SherlockBBC Fic: How To Accidentally Open a Portal To Hell
current mood: giddy
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Title: How To Accidentally Open a Portal To Hell
Characters: Sherlock, John
Word Count: 2086
Genres: Humor, slight crack
Disclaimer: I, of course, own nothing.
Summary: John blamed milk, demons, and a certain portal to hell for ruining his Saturday. But mostly, he blamed Sherlock. Oh yes. Always Sherlock. Companion fic to How To Accidentally Summon a Demon, though little knowledge is needed from that one to understand this.
A/N: This is a fic I wrote for Jenn1984 for my birthday. Yeah, you read that right. *facepalm*
John was at work when the beginning of the end came. Or rather, when Sherlock first texted him that day.
Need your assistance. Return to the flat immediately.
John rolled his eyes, knowing that ‘needing his assistance’ could mean anything from dire peril to Sherlock not being able to reach John’s laptop from his position on the couch. Usually these texts were more along the lines of the latter situation.
Sighing, he still typed out a response, long-suffering flatmate that he was.
Is it an emergency? If not, I’ll see you when I get home.
The phone vibrated almost immediately after he’d sent the text. Frowning, John read the screen, already beginning to feel his attention shifting away from work, and once again towards Sherlock.
Depends what you’d define as an emergency.
Oh God. What have you done? he texted back, because really, what had he done? Please don’t let him have burnt down the flat, please don’t let him have burnt down the flat-
Haven’t destroyed anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.
And then, almost as an afterthought, a second text came in:
May have opened a portal to hell though. Please come.
John read the text once, then twice, and then a third time to see if maybe, just maybe, he’d read it wrong. Please God (no pun intended, at all), let him have misread it.
Don’t be mad.
John responded to the text automatically, far, far too used to dealing with this sort of nonsense, and God, a portal to hell?
Getting possessed wasn’t enough for you, you had to open a portal to HELL?!? This…this doesn’t happen to NORMAL people.
Within seconds, three more texts had appeared in his inbox:
Please don’t use exclamation marks and question marks together, John. As a writer, you should know better.
Since when have we ever been normal?
Also, please pick up some milk before you come home, we’re almost out. But mostly hurry. I can smell burning.
John must have done something to deserve this, perhaps in a past life. John picked up his coat and walked out, making up a quick excuse to Sarah that certainly did not involve Biblical entities.
It occurred to him more than once on his way home that most people didn’t have to worry about whether or not a doorway to hell would be opened within their flat before they got home. Yeah, most people.
John honestly wasn’t sure what the portal to hell would look like. Perhaps there would be dark storm clouds looming menacing over 221 Baker, ready to rain lightning down upon it. Or perhaps an enormous crack would open up in the ground and swallow the building whole.
What he did not expect was for the doorway leading into damnation to be in his room. Silly him, of course it would be in his room.
“Why?” he cried, not caring that he probably looked completely daft, pointing rapidly between Sherlock and the vortex on his wall, which Mrs. Hudson would definitely be taking out of their rent, if they survived what looked to be the apocalypse.
“Why, Sherlock Holmes, did you have to bring on the end of the world, in my bedroom?” John gripped his hair in his hands, not sure whether to focus on the fact that the vortex appeared to have grown larger since he came in, or the fact that he was going to murder Sherlock once this whole ‘portal to hell’ issue had been resolved. In the end, he went with thinking about his need to kill his flatmate, because at least that was something familiar.
“Would you rather I’d done it somewhere else?” Sherlock asked, actually having the nerve to look a bit put out. Not as much put out that he’d opened a portal to hell, but more put out that John wasn’t acknowledging his brilliance in opening a portal to hell. Like a toddler, upset that his mummy didn’t praise his stick figures.
“I’d rather not even have to answer questions about etiquette involving opening gateways to hell,” John said, not sounding strained at all, because really, just a portal to hell. No big deal.
Sherlock made a face at the word ‘etiquette’, and then examined the (literally) hellish vortex, with an expression approaching worry on his face.
The vortex, if it could be described at all, wasn’t as much black in color, as much as it was the color of pain, suffering, and hopelessness. It reeked of sulfur, and John was sure that his room would be smelling like it for months. There was also a distinct possibility that it was growing hotter in the room. John decided to ignore that though, along with the fact that if one listened closely, the sound of screaming could be heard from the vortex. Some things were better left ignored, after all.
“How did…why?” John asked, because really, what else was there to be said?
Sherlock huffed and glared at John as if this was somehow his fault. “It wasn’t as if I intended this to happen,” he said icily.
“Oh, I’m sorry, you didn’t intend to open a portal to hell?”
“No, John, there was nothing on the telly, so I thought to myself, ‘I know, why not start the apocalypse? That will give me something to do.’ Give me some credit,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, though the effect was somewhat ruined as he cast another anxious glance towards the portal.
And John might have been tempted to give Sherlock some credit, except that that actually sounded exactly like something Sherlock would do.
