Yes, obviously.

You’re right, but I have just about 30 years of training and experience. Think of it this way. A wannabe Scotland Yard comes on one of your cases. I’m guessing you’d treat them as a Padawan. Correct me if I’m wrong here.

What the hell is a Padawan?

That doesn’t exactly change the fact that you’ve denied their existence here. Demon blood has been running through my veins since I was a kid. Unlike most of the people in this place I already know how to control it. So essentially, that makes me one step ahead of the game.

I fail to see what that has to do with anything now. It isn’t rocket science, of which I know a lot. It’s fairly simple to figure out what to do and how to fight.

Sherlock, you didn’t even believe in angels and demons until a few weeks ago. Now you want to protect them?

Because I’m certain in my world, they don’t exist. Now, I am one. I don’t care about protecting anybody, I simply think it’s funny that you think you can do anything. 

Alright, so good news for the Pocket. At least for us demons. Let’s just say if you’re an angel I found a way to take your grace.

Good luck with that, Goliath.

Owen stayed hidden for a bit, watching as Sherlock made his way through bottle after bottle, but as time went on, he was finding it harder and harder to stay silent. When Sherlock started talking, Owen realized it was the perfect time to cease the moment and mess with the town’s local detective. Making his voice deeper, Owen spoke up - “Sherlock Holmes, it is I, God, and do not for one second think that I am ever not listening. How dare you.” 

Sherlock jerked and then froze as he heard a voice, American, speaking to him. His eyes roamed the bar, but he didn’t see anyone else there. He was scared, obviously, but he didn’t let that show on his face. “Of course, you’re American.” He said that because he clearly thought God had an ego. After all, he was letting them suffer in this hell -- for what, exactly? 

The heartbeat in the famous detective was quickening with every second that went by. It was like music to the immortal’s ears as he focused in on it and then the rushing of the blood that coursed through the other’s veins. Blinking curiously, Jack tilted his head and instantly exhaled a small sigh of relief when the other accepted his handshake.

Sherlock hadn’