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alt_pantheon

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"Something faster, honey."

They sped up as he dragged Sherlock out of his chair and pushed him into the pit of cushions. Sherlock laughed, falling all over again. Jim stripped off his suit and jumped in after him, pinning the detective by the wrists. He tore open his shirt with pointed teeth, trailing them over his chest in bright red welts. Sherlock moaned as Jim’s tongue swept over the scratches.

"Take me, Lucifer." He whispered, not sure where the words came from.

"Oh Sherlock, I intend to."

They fucked for what seemed like hours, the intoxication making his head too fuzzy to keep proper track, the pleasure repeating in echoes and shudders until Sherlock felt his spine might crack in two. Most of the room’s occupants had snuck away into the shadows when they started, respecting their master’s privacy but too drawn to the spectacle of such open lust to disappear completely. They crowded in the room’s entrances, afraid to cross the threshold but watching with jealous, wistful eyes. As Sherlock and Jim laid back in the cushions the devil beckoned and they crept forward. They curled around the pit, in pairs or groups or by themselves, balled up on the hard floor until the whole chamber was one mass of souls, their breaths quiet and soothing.

Sherlock already felt different to them – and not the way he’d felt separate to other people when he was alive. When he looked at the other souls they seemed to be missing something, a sharpness he could feel coiling in his stomach. Perhaps it was part of the change Jim had mentioned. He snuggled in closer to Jim’s possessive hand on his lower back and closed his eyes with a strange sense of peace.

When he woke the tent world was already in full swing again, people sucking on cigars as they threw dice, women rubbing themselves against old gypsies with full beards and young boys with acne fresh on their faces. Jim was at the table picking through a bowl of currants and tossing them in the air, catching them idly. His eyes glinted when he spotted Sherlock.

"Morning, my sweet."

"Good morning."

"Ready for another lesson?"

Jim conjured him a new set of clothes, a tight white shirt and purple suit pants. The devil slipped back into the same red suit and Sherlock got the sense that it was his preferred outfit, but today he wielded a black cane as well.

He led Sherlock through a different section, ducking low-hanging canvas doors and sidestepping children moving tin soldiers in a fierce battle. Sherlock stopped when he saw them and Jim looked back to see why.

"Ah, admiring my little psychopaths?"

"Well they would have been, if they’d had the chance. Their minds were full of dark intentions. The plague got them before they could act on any."

"If they’re insane surely their thoughts can’t be counted as a sin."

"Ask Him about it – I don’t make the rules." Jim shrugged, strolling on.

They reached a very small room that was mostly empty, and Jim led Sherlock through the canvas. They walked out into a balmy night, stars thick in the sky. There was nothing in sight but jungle, the trees tall and curved. Jim started down the hill, heading for a spot where Sherlock could hear the ocean swishing against the shore.

"Where are we?"

"I’ve never been."

"It’s beautiful. Always reminds me of the Garden."

But Jim ignored him. "And the people are so gluttonous! I love to see good people throw themselves away on such an innocent sin."

"I’m sure they manage to balance the scales somehow."

"Sometimes." He admitted.

They came to the bottom. A large building right by the water was lit up like a Christmas tree, the light ranging across the waves. Jim waved him ahead.

"This is an entirely different lesson, Sherly."

He made a sceptical face but walked in. The clientele seemed nice enough, everyone sitting at their tables talking happily. There was none of the emotion he’d sensed at the club in Paris. People here weren’t looking for anything but good company, so there was no reason to be jealous or angry. Speakers pumped out a peaceful acoustic song and someone nearby laughed in a way that made Sherlock’s heart lift.

"What do you smell?"

Sherlock sniffed and from every person he was hit with a swell of joy that made his skin tingle. He grinned.

"Yep, they couldn’t be more pleasant. The perfect test subjects."

Jim held up his cane and threw it in the air, the staff twirling and changing until it landed in his hand as a black violin and bow. He walked over to the CD player and motioned for Sherlock to take the instrument.

"You’re going to play."

"Think of the most hateful person you’ve ever met. The person you loathed more than anyone, the one who made your blood boil, the one you would have killed if you’d had the chance. Then play for them."

