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alt_pantheon

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"So I have an idea."

"The problem with keeping your attention seems to be a question of gluttony.  You devote yourself to one person for years at a time, and you wear yourself out."

"How about spreading your interests equally?"

"Three heads are better than two. You can play twice as many games." Sherlock’s lips twitched.

"Who did you find?" Jim almost whispered it, grinning madly.

"His name is Charles Haywood, and he’s no average monster."

Jim bit his lip, leaning back with his hand still comfortably splayed over Sherlock’s arse.

"And you think we could share?"

"I know we could. He’s breathtaking, Jim."

"I want to know more."

"He’s a new Jack the Ripper, sadistic and unrestrained but without the insanity and carelessness."

"I like a good serial killer but does he have the brains to keep up with us?"

"Teach me to pass as a human and I’ll find out."

The devil smirked. "I like this idea already. I knew you were going to be a great man, Sherlock."

Jim kissed him again, claws extending to dig into Sherlock’s back. The demon returned it with just as much ardour, high on his discovery and Jim’s praise. He slithered backwards off Satan’s lap and knelt between his legs, leaning forward to unzip the scarlet suit pants.

"So tell me the trick of it."

"It’s all willpower, really," Jim paused as Sherlock drew out his length, "You’ll have a body per se but no more corporeal than it is now. You touch what you want to touch and pass through what you want to pass through. No pain, no death."

"And making other people see you?"

"That’s harder." Jim hissed as Sherlock lowered his lips to the straining head of his cock.

"Well go on." He said before swirling his tongue along the slit.

"You need to ground yourself in someone living. You need a physical presence in their plane."

"Yours was Moran?"

"Exactly. He – ah – he was a killer through and through, soul like tar. I used him as my link to the real world."

Sherlock sank down to the hilt, drawing back up slowly. "So I need to find someone evil?"

"Not hard. Prisons are full of them. As long as they stay alive you’ll be seen and heard. Ah, Sherly!"

He bobbed quickly for only a second before pulling away again. "Will you help me?"

"Of course. Just – oh – just get on with it!"

Charles Haywood swept the fringe out of his face and bent over his official test results. He’d rather be trying the projector again at a lower speed, but his supervisor was hanging around a bit too much and he needed something to show for his lab time. He was relieved when someone knocked.

The door opened on two men. One was average height, dark short hair, with the blackest eyes he’d ever seen behind a pair of thick glasses. The other was tall and slender, with cheekbones that made him smother a gasp and blonde hair in tight curls against his scalp. Both wore lab coats.

"Dr Haywood?" the shorter man said.

"Yes. Can I help you?"

"I’m Dr Rosenthal, this is Eliot Rusco my assistant. I’ve been asked to lend him to you for a few weeks."

"Why?" Charles frowned, "I mean no offence but I don’t need an assistant."

"I’ll still be primarily helping Dr Rosenthal, but some of the higher-ups thought your research could be expanded if you had an extra pair of hands."

The deep, rolling sound of his voice was entrancing. Charles couldn’t help looking at said hands and imagining what he’d like to do to them. Pull out the bones, perhaps.

Jim was practically cooing. Sherlock had been so good when he found this boy! The young man was staring at them both with a hint of professional confusion, but underneath his thoughts endlessly churned with images of carnage and slaughter. He hadn’t done anything with humans yet, but Jim knew under Sherlock’s wing he’d be killing hookers by the end of the fortnight.

"Well I’ll leave you to it then." He smiled, looking at the tall blond.

Sherlock nodded, grin too big for the situation they were supposed to be playing. "I’ll speak to you later."

Jim let himself out and Sherlock turned to Charles with a half-smile.

"Sorry to impose on you like this-"

"Oh no, it’s fine. I understand how the supervisors are when they get these notions."

"Makes you just want to strangle them sometimes, doesn’t it?" he joked.

Charles’ thoughts whirred to the forefront of his mind for only a second before he pushed them away again.

"Yeah, I guess. Shall we get started then?"

Lucifer only discovered Sherlock because he noticed Mycroft first. The elder Holmes was going through a fit of teen rebellion, a penchant for cigarettes and boys in leather jackets who smoked them. The Devil could see he was clever, that he wasn’t above getting his hands dirty to make people do what he wanted. He was an ideal future demon in fact – but then Lucifer spotted Sherlock and all thoughts of Mycroft were pushed aside.

He reencountered him again as Jim Moriarty, delighting in the chance to see the Ice Man in action while he set his brother up. Mycroft had achieved some of the greatness Jim predicted but he was a little too proper, a little too restrained. Satan sucked out information about Sherlock he already had and moved on with the game.

But as he stood over Mycroft’s bed, Jim couldn’t help seeing that fresh-faced teen again in the crumpled old man before him.

"Oh Mikey. We could have had such fun if you weren’t so old-fashioned. Never mind – we’ll make up for it now."

He sat on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs as Mycroft took another rattling, wheezy breath. He raised his hands to his chest, eyes shut in a restless sleep. The doctor – whose usual patient was illustrious, to say the least – checked Mycroft’s pulse. Jim read his thoughts with a glance.

He didn’t need the doctor to know that. Mycroft’s soul was visibly pulling away from his skin with each cough, the edges more distinct. Jim checked the clock on the mantel. He didn’t normally oversee soul collections personally but this one was special.

Mycroft suddenly sat up, coughing violently, wheezing for breath that wouldn’t come. The doctor rushed forward to support him but it was the final gasp of his heart and the former statesman shuddered and fell back against the pillows, eyes wide and unseeing.

"Goody!" Jim clapped his hands, "Now the real fun starts."

