A/N Hey My Lovelies!!!! I saw this prompt on Tumblr and ran with it...it was supposed to be short and fun...it got long and slightly angsty...oh well! lol. John is a Med student and Sherlock is a demon. Enjoy!!
John was done. Done with everything. He was halfway through his residency, half the staff hated him, and he had just been dumped by his girlfriend of three months. His application for a transfer to a different hospital had been denied, and his father was on the warpath again.
It was nearly three in the morning when he gave up trying to sleep.
He walked over to the kitchen, deciding to make himself a sandwich. He pulled the ingredients from the fridge and went about making his snack.
He found himself drifting in thought, lost in his depressed musings. He shook his head to find he had doodled a pentagram onto the bread with the mustard. He giggled to himself. It was a silly thing he and an old buddy of his used to joke about. Drawing a pentagram and summoning a demon to give them luck.
"Well, this is a first." A deep voice filled the air, causing John to jump and stumble back into the refrigerator. He grabbed for the first piece of silverware he could find and held it before him. "Ooh, a butter knife, I'm terrified." The voice came from a figure leaning against the counter. He was tall, unnaturally thin, and pale. His smirk was dark as he pushed off the counter, stepping into the light.
His eyes flashed red.
"W-what the fuck?"
"Not one with the words I see. Oh well, most aren't these days. What did you want?"
"W-what did I want? What do you want? You are the one materializing in my flat!"
"You summoned me."
"No, I didn't!" The man looked confused for a moment before stepping ever closer to John.
"You must have."
"No, no, trust me I didn't. I simply wanted a sandwich!" John was starting to calm down now, and against his better judgement, he placed the knife on the counter. He rubbed his hands over his face and stepped back over to his abandoned snack.
He laid out two more slices of bread.
"What are you doing?"
"Making a sandwich."
"You just summoned a demon, and you are making a snack?"
"Yep." John finished making the sandwiches, placing them on a couple of plates and sliding one across to his guest.
The man stared uncertainly at the food, as though he had never seen anything like it before.
"It's not poisoned. Just eat it. You look like you haven't eaten in a month."
"I'm a demon, eating is not really a priority for me."
"Well, I put effort into making it, so eat the damned thing." John snapped, starting on his own sandwich. The demon looked affronted for a moment before obeying, timidly lifting the food to his lips and taking a small bite.
They ate in silence, a strange sense of comfort growing between them.
"So, do you have a name?" John finally asked, placing his now-empty plate in the sink. The man did the same, brushing the crumbs off his hands before straightening his dress shirt.
"Why do you want to know my name?"
"Well, you're in my flat, we just had a sandwich together at four in the morning. I don't think it's too much to ask." The man smiled slightly, studying John with an intense gaze.
"Sherlock." He said simply. John smiled, a strange name for a strange man.
"John." He reached out his hand, a smirk on his lips as Sherlock acted as though no one had ever wanted to touch him before. "What? Is there some sort of rule I don't know about touching a demon?"
"No." Sherlock sounded put-off at John's question, but his offense only lasted a few seconds. He blushed lightly and shuffled his feet, looking uncertain. "No human has ever been this kind to me." John felt his heart break a little at those words. Sherlock backed away, taking his original place at the end of the counter. "You will make an excellent doctor John Watson."
He was gone before John could speak.
The next morning, John was woken by his phone ringing. He grumbled as he reached for the irritating device.
"Hello?" His voice was rough with sleep and he rubbed his eyes, trying to wake himself.
"Doctor Watson?"
"Speaking."
"This is Doctor Jameson from Saint Bart's Hospital. You applied for a residency with us, is that correct?"
"Yes, but I was told yesterday that the spot had been filled."
"There is an opening if you are still interested in transferring."
"A-absolutely! When do you want me to start?"
"Monday. We have already cleared it with your current employers."
"Fantastic! I will be there."
"We will send you your schedule."
"Sounds good, thank you!" The line disconnected and John fell back to his bed, a goofy grin on his lips. "Well I'll be damned." He murmured, rubbing his hands over his face. He swung his legs over the bed, making his way over to the kitchen.
