Deal With The Devil Ch 1

He might have escaped the real thing, Sherlock thought, as he watched the morning train pull into the station, but he was about to go make a deal with the devil. White puffs of cloud innocently blew across the sky as the detective checked his ticket.

"Right on time," he muttered to himself. "Damn."

He looked around the station grounds to see if anyone was noticing him. It had been only a short time since the papers had declared his death. Fake Genius Commits Suicide. And that's what they would keep thinking. He need not worry about being followed. The sleepy country stop was void of passengers, and only a few staff wandered sleepily about the station, trying to keep their minds on their work and when their next coffee break was. Sherlock was tempted to read them, but he couldn't see much fun to be gained out of it.  

He boarded the train slowly, sitting by the window and looking over the envelope and letter once more. It appeared not everyone was so fooled by his death. Even though he had covered his tracks so well, he felt he was still being haunted by a shadow; a shadow that knew all of his secrets and was not afraid to whisper them in the dark. He felt he knew exactly what that shadow was, though he refused to believe it. He was dead. Then, as if to confirm his suspicions, a letter had appeared. Hand made stationary, rustic, probably one of a kind paper. Untraceable without access to a lab, which he had lost upon going into hiding. No writing either. Just a train ticket and schedule, with a stop in a tiny English village circled.
Sherlock had thrown that first letter away. He was sure it could not have been a mistake, but he was not about to come out and play. Not after the last time. He had picked up and left that hiding spot. But no matter where he went, sooner or later, another letter would appear, with another train ticket, with another stop circled. Each time, the knot of fear and doubt grew a little more. The last letter had finally confirmed it for him. He had read it a million times by now.

"Daddy's waiting."

The train had started moving now. Green hills passed by in the English country side, and had he not been wrought with anxiety, he might have dozed off. It was shaping up to be a cheery day, with soft winds and sunshine. But it might has well have been drenching rain. Sherlock began to wonder if it might be more pleasant to be mangled in a train wreck instead of going through with this. Or perhaps falling in a lake. Or maybe thrown out in the elements and left to die. On and on his thoughts went, and he was so busy thinking of anything that could be more pleasant than this train ride that he barely noticed the conductor going past or the hours sweeping past.

He was right in the middle of working out how to make a poison cocktail that would also double as a clever joke when the train stopped. After a few short minutes, a voice over the intercom stated all passengers could now depart and for them all to have a pleasant day. "They could have just said get the hell out," thought Sherlock grumpily. He rose from his seat, stretched his legs and then exited the car and stepped out on to the station. The weather was just as cheery as it had been earlier, with the noon day sun beaming down upon him. "Great," he thought, as he looked around the deserted station "even the bloody weather is mocking me."

A man in dark grey suit soon greeted him as he headed down the steps and into the station. He had neatly cut blonde hair, remnants of a military cut, Sherlock noted, and wore reflective sunglasses. Used to being read. Knew his eyes gave him away. Clearly more than just basic training. The man came up to Sherlock and motioned for him to follow, where a waiting taxi stood by. Sherlock said nothing, but followed the man. He opened the door for Sherlock before climbing into the passengers seat and motioning the driver they were ready.

The driver started the car and the trio went off down the country road, passing a few houses before again entering out into open country. After a bout of silence, Sherlock finally spoke.

"You didn't ask me if I had any bags," Sherlock stated casually.

The blonde turned his head in the seat but did not look directly at Sherlock. He looked as though he was about to say something, but seemed to think better of it. He turned back in his chair without a retort.

"I see." Sherlock yawned lazily. "So that's who you are then."

The man looked in the rearview mirror at Sherlock and smiled darkly, but again, said nothing. They sat in silence the remainder of the trip. Eventually, the road turned to dirt and wound through the hills lazily. It was beginning to get dark now, as the short days of winter came to a close. It would probably be the nicest day of the season, Sherlock wondered to himself. Sometimes normal people were so lucky.

A manor rose up out of the valley, sunk down between the hills so that it was almost hidden from view. He had nearly missed it before, but now it loomed before him, a dark and elegant manor of old, perhaps built on the site of a castle long lost. Perfect for him, Sherlock thought. The driver signaled a man waiting at a gate, and the car led them up the short lawn to the mansions entrance. The car was parked out front and both driver and passenger got out. The blonde man opened the door for Sherlock, and he climbed out slowly, dreading what was waiting for him behind the doors. He didn't have time to wonder long though, because the blonde man, with an elegant sweep of his arm, dropped the detective cold.



"Did you have a nice nap dear? I told them not to be too rough, but you know how it goes with henchmen... always eager to please"

Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. That sing-song voice. That mocking tone. Only one man, one lunatic sounded like that. James Moriarty. Though his vision was still bleary, he could see him sitting in a chair, flanked on each side by the driver and the blonde man from before. White bandages around his head, crisp and clean as the Westwood suit he wore. And the tie with the little skulls on it. He also held Irene's riding crop in his hands and was bringing it down lightly into his palm. A widening wolfish smile crept on to his face.

