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She was the most beautiful woman John had ever seen.
Polished ebony skin and wide, dark eyes, ringed with kohl. Her tight black braids were twisted into a complex bun on the top of her head, showcasing the plunging back of her maroon dress.
He supposed it made sense, after all, that the devil worked through beauty.
"I need," he said— but the words caught in his throat, as he thought about how foolish this entire endeavor no doubt was.
The demon stepped closer, full lips turning up in languid pleasure. “I already know what you need, John Watson,” she said. “I know exactly why you’re here.”
This was utterly ridiculous. There was no power on Earth that could bring a man back from the dead. Sherlock himself would have laughed at John, ready to bargain away life years like poker chips, as if this woman truly controlled life and death.
"Doubting me, now?" she asked. "How unchivalrous of you."
John almost laughed. “It’ll take more than mind-reading to prove your powers to me,” he said, mouth quirking. “I had a— friend, who could do that. And he was very, very human.”
"A friend, was it?" Her breath was soft and sweet on his ear as she pressed into his space. "And tell me, John…. Is your friend the reason you’re here?”
John took a deep breath. Pascal’s Wager, he though wildly. Nothing to lose, not even his dignity. Not anymore.
"Bring him back," he told her, holding her gaze. She shook her head.
"Oh no. It’s not that simple."
"Bring him back," John said. "And you can have my soul."
"Better," she allowed. She stroked his cheek and John did his best not to recoil from the feathery touch.
"You have a beautiful soul, John Watson," she breathed after a moment, eyes shining. "Pure, despite all the evil you’ve committed. It hasn’t touched you. That’s a rare soul, indeed."
John resolutely refused the hope that tugged at his mind. “So you’ll—-“
She smiled, a bit regretfully. “I wish I could. Your soul is— almost perfect.”
"So what’s the pro—"
"Sherlock Holmes," she said, turning her back and walking away as she did so, "Is not for sale." She blew a good-bye kiss over her shoulder.
"No, no hang on." John strode forward and grasped her arm. "What does that mean? All souls can be brought back, right? Everyone—"
"Not quite." She peeled his hand off of her. "Your friend is… Not in a place where I can retrieve him."
"Tell me—"
The demon batted her eyelashes at him. “Oh, you’re quite the loyal puppy, aren’t you? Would it make you happy then? To know that Sherlock’s in the deepest-“-one step closer- “darkest” -another step-“corner of hell?”
John thought of his mad genius, the one who needed precisely two teaspoons of sugar in his coffee and only wore silk because other fabrics irritated his skin— the one who could take any pain without a murmur, but who whined when John was around and it had taken him so long (too long) to figure out that Sherlock just wanted someone to fuss over him, because he was so fucking affection-starved—
That one. That childish bastard, roaming around in some deep cavern of hell and, more to the point, in some deep cavern of hell without John to take care of him.
"Why?" he blurted out. "What did he ever do?"
"What did he do?" She raised an eyebrow at him, but her voice trembled with a sudden, barely-suppressed rage. "You don’t know? What did he fucking do?”
Her voice shattered grotesquely on the last word.
"He tracked the King of Hell— Lucifer’s right hand, across all of Earth and half of hell. Baal, the leader of the 66 legions, reduced to matching wits with a human—"
John’s head reeled as he processed the patently absurd speech. “No, you’re wrong, there wasn’t an demon, there was just—”
"Jim Moriarty," she hissed. "Was not a man. He was our King and Sherlock destroyed him."
"And so he rots in hell, is that the deal?" John clenched his hands into fists, for all the good that would do. "You’re going to torture him in hell."
She threw back her head and laughed cruelly. “Oh you poor, misguided soul. Your Sherlock isn’t in hell because we put him there. No. He's there because he chose to be there.”
John shook his head “No,” but there was a sickening feeling pooling in his stomach and he knew, with sudden clarity, that that’s exactly what Sherlock would do, because Sherlock-
"He thought he could track them, didn’t he? Destroy the generals of the 66 legions from within hell?"
"So he asked me to send him to the deepest pit of hell," she agreed, smiling cruelly, as if at a fond memory.
"You’re never going to see him again, John. I can’t bring him out, not from the place he’s gone. Not for all the souls in the world."
"Right." John rolled back his shoulders and straightened to his full height. "Guess there’s only one thing for it then."
For the first time, he could see a trace of uncertainty on her face. “What are you—”
"My soul," he stated firmly. "You can have my soul— as long as you bring me to him."
She laughed and then stopped as she took in the seriousness in his eyes. “Oh- oh, you're actually serious? You’re giving me your soul, so that I can put you in hell with your best friend? And you can spend your time running from 66 leaders, each of whose very name terrifies even demons?”
John didn’t even blink. “That’s about the sum of it, yeah.”
"Well, congratulations. That’s stupid even for a human."
She paused and then, after a long moment, shrugged. “But who am I to reject such a handsome offer?”
"So you'll take me, then?"
"John Watson," she said, pulling him down so that she could whisper directly in his ear—
"You poor, besotted fool—You have yourself a deal.”