On the counter, he noticed a piece of paper, covered with swirly handwriting.
Enjoy the new job. A thank you for your kindness last night.
Sherlock
John's grin widened as he remembered his demon friend from a few hours prior. Sherlock must have gotten him the job.
"Thanks buddy." He whispered, pinning the note to his fridge before scuffling about, trying to find food.
It was well over a year before John saw Sherlock again. He had been so busy at the hospital he nearly forgot about his friend. He had moved apartments, but the note from Sherlock stayed on his fridge.
One night, after a particularly rough row with his father, John stumbled into his flat, drunk off his ass and in a foul mood. He fell against the kitchen counter, hand grabbing at the knife he caught sight of.
He pulled his shirt sleeves up, gently dragging the blade along his skin. He had cut before, usually after a fight with his dad, but never while drunk.
"I would not recommend that Doctor Watson." A distantly familiar voice floated through the haze of drunkenness.
"S-Sherlock?"
"Yes John, please don't be obtuse. Now, put the knife down and get up off the floor." His tone was brusque and bored, as though the fact that John was about to maim himself was an inconvenience. John scrambled to his feet, his hand striking the counter, knocking the knife from his fingers. He watched in a drunken stupor as the blade glistened in the dim lighting as it hurdled towards his foot.
The blade stopped mid-flight.
"Seriously John? You're a doctor for Heaven's sake. I would have thought you would know how to handle a blade." Sherlock scoffed, sounding horrendously irritated with John. The knife hovered in the air for a moment before shooting into the wall on the other side of the kitchen. John flinched at the action.
"Why are you here? I know I didn't summon you this time." John whined, leaving heavily against the counter, propping his chin on his hands and sending a flirtatious smile towards Sherlock.
The demon blushed and fidgeted, seemingly uncomfortable under John's gaze.
"No, but I was in the area and had a craving for a sandwich." John grinned and pushed off the counter, promptly falling on his ass. He laughed, rolling around on the kitchen floor as the demon watched him as though he were a head-case. "I think it will be best if I make the sandwiches this time."
"No, no I can do it! I can do it! You're my guest."
"I will let you make them if you can make it to an upright position in one attempt." Sherlock deadpanned, looking incredibly skeptical. John blinked owlishly at the beautiful being for a moment before bursting into giggles again.
This time, Sherlock laughed with him.
"Where do you keep your, sandwich making, stuff?"
"Bread is in the cupboard, everything else is in the fridge." Sherlock nodded and set about collecting the ingredients.
"John?"
"Yeah?"
"Your fridge is empty save for beer and jelly." John clapped a hand to his forehead. He had forgotten to get the shopping.
"Right, grab the jelly then. There is peanut butter in the cupboard with the bread."
"What will we make with those ingredients?"
"PB and J. A classic!" John had finally managed to get to his feet, wavering slightly as he leaned towards Sherlock. "Don't tell me you haven't had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before?" Sherlock shook his head, looking incredibly uncertain. "What! Well that is going to change my friend." John staggered over to Sherlock and guided him through the process of making the sandwiches.
They wound up on the floor, propped against the fridge with their sandwiches. They ate in a comfortable silence, remaining there even after both men had finished their food. John leaned against Sherlock, resting his head on the bony shoulder.
"Why did you get drunk tonight John?"
"I had a row with my dad. Tried to forget it." Sherlock was silent for a long while and John felt the heaviness of sleep start to pull at his mind. "I never thanked you properly. For last time."
"Don't mention it John. As I said, it is rare for humans to be so nice to my kind. It was the least I could do."
"That's unfair. You're pretty cool." Sherlock chuckled, leaning his head against John's and winding an arm around the smaller man's waist.
"You were planning on killing yourself tonight." The demon's voice was barely above a whisper, but his words echoed loudly in John's head. He nodded gently, shame filling his being as he realized that that was his plan, even if his drunken mind couldn't commute.
"Is that why you came?"
