered, and with that she bustled along to her bedroom. Sherlock sighed heavily, bidding her goodnight and running up the stairs to his own room, slamming the door shut and looking around in the darkness. There was only one, its back was turned so that Sherlock couldn't see it, but it was muttering things. Sherlock hadn't seen this one before, but he ignored it. Surely it would just leave him alone. Sherlock changed quickly into his pajamas, settling into bed in the darkness, shivering from head to toe dispute the numerous blankets he had over top of him. He could hear the spirit moving around outside of his bedroom door, muttering to itself. He couldn't help but feel the tendrils of fear wrap around his mind, and he curled into a protective little ball, wishing he had the man from the bar curled up next to him. Sherlock sighed heavily, but he couldn't go home, could he? Victor's death was a known tragedy, the fire, the story behind it, all that was left of their nearly two year relationship was now just the charred remains of the Trevor household and three gravestones in the local cemetery. But Victor had been different, in a way Sherlock simply couldn't explain. He was loving, yes, and romantic, and charming. They had met in high school and had a very nice, healthy relationship up to senior year. Victor really was everything a boy could want, but soon he became obsessed with Sherlock, obsessed with his powers, and, in a way, obsessed with death. Victor went down a dark path that no one had predicted from him, Sherlock suspected that he wanted to have powers as well, that he wanted to see the dead. Before he died Sherlock had found books of necromancy and witchcraft under his bed, he found candles and altar cloths and demonic symbols. Victor never explained himself; he never had the opportunity to. Because the night when Sherlock returned to the house to interrogate him he found that it was ablaze, sending up flames and smoke through the woods where their house was nestled. It was a tragedy that had killed the whole family, Victor and his two parents, and Sherlock never saw any of them again. He didn't know what kind of dark magic Victor had been practicing, but their souls seemed to be hidden from Sherlock's view, and their death remained a mystery. Some people claimed it was arson, others thought that it was a gas leak, or a candle that caught the curtains on fire. Sherlock, among many, believed that Victor had started the fire himself. That he had killed himself to try to achieve some sort of afterlife power, to try to immortalize himself. Victor had set himself on fire as a final sacrifice to whatever Devil he was worshiping, and in the end it went terribly wrong. It was Sherlock's fault, all of it. Victor had wanted to be just like him, like his clairvoyant boyfriend, and in the end all he did was die. And Sherlock could only assume that if his soul wasn't wandering around on Earth, that he was somewhere in Hell, boiling among the rest of the sinners for what he had done. The word got out of course, that Sherlock had something to do with it. That all the time they had spent together was bad for his health, and soon Sherlock wasn't the only blaming himself for Victor's death. As soon as he graduated high school his parents kicked him out, Sherlock fought with them both so loudly that the windows rattled, but in the end he just packed up his things and left. He never went back; he put that town behind him and never looked back, never called, never visited. How could he possibly return for a meager case of possession? It was probably a big hoax, maybe it was just his parent's terrible attempt to rekindle their relationship, maybe they were looking to their son to help them get into a nice retirement home, who knows? Sherlock didn't care; his parents could be dead for all he knew. Maybe that was for the best. Mycroft and Eurus, his whole family would be there, not to mention all of his old classmates. Molly had been the only one who ever paid any attention to him; she had been the closest thing he had to a real friend back there. He hated to have to turn her down but he hated to have to return to that town even more, oh this was just too difficult. It was a battle of stubbornness and guilt, a battle that could wait until the morning. So Sherlock snuggled even deeper into his blankets, trying to ignore the sound of the dead person in his living room running into the furniture. He just tried to go to sleep, just tried to forget it all.