Greg rubs his eyes as the blaring noise of his alarm goes off after the third snooze. It’s too early for this he thinks.
“If you don’t get up, I swear I will open another portal to hell and throw you into it, Lestrade.”
The man in question just throws off the duvet and scoffs.
“Aren’t demons bound by their word, Mycroft? Don’t say things you don't mean, besides- Azazel would be happy to see me. I almost wish he were my guardian instead of you.”
The demon picks at his unusually long nails and glares. It’s an unspoken demand that he hurry up. The human rolls his eyes.
“I’m not running late, am I?” He shuffles around for his phone and walks to the closet to pick out a decent shirt for work. Not black, Mycroft wears enough for the both of them. Light grey maybe?
“There is an eighty nine percent chance of a collision on the corner by Karen’s in exactly forty three minutes. If occured, it will cause a delay of at least an hour, so if you haven’t left this apartment in the next twenty six minutes, you could be stuck on twelfth avenue thereby causing you to arrive late to work.”
“What in bloody hell-”
“ I am a chaos demon , Lestrade. Stop wasting my time and move .”
Now you’re probably wondering, how did a good lad like Greg end up with a guardian demon?
It’s been thirty years and the man’s still not quite sure himself. You see, when he turned eighteen- just like everyone else- he woke up expecting a guardian angel. What he found was Mycroft Holmes, mephistophelian mastermind, sitting on his pouf with a black pen and a suspicious looking document in his hand.
“Um, who are you?” A displeased hum meets the crinkle of an expensive three piece suit as the man gets up. Angels didn’t wear black, did they?
“I am Mycroft Holmes and I am your guardian. I would say it's a pleasure to meet you but I’ve never been too fond of humans, Lestrade.”
“Oh, um- right then. I supposed I’ll go tell me mum and make a cuppa then?”
He’s met with a mean raised eyebrow.
“I think it would be in your best interests you refrain from that particular idea. She’d think you’ve lost your mind.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Your mother cannot see me Lestrade. I’m not one of your little angels.”
“Then what are you?”
“I am a top tier chaos demon, and I am here to make your short, pitiful existence a little less pitiful. I’m just as excited about this as you are but rules are rules. Blame overpopulation if you wish, but until you take your last breath I am unfortunately stuck with you.”
Mycroft places the pen and paper in his hands. He can’t read a word of the language- all sigils and scripts- but makes out a dotted line at the bottom where a manicured nail lays .
“Now if you could just sign here, we’ll begin.”
The pen burns as he holds it and the ink is unusually red. Blood red.
“Welcome to hell on earth Gregory.”
Greg makes it out of the house in twenty four minutes and hears the crash from two streets away as his taxi speeds him over to the precinct. He gets out and stops by his favourite food truck to get a cuppa and a bagel.
As he waits for his order, he watches some elementary children crossing the road, and one of them trips. He frowns as none of the others help her up, but then she’s smiling for no reason and he’s confused for a second- oh right.
She has a guardian angel. If he focuses his eyes he can just barely make out a head of brunette hair talking to the girl, probably scolding her as she ties her laces. She receives an affectionate pat on the head and the he continues to follow her, staying a short distance behind like the other children’s angels who were even harder for him to see.
He’s drawn back to his surroundings as the lady calls him for his order and he pays her with a smile. He’s about to put his wallet back in his pocket when a flash of red tears past him, and suddenly his wallet is getting further and further away. He watches the red hoodie get closer and closer to the crosswalk in shock before he catches himself.
“Mycroft, a little help?” he says hopelessly.
The demon appears next to him in a shimmer of grey and a bored look on his face.
“What is it? You’re not late nor are you dying and I was having a rather good time at that Japanese violin exhibition.”
He points to the oversized red hoodie sprinting further down the street and knocking persons out of the way as others look on in confusion.
“My wallet. That kid took it.”
Mycroft lets out a long suffering sigh before rolling his eyes. He opens his palm and a pentagram with an eagle burns red before the lad literally hits the ground.
“Bloody hell Mycroft! That’s not what I meant!”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t seem as though he’s going anywhere now, Lestrade.”
The demon slowly starts curling his fingers into a fist one by one, and though boy is relatively far away the screaming sounds as though he’s right next to him. He smiles a little cruelly as the boy starts to convulse and writhe, with pedestrians stopping concernedly trying to help.
Greg knows that unlike angels, Mycroft cannot be seen unless he wishes to, so he must look like a mental patient talking to himself.
“I didn’t say to kill him ! I just meant for you to stop him and make him bring my bloody wallet back you absolute wanker!”
Mycroft lets out a yet another long suffering sigh, leaning heavily on his damned umbrella and looking like a dog when you’ve taken away their plaything.
“Entirely boring, but as you wish.”
The boy’s entire body shoots up as though he’s possessed (which is ironic because Mycroft doesn’t actually like to possess people), and he literally flies over to where Greg is standing.
“Can I have back my wallet, please?”
At this point, he’d just like to have his breakfast, see his clients and call it a day.
Mycroft releases the boy who stumbles on his feet as he scrambles to pull out the untouched wallet and shakily hand it back.
“W-what the hell are you?”
“I’m tired and mostly broke so I appreciate you giving back my wallet, mate.”
He feels Mycroft next to him, and he can tell that only the boy can see when the demon walks right up to him and puts a hand on his throat.
“I, however am not tired. If you so much as think of doing something like this again, I’ll make it the point of my existence to become your personal nightmare fuel. I will plague your dreams until you hear nothing but the screams of the damned, and then burn my sigil into your skin as the mark of a sinner so not even your pathetic angel could save you. If you so much as smell like you plan on stealing again, I will find you and feed you to my half breed children in hell. Do you understand?”
This is punctuated with a tilt of his head and a saccharin smile. It’s frankly terrifying.
The boy’s knees could probably be heard knocking together from sixth street. He makes a tiny nod as though he's afraid to move. Mycroft extends his claws and lightly drags one down the teen’s neck, drawing blood. His grin widens to show all his carnivorous teeth extending as his eyes go fully black.
Then a whisper.
The boy’s eyes roll back in his head and he passes out. Mycroft looks back at him curiously- terror mask gone now- as though to say what do I do now?
“Just put him on a park bench or something. I’m going to work.”
People on the sidewalk part like the red sea as he walks the last stretch up to Scotland Yard.
He’s used to it now.