"I-I don't really know. I saw you, walking home. I was with a client when you passed. Something felt, off. I couldn't place it, but I knew you couldn't be alone." Sherlock fidgeted with his trouser leg. "I really was craving a sandwich though." The pair laughed, leaning into each other more as John felt sleep begin to take him.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes John?"
"You should stop by for sandwiches more often." John mumbled as he drifted off to sleep.
John awoke in his bed the next morning. After a moment of confusion, he decided that Sherlock must have carried him into his room. He fought back a flare of disappointment at the thought of not seeing Sherlock again. Last time, it was more than a year before he saw the demon.
He walked into the kitchen, catching sight of a piece of paper neatly folded on the counter.
Thank you again for your kindness. Text me sometime.
Sherlock
Underneath the note was a number. John automatically entered it in his phone, vaguely aware of the fact that he didn't have a hangover despite the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed.
I didn't realize demons could text – JW
And I thought you were supposed to wait three days before calling – SH
That's different. I'm not calling, I'm texting – JW
I see – SH
Are you busy Friday? – SH
John's eyebrows shot up and a smirk pulled at his lips.
Are you asking me out? – JW
Yes – SH
I'm working a double Friday – JW
But I'm free Saturday – JW
Saturday works – SH
I will stop by your place after I finish with my meeting in the morning – SH
I should be there around noon – SH
Demons have meetings? – JW
They do when their brother runs the deals – SH
Long story, I will explain on Saturday – SH
I'm looking forward to it – JW
Saturday rolled around and John spent the day with Sherlock. They chatted, learning everything they could about each other. Sherlock was brilliant, seeming to know something about everything. He guessed almost everything about John, getting nearly every detail correct.
They started meeting every Saturday after that.
They never discussed their relationship, hovering between more than friends and just friends. Not that John minded. Just the fact that a creature as stunning and intelligent as Sherlock was willing to talk to him was enough.
This continued for a few years, until John joined the army.
Sherlock was upset when he left, trying to convince him to stay. John apologized, promising he would stay safe and be back in a few years. He was only a doctor, what could possibly happen to a surgeon in the army?
Then he was shot.
The bullet tore through his shoulder, exploding through his chest, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. He was alone, no one was there.
He was going to die.
"John!" A familiar voice called through the heavy air of the desert. A thin form dropped beside him, gathering him in bony arms and pressing trembling fingers to the wound.
"S-Sherlock?"
"I'm here John." The Demon whispered, looking outrageously out of place, holding a dying soldier while wearing his perfect suit.
Another shot rang out, catching Sherlock in the chest.
He looked stunned, his breath stuttering for a moment before rage filled his pale features. He raised his hand and John heard a wet crunching sound accompanied by a scream of agony.
"Wh-what did you do?"
"Don't speak John." Sherlock gathered John in his arms and started running for the base camp. John slipped into the darkness, unable to withstand the pain.
Sherlock ran, faster than he had ever run before. John was dying in his arms and he had to save him. He had been planning on surprising John by showing up with sandwiches. He really missed his friend. Instead he arrived just in time to see the young man get shot.
He carried John to the Med tent, pushing in and dropping him on the table.
"What the-"
"There is no time. This man has been shot in the shoulder. Save his life and I will give you anything you desire."
"H-how-"
"I am a demon of the crossroads. I can grant you anything your heart desires but only if you save this man!" Sherlock dropped his voice to a dark growl and allowed his eyes to flash red at the terrified young man. The boy jumped into action, tearing at John's uniform and barking orders at the other surgeons.
Sherlock stood back and let the men work.
Two years later, John found himself recovered and back in London. He had been discharged after the shooting and sent home.
He hadn't seen Sherlock since that day, and a part of him was sure he had hallucinated the entire thing.
He decided to go for a walk, hobbling on his cane. He had developed a limp after getting shot. He knew it was psychosomatic, but that didn't mean his leg didn't hurt. He thought of Sherlock was he walked, losing himself in the memory of the strange demon he had fallen for.
"John? John Watson?" He turned, seeing Mike Stamford walking towards him. He fought the urge to roll his eyes and started up a conversation with his old friend.
They got coffee and chatted, the conversation turning towards John's living situation.
"Come on, who'd want to live with me?"