He frowned but raised the violin to his chin. He nodded at Jim and the demon switched the music off.

There was half a second of confusion before Sherlock started. He attacked the strings with a rough fury that poured out as harsh notes and high squeaks. One by one the customers’ faces fell. They frowned and screwed up their mouths and shook their heads as if an annoying gnat was flying around their heads. A man nearby raised his voice at his date and she snapped back.

As he played on arguments broke out at every table. The owner yelled at one of the waitresses, the bouncer got into a scuffle with a man near the door, all across the room there was yelling and waving hands and cutting words. The atmosphere changed to one of bright red and Jim inhaled with a cocky smug look. A pair of guys by the toilets stood, ready to throw punches. Jim tapped his arm.

"Switch to someone you loved."

This was harder but not impossible. Sherlock thought of Mummy and Mycroft and John (and was mildly surprised when Irene and Molly snuck in there too). Instantly the music changed to a low, soothing drone. The men about to fight both blinked as if waking from a trance. The room settled again, everyone silent as they listened. Then, slowly, a woman nearby climbed into her partner’s lap. He curled around her as they kissed, ignorant to everyone else. Table after table fell to it, people seeking out flesh and fingers and lips. The temperature of the room seemed higher, people grinding together in their chairs or leaning back against the table. One guy lifted his wife onto the bar and started undoing her pants.

"Should I stop?" Sherlock raised a brow.

"Oh no honey, I’m quite happy to watch a spontaneous orgy. It will be even better when you finish and they realise what they’ve done."

So he carried on while everyone around them fell on each other like animals, fucking almost on top of other couples. The lust in the air was heady, feeding into Sherlock’s playing. The moans and grunts of the room added to his melody, ecstasy drawn out by his bow. Jim bit his lips and ran a hand over Sherlock’s ribs.

"You understand your talent?"

"I can tempt with music?"

"I thought it might work for you. Everyone has different skills but this seemed right up your alley – mass influence at once."

Sherlock kept playing, eyes roaming over the exposed skin and open mouths. Jim smirked mischievously and sunk to his knees, unzipping Sherlock’s pants.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting caught up in the song."

He drew Sherlock’s prick out and swirled his tongue over the head. Sherlock jerked and at least a dozen women squealed in response to the sudden chord. Jim worked him furiously, swallowing him down to the hilt, tongue flicking over the tip like it was forked (which it could have been, as far as he knew). The desire growing in Sherlock’s spine flowed into his playing and the room erupted into even more vigorous, noisy passion. Jim was flawlessly decadent, slurping obscenely, throwing great dark fuck-me eyes at the violinist, sucking and scraping jagged teeth just enough to give a thrill. Sherlock shuddered and came with a groan that was echoed all around them as the humans reached their completion. Jim tucked him away and stood, licking his lips clean. He walked to the wall and held up his hand. Sherlock stopped as he flicked the CD player back on.

It was like the entire room had been doused with ice water. People blinked, looking at each other as they gripped the situation. Then there was shrieking as women grabbed their clothes, hiding their face in embarrassment. More than a few yelled at their partners, demanding to know what was going on. The men in turn looked to the bartenders, accusing them of drugging the entire bar. Within moments it was pandemonium, everyone yelling over each other and scrambling for their clothes.

"Look at that, Sherly," Jim grinned, "It’s a beautiful thing."

They spent the next week like that. Jim would take Sherlock somewhere and show him how to excite various emotions, overtly like they had with Mycroft and subtly, giving the barest hint and leaving it to fester for a few days before going back to reinforce it.

"Humans are quick to grasp onto suspicion or hope, Sherly," Jim explained, "All you have to do is suggest an idea and their own minds will run with it."

After they’d spent a few hours corrupting and teasing and sucking the moods out of other people, they’d return to the tent rooms. There they smoked or drank or took drugs Sherlock had never even heard of and then fucked in Jim’s throne room, always watched by those silent, hollow eyes.