Sherlock felt anger well up inside of him, a screaming boiling rage, as if all his fear and doubt had lit on fire and were now driving him like some kind of machine. He tried to lunge forward, but the snap of steel chains held him fast. He looked over his shoulder to see his hands cuffed together behind him, and a chain fastened to the floor. Sherlock was bound on his knees to the floor. All at once that rage had begun to revert back to horrible sickness.

Moriarty smiled hungrily at Sherlock. "I'm sure you wondered how I survived. If not I'm going to tell you anyway." He paused momentarily, watching his prey's reaction closely. "Turns out I'm a terrible shot. Can't even blow my own brains out without missing! Freak accident, the hospital was totally blown away." He laughed at his own accidental pun, becoming more pleased with himself by the minute.

"Get to the point," Sherlock hissed. "Surely you didn't go to all this trouble just to tell me you can't properly aim a gun at your own head. There must be some kind of..."

Moriarty was as fast as lightning out of his chair. The sting of leather hit Sherlock's face and he let out a cry in surprise.

"Don't you dare rush me!" Moriarty yelled, riding crop in hand, now standing over his helpless victim. He put the riding crop under Sherlock's chin and raised his head. "You are here because I allowed you to be. Don't you ever forget that. Am I clear?"

Sherlock said nothing, but Moriarty lowered the whip and returned to his chair. "Besides my dear Sherlock," he cooed, as a waiter brought him a glass of wine, "you may not be so eager in a few moments."

The detective breathed in slowly, trying to calm his quickly fraying nerves. "Alright, Jim. Continue. I'll play your game. What is it you want?"

Moriarty set his glass of wine down, and now twirled the end of the riding crop between his fingers. His manner returned to its cheerful form of madness, and he smiled broadly. "I think I went to hell for a few moments. But you lied to me Sherlock. You weren't there to shake hands with. I was so disappointed, that I just couldn't stand staying there. I am not a man to leave debts unpaid, you see..."

"So now you want a new game, a new deal out of me. I can't blame you, I wouldn't be able to die with a losing score either," Sherlock bitterly replied.

"Oh you're just so cheeky!" Moriarty exclaimed in delight, leaning forward to Sherlock's face. "I hope in more than one way too..." he finished, licking his lips and looking the detective over.

"But why should I play your game? Last time you had a reason. But if you think my life is worth enduring more of your game then you..."

Moriarty had already answered his question. Video screens with all of his friends brightened behind Moriarty. Mrs. Hudson, cleaning the flat, every once in awhile pausing to remember before recomposing herself. Molly, primping for a date in the mirror, trying to cover puffy eyes with makeup. Lestrad, flipping through paperwork without ever reading it, heaving heavy sighs once in awhile. Mycroft, sipping tea, fighting down tears with every sip. And Watson. Dear Watson. He sat across from him. The both drank in silence, having come together in their pain over Sherlock's death. He must have forgiven his brother, perhaps feeling Mycroft was the closest embodiment to Sherlock he would ever find.

"Oh the Achilles heel never looses its weakness Sherlock, no matter how many times you poke at it. And I know yours. I know it too well."

Sherlock fought back bitter tears. "What do you want then? You have everything already. Do you want me to say you win Jim? Is that what you want? Because you can have that. It means nothing to me any more."

Moriarty laughed. It was like a wolf's howling to its pack. "My dear Sherlock, oh no, no, no!" His smile was even more horrible now. "I want you. I want every inch of you to submit to me and my will. Until I'm done with you."

"And what then," Sherlock spat, fear driving his boldness, "will you kill me? Kill all of them?"

His dark smile broadened. "Oh of course not dear Sherlock. I'll let you go. I'll let them all go. I mean, if i've already had you, then what's the point of going and spoiling it? Oh no Sherlock. I want you to live. To live in shame, knowing I let you live. That you paid your way with your flesh and total submission, because I beat you. Again."

Sherlock's mouth was dry and his heartbeat was buzzing in his ears. This was beyond the bounds of psychosis he expected from even Jim Moriarty. Thoughts screamed through his mind, creating static and he could barely keep his gaze fixed with his nemesis'.

"Tick tock Sherlock!" Jim sung out. "I have so much planned and all the time to do it in, and I don't like to be kept waiting. Decide now, or I might just kill your friends and keep you to myself anyway."

Words managed to form in Sherlock's mouth. "If...if I do this, they'll be safe. I can see them, every day, alive on those screens. That nothing will happen to them as long as I'm here, with you."

The villain giggled. "Come now Sherlock, I might be a monster but I always keep my promises. You remember my IOU, hm? I promised you I'd burn you and I did! And Sebastian here will make absolutely positive each and every day that aaaaall your little friends keep their little brains in their heads. Now, I'd ask you to shake, but you're a little tied up, so I guess I'll just have to take you at your word..."

He kneeled down in front of Sherlock, his dark eyes swimming with glee and lust. He leaned in close, his teeth biting at Sherlock's ear. He whispered " And what do you say to the devil, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock swallowed hard. He took one last look at the screens, up at the last beacon of hope in his life. He breathed deeply, like a man about to take a plunge.
"I do."