John put his face in his hands and took a deep breath before continuing. “Okay. Exactly how did you accidentally open the portal to hell?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the accusation that he would ever do something like this on purpose (it was an accident, all right?), then gestured to the well (very well) worn book on the bed, pages crinkled and covered in what was probably some dead language that Sherlock could no doubt speak fluently. “I suspected that this is the book that’s being used by DeMuri’s gang for their ciphers. So I merely got the book, said a few incantations aloud in my examination of it, and unknowingly started the end of the world.” After a pause, Sherlock frowned. “You’re upset.”
John nodded. “Yes, Sherlock. I am upset,” he said, his voice strained. Though no windows were open, John could now feel a stifling breeze coming through the room. It definitely was not coming from the portal. Nope. Definitely not.
Sherlock’s lips pursed, like the idea of John being unhappy was an inconvenience to him, and then turned back to the portal. “I suspected you would be. And while observing a gateway to hell would be immensely informative, you’ll be happy to know that I am in the process of closing it.” He said this almost wistfully, probably thinking of all the experiments lost.
Not that John cared, as long as he was able to sleep in his room again without being sucked into the Pit. But he did know how Sherlock’s mind worked, and John had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind about all this. He looked at Sherlock with suspicion. “So why tell me at all? You could have closed it before I got home without me being any the wiser.”
Sherlock actually smiled at that, the bastard. “Well observed John. I see you’ve been paying at least some attention to my methods. I called you here because this book does call for a few, let’s say, ingredients before one can, ah…”
“Close the door to hell?” John supplied. Then he paled as a thought occurred to him. “Oh my God. You brought me here as a virgin sacrifice, didn’t you? Oh my God, you did.” John clutched his hair and tried to breathe deeply.
Sherlock didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a close thing. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. You’re not even a virgin.”
“Then…are you the virgin sacrifice?” John asked, because quite frankly, this had all been a bit much for him even before virgin sacrifices came into play. Not to mention, Sherlock was hardly the self-sacrificing type.
“We don’t need any virgin sacrifices,” Sherlock huffed. “All I need is a…” And Sherlock looked almost embarrassed, if not for the fact that Sherlock Holmes did not do embarrassed.
“A…lock of hair from a pure soul.”
John blinked. Then blinked again. Then laughed. “So you called me?”
“It’s not as if I had many options,” Sherlock said testily.
“I’m hardly what you would call a pure soul, Sherlock,” John said, feeling a throbbing headache forming between his eyes, a feeling he was becoming all too familiar with.
“Sure you are. You’re good,” Sherlock said simply, as if that was that, when it really wasn’t.
“Within 24 hours of you knowing me, I killed a man! I wouldn’t exactly call that a pure soul. Oh God, you know what? Yeah, I’m going.” John headed for the door, away from headaches, hell, and especially Sherlock. “You can call me if you need me!”
Unfortunately, Sherlock took John’s words a bit too seriously, and within seconds of closing the door behind him, John received a text.
Lock of hair =/= virgin sacrifice.
John, aware of how completely childish this was, furiously texted back, NO. You opened the damn door to hell, you close it.
You’re acting like it’s the end of the world.
John had to stare at the screen for a full minute before he realized that that was Sherlock joking. Oh God, it really was the end of the world.
It very well may be, he texted back.
Your services are required to close the portal to hell. Come back.
And John sighed, because really, even after months of living with the man, Sherlock saying please was enough of a novelty that John couldn’t help but give in.
Ten minutes later, a chunk of John’s fringe was missing, the air no longer smelled of sulfur, and there was a charred hole in the wall that John was definitely not paying for.
John, breathing deeply, leaned against the edge of the bed and actually laughed. “That was…the craziest thing I’ve ever done. Including Afghanistan, and cabbies.”
Sherlock laughed softly in agreement before leaning next to him on the bed.
“You are never doing that again? You hear?” John added.
“Hmm, let’s see. No body parts, no experiments, and now no portals to hell either? Really, John, it’s like you want me to be bored.” Sherlock’s voice was his normal deadpan, but there was a hint of a grin at the edge of his lips, and John couldn’t help descending into further giggles.
“If you can’t giggle at crime scenes, shouldn’t there be a rule about giggling at former gateways to hell?” Sherlock said, his small smile shifting into a full on smirk.
“Oh God, my bedroom is a former gateway to hell. Yep. Only Sherlock Holmes,” he sighed, letting his laughter subside, although the smile refused to disappear completely from his face.
“A portal to hell, John,” Sherlock mused. “Think of all that could be experimented with-”
“No, absolutely not,” John said vehemently. “Stick to crimes on this astral plane please.”
Sherlock shrugged, not looking like he particularly cared either way, but was going more by John’s opinion than anything.
“You know,” he said “as good of a service that you performed today, you did make one small oversight, John.”
Sherlock turned to John and grinned. “You forgot the milk.”
John sighed and collapsed backwards onto the bed before flipping Sherlock the bird.