The longer he was dead, the more pronounced the separation between his life and afterlife became. Sherlock figured it must be part of his transformation. The memories felt like they’d happened to someone else. He didn’t mind that so much but he was worried one day he’d forget them altogether.

He decided to ask Jim about it, waiting until they were reclining in the cushion pit feeding each other raw venison.

"Will I eventually forget I was ever Sherlock Holmes?"

Jim chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "Why do you ask?"

"I don’t know if I want to forget that."

"It would be easier if you did. You wouldn’t miss your old friends."

"But I’d forget how we met."

Jim grinned. "You won’t lose your memories. Things might get hazier, but if you turn your mind on them fully the clouds clear away. It’s just like your mind palace."

Sherlock was still frowning though, and Jim sighed.

"Do you want me to show you?"

"Of course. I’m the fucking Devil, in case you hadn’t noticed."

He stood and offered his hand. Sherlock was so used to it by now he took it instantly. Jim closed his eyes, brow furrowing in thought. He jerked Sherlock’s hand.

"You have to close yours too."

"Am I supposed to think something specific?"

"No, I’m the guide. Just close them."

He felt like an idiot but did it anyway. Jim squeezed his hand again.

The tent room was gone. In its place were tall stone walls rising in many floors above them, reaching as far as Sherlock could see. The whole place was made from a sort of blue marble, a chill in the air that didn’t bother him so much as make the air deathly still and silent.

"Where are we?"

"This is my memory fortress."

"Memory fortress?"

"Shut up, Mr Mind Palace."

Sherlock smothered a giggle. "Fine. Is this how it works? I can find my old memories if I go to my version of this?"

"It’s even better than that, Sherly. Here, I’ll show you."

He walked to a set of stairs and headed up two at a time, stopping in front of a black door that didn’t have any kind of number or sign. Jim opened it and waved Sherlock through.

They stepped directly into the lounge room at 221B. Sherlock looked at himself sitting in John’s chair facing Jim, the demon carving at an apple as past-Sherlock sipped his tea.

"This is after your trial."

"That’s right. In here I can relive any memory as it happened."

Past-Jim tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair and Sherlock scowled. Jim laughed.

"You’re not still sour about that are you?"

"It was a good trick." He said begrudgingly.

"Come on, we’ll find something less personal."

They walked out again and climbed another few flights. Jim picked a door seemingly at random and ushered the other man in. This was some kind of bomb shelter or bunker. Winston Churchill was leaning over a map talking to the Lord Chamberlain while Past-Jim hovered between them, studying the same map.

"You helped Churchill during the war?" Sherlock frowned.

"Goodness no! I was collecting information to give to Adolf."

"Jesus, Jim. The man killed millions."

"Blasphemy, Sherlock!"

He sighed and the shock passed. Of course Jim would care more about his cursing than the Holocaust.

"Why were you doing such mediocre grunt work anyway?"

"Because I took a special interest in the Axis, love. They were doing exciting things, evil on a scale as had never been seen before. It was thoroughly entertaining."

"Fine. Can we visit a memory that doesn’t make me want to vomit?"

But they filed out again. Jim climbed about ten floors this time, opening a door in the far corner. Sherlock looked out over a London in flames, people screaming in the street as the wooden houses burned.

"The Great Fire."

"Who do you think lured that little baker’s boy into napping on the job? Sloth, honey. It’s a fabulously sneaky sin."

Jim took him on a sort of highlights tour, slipping in and out of different centuries. Sherlock got the distinct feeling he was showing off since a lot of it was large-scale destruction or seriously cruel. They were wandering through Isabella of Spain’s chapel as she muttered dark curses against heretics, past-Jim whispering in her ear. Sherlock only just contained a snort at the sight of his puffy red tunic and hose before turning to the current Jim.

"Why would you encourage the burning of heretics? Seems more like a job for the angels."

"They’re all about forgiveness, remember? Besides, stoking Isabella’s religious fervour got me not only some of the souls she burned but guaranteed me hers. It spread fear, and fearful people are more likely to make mistakes. It’s only the true believers that trust in God to help them unwaveringly."

"Still seems like a lot of work for one particular soul."

"Every soul counts, Sherly."