It was five minutes before Mycroft’s soul sat up. It looked substantially younger than his withered body, about thirty perhaps – he was heavier than he’d been as a teen but not as paunchy as the last time Jim saw him. He blinked at the doctor and then the corpse beneath him. Jim always preferred the souls who knew the end was coming; they were so much easier to deal with. He waited until Mycroft had processed his own death and noticed he wasn’t alone.

"Hello Mikey. Miss me?"

His face blanched but his voice was steady. "You."

"Be more specific, love."

"You’re Jim Moriarty."

"Not quite. I mean I was him, but he was a character. My real name is Lucifer."

"Preposterous!" Mycroft laughed.

"Oh no honey. Look at the facts. You’re dead, talking to a man who should be nearly seventy and here I am fresh and new as the last time we spoke."

Mycroft looked doubtful but he was a highly logical man, and since they were clearly in the realm of the illogical now he was sensible enough to be a bit flexible.

"Very well. I suppose you’ve come to damn me?"

"I want to offer you a job."

"Need a supervisor for the roasting spits and floggers?"

"Something like that," Jim smiled, "Come along dear, we’ve got so much to discuss."

He offered Mycroft his hand and the elder Holmes took it. Jim raised a brow.

"I expected some fight about this."

"Why? I am dead. Clearly I was not good enough for Heaven, so where else would I go?"

"That’s the spirit, pet."

Sherlock was lounging in his little section of what he called the Carnival Level. It was a separate room set up a little like Jim’s main throne tent, with a huge sprawling bed and some staggered tables of food and drink. There was a soft murmur in the cloth corridor and Sherlock felt the heat that preceded Jim’s presence. He sat up and a second later the devil was standing in Sherlock’s doorway with an enormous, unsettling grin.

"Sherly darlin’?"

"I’ve got a surprise for you." Jim stepped aside.

Sherlock’s brows shot up as his brother walked in. He looked good, his suit a bit tight but his hair full and curly. He threw Jim a piercing look and the Devil rolled his eyes.

"Oh don’t look at me like that. Would you have rushed to his deathbed? I thought it was better to avoid that dramatic scene and cut straight to the real reunion."

Mycroft glanced between them as his initial shock wore off. His expression held some lingering confusion of what Sherlock was doing in Hell and why he was so friendly with Jim. Mycroft’s gaze lingered over the black wings sprouting from Sherlock’s shoulders and his face turned utterly, utterly crestfallen.

"Oh God." He moaned.

"We don’t mention him much here, Mycroft." Sherlock stood, draping the black sheet around his middle.

"This is even worse than I thought."

"Relax, it wasn’t your fault. Jim didn’t need the things you told him and he personally made sure my jump was fatal. You couldn’t have fought him, Mikey. He has certain advantages at his disposal."

"But...surely you don’t belong here."

"I didn’t get much say in it but it’s much more entertaining than you’d think. All my old pals are here. What was it, assassination?"

"You don’t smoke."

"Mikey lied a lot," Jim smirked, "He used to think the most interesting things about you, Sherly."

A terrified look crept over Mycroft’s face but he pushed it away. Sherlock raised a brow.

"What sort of things?"

"It was when you were a teenager. All long leeeeegs and sultry pouts. The secret smoking, the shirts with the sleeves rolled up-"

"Stop it." Mycroft said quietly.

"No need to be shy with us, darlin’. I’ve seen every sin there is to see."

Sherlock was studying his brother with a speculative look, probably running the knowledge against his memories of adolescence. Mycroft fought an urge to shift on his feet, only succeeding because he had a lifetime of playing calm and confident.

"What are you going to do with me?" he said, partly to deflect Jim’s interest and partly because he always needed to know the next step.

"Your biggest crime is signing away lives. That should earn you a spot on the Eighth Level."

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to Jim, brow creased. Mycroft didn’t know what the Eighth Level was but obviously it wasn’t good. Jim licked his canine and grinned.

"But I want to see if you’ve got the potential to work under me, Mikey. I’d just tickled by the idea of my very own demonic Ice Man."

Sherlock relaxed. Mycroft eyed his brother’s wings again as Jim watched him carefully. The man had darkness in an efficient way, detached enough to feel no remorse if he believed it was the proper thing to do. He knew his actions were wrong but did not repent because they were necessary. However he wasn’t inherently the kind of man who would willingly lead others astray for his masters unless he believed in that sovereign hand completely. He might have ruined people’s lives for England and Elizabeth, but he wouldn’t damn them for the Devil. There was no "greater good’ in Hell.

And he was strong, in will and character and long set in his ways. Mycroft seemed to accept the inevitability of his position but he might actually prefer eternal torture to being a demon and compromising himself. If Jim wanted to corrupt him it would have to be drastic.

"Why don’t you two catch up? I’m sure Sherly’s quite ignorant of how you wound down your life."

He reached out and brushed Sherlock’s cheek affectionately, planting his voice in the brunette’s head.

He wanted you, Sherly. But he had to be the big brother and father both. He had to be a righteous man.

Sherlock met his eyes and twitched a brow. Jim bowed himself out, confident Sherlock had the message.

Sherlock had never really thought of his brother like that before. He was Mycroft, old and fat and annoying. He was clever but only used it to frustrate the younger Holmes. Now he ran his new gaze over the soul. He wasn’t as beautiful as Jim but he had big, firm hands and square shoulders and a layer of subdued lust rippling under his skin. Sherlock could see the murky patches of sin shifting over him, terrible things he’d never known about, things that as a demon were more attractive than any looks or personality. He knew Jim wanted a broken, obedient Mycroft and he’d always enjoyed pushing his big brother’s buttons.