"You know, you're the second person to say that to me today."
"Who was the first?"
Mike led him into the new lab at Saint Bart's, the nostalgic feeling that had been filling him disappearing when he scanned the new equipment. He noticed a man hunched over one of the microscopes, but didn't think too much of it.
"Ah, Mike! I need to borrow your phone. There's no service on mine." John felt his chest tighten at that voice. He could never forget that voice. He struggled to remember how to breathe.
Sherlock.
"And what's wrong with the landline?"
"I prefer to text." He hadn't looked up from the microscope and John hadn't remembered how to breathe yet.
"Sorry, it's in my other coat." John snapped himself out of his shock.
"Here, you can borrow mine." He said, unable to contain the grin that pulled at his lips.
"Oh, tha-" Sherlock started, finally looking up at John. He froze when he caught sight of the shorter man. "J-John?"
"Hey Sherlock." The demon shot to his feet, quickly closing the gap between them and pulling John in for a tight hug. John laughed and returned the embrace, burying his head in his chest and breathing in Sherlock's familiar scent.
"You two know each other?" Mike sounded pleased and slightly confused. John pulled back, grinning up at Sherlock.
"Yeah. Remember my Sandwich Date? We used to hang out every Saturday?"
"Wait, Sherlock Holmes is your Sandwich Date? What are the odds?"
"You called me your Sandwich Date?"
"Not me, my buddies. I never told them your name, so they would bug me about you." Sherlock blushed lightly, grinning down at John. "I used to work with Mike when I did my residency here." Sherlock nodded and stepped away, grabbing a long black coat. He grabbed John's hand and dragged him from the lab, poking his head back in to talk to Mike.
"If Molly comes looking for me, just tell her to text me the results. Thank you, Mike."
They wound up at a little Italian place, Sherlock was friends with the owner, and John couldn't help but feel that this was their first official date. Sherlock ordered sandwiches.
"Where were you? You saved me then you disappeared."
"My boss was displeased when I saved you. My brother had to rally against him sending me down to Purgatory. Instead, he stripped me of my title and most of my powers, damning me to a life here on Earth."
"Jesus, Sherlock." The man flinched slightly at that.
"I may no longer be a full demon John, but that name still burns."
"Sorry." He took a bite of his sandwich, noting that Sherlock was barely picking at his own. "You lost everything for me?"
"No. I was given the chance to live a different life. I hated being a Crossroads Demon."
"So, what do you do now?"
"I am a Consulting Detective."
"Never heard of that."
"I made it up." They giggled for a minute, smiling fondly at each other. "This vessel, before it was given to me, worked with the police back in the eighteen hundred's. His powers of observation stuck with me. I have adapted the skills to work in modern day culture."
"So, Sherlock Holmes?"
"Was his name back then. I like the name, so I kept it."
"It suits you." Sherlock blushed, running a hand nervously through his hair as he cleared his throat.
"John, back in the day, he had a companion, named John. They were, lovers." Sherlock's blush darkened as he spoke. "But they had to hide, because of the fear of homosexuals." John nodded, he remembered reading about those times in school. "Anyways, they were caught and thrown in prison. Sherlock made a deal with a Crossroads Demon; his soul and mind for John's freedom." John felt his heart break for Sherlock. He could see his friend was recalling the painful memories. Sherlock had started trembling and John could see the start of tears forming in his eyes.
"That's how you got his vessel."
"Yes. He is still in here, and over the years, our personalities have melded, becoming who I am today." Sherlock looked at John, sadness and hope in his eyes. "You look like him. Sherlock's John. He wants to love you, but he is scared. He doesn't want you to get hurt."
John placed one hand on the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him in for a gentle kiss. He felt the man tense against him as their lips touched. He pulled away and considered the scared and confused eyes of the demon he loved so much.
"It's alright Sherlock. It's not 1895 anymore. It never will be again." He whispered, feeling his heart swell as tears fell from the other man's eyes.
"Thank you, My Dear Watson." They kissed again, still a little hesitant, but full of relief.
Holmes had found his Watson, and John had found his Sherlock.