(no subject)
“Sherlock!” John called to the flat at large. He shouldered through the door, both hands occupied with multiple bags of groceries. “Some help would be nice!” he added, irritably.
No response. “Sher-“
John stopped short at the sight of not one, but two people in their living room, and for a moment, he thought he was seeing double. Sherlock and his companion sat in opposite armchairs in front of the fire, two tall, unhealthily pale men with dark hair, both sporting fine suits and even finer cheekbones.
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t know we had guests.”
He dropped the shopping bags and walked over, sticking out a hand to the man sitting opposite Sherlock. “John Watson.”
The stranger was seated in John’s usual armchair. Perhaps that was why Sherlock bore such an annoyed expression.
The man did not rise out of his seat to greet John, but stubbed his dying cigarette on the arm of his chair and shook John’s hand anyway.
“Constantine. John Constantine.”
John shot Sherlock a quizzical look. “Relation of yours?”
“Cousin,” Sherlock replied, still staring at Constantine, who lit his next cigarette nonchalantly. Sherlock seemed unaffected at first glance, but John noticed his little twitches and hungry looks. He was becoming well-versed with Sherlock’s withdrawal symptoms.
“There is quite a resemblance.” John waved between the two of them. He sank into the armchair next to Sherlock, who had not taken his eyes off his cousin’s cigarette.
“So what brings you here, John?” John asked, trying to make polite conversation.
Constantine looked at him. John briefly noted that he had the same dark eyes as Sherlock, and apparently, the same discomfiting ability to bore into you with them. “Demon possession.”
“Oh.” John paused. “Run that by me again?”
“I’m investigating a case here in London.” Constantine’s American accent stood out, though it was rather soft.
“Is… Is he joking?” John frowned, turning to Sherlock.
“He is perfectly serious.” Judging by his demeanour, so was Sherlock. He sat stiffly in his chair, fingers steepled together, his violin lying unattended.
“But- “ John interjected.
“Do you remember that crime scene we went to last week?” Sherlock asked quietly.
“Yeah. That bath salts murder-suicide, that family in Surrey? Dad went berserk and attacked his wife and son… Bit their faces off, and stomach contents suggests he ate parts of them. Course I remember. ”
“Wasn’t him. Not completely him, that is to say.”
John stared at Constantine. “You’re not going to suggest-“
“Did you notice an unusual smell throughout the house?” Sherlock interrupted.
“Like bad eggs?” John had noticed it, but Sherlock had made no mention of it at the time, and he had dismissed it as inconsequential.
“Sulphur,” Constantine said. “And sulphur means demons.”
John sat there, flabbergasted. “But forensics-“
“Doesn’t know anything,” Constantine finished. “Florida. New York. LA. Louisiana. Maine. Missouri. Atlanta. Pennsylvania. Just to name a few. Not just America, even China. That we know of, anyway. Similar MO every time. Now it’s here. It’s spreading.”
John shook his head like a dog getting rid of water. “I’m sorry - what’s spreading?”
“These attacks don’t happen because of bath salts,” Constantine answered.
“And you’re suggesting they’re the work of … demons.” John said.
I must be dreaming, John thought. I can’t be having this conversation. Any moment now Sherlock will yell for me to get him a pen or something, and I’ll wake up.
“They don’t normally come out in the open like this. They’re planning something. And it’s upsetting the Balance.”
“But how do you know-“
“Constantine,” Sherlock said, “has a unique range of… abilities.”
Sherlock reached under a pile of books and papers, picked up a card and held it out towards Constantine. From his seat beside Sherlock, John saw it had a strange cartoon of a bear dressed as a princess.
“You’re gonna make me do this party trick?” Constantine drawled, eyebrows raised.
“Humour me.”
Constantine snorted, sending a puff of smoke out of his nostrils. “Used to make me do this when we were kids,” he explained, seeing John's confusion, and then answered, “Bear in a dress.”
John blinked. How had he known? Maybe the cards were marked. “Did you deduce that?”
“Constantine’s skills are more unique than mine,” Sherlock said.
“More unique than yours?” Now it was John’s turn to be amused.
“They lean slightly more to the… occult.”
“That’s only one word for it,” Constantine reminded him.
“You’re not suggesting he’s psychic?” John peered incredulously at Sherlock, ignoring the ash Constantine was littering the carpet with. “Is that why you’re a little bit…”
He gestured vaguely. Sherlock looked at him questioningly, but unable to find a suitable word, he hastily said, “Never mind.”
“So, will you help?” Constantine asked, abruptly.
“You know my own abilities do not extend to the… paranormal,” Sherlock replied.
“You know the local cops better than I do. Hell, you get invited to crime scenes.”
“I do,” Sherlock conceded.
Constantine handed over a card. It was a pure, pearly white, with nothing but a number on it.
“Call me if you find any more signs of demon activity. I’ll be in London for a while.”
Both Constantine and Sherlock rose out of their chairs at the same moment, as if by some unseen signal, and shook hands. Standing, John doubted there was an inch difference in their heights.
“Goodbye, Constantine,” Sherlock said. John had noticed Sherlock’s refusal to call Constantine “John”, and he was coming to think of Constantine as ‘the other John’ himself.
"Say hi to Mycroft for me," Constantine grinned, and Sherlock smirked too. John assumed it had to be some sort of in-joke.
Sherlock returned to his seat, looking pensive. John repressed a sigh, stood and walked to the door to open it for their guest.
At the door, Constantine turned to John and muttered, “See you soon.” Then he disappeared down the dark staircase, leaving John to stare bemusedly at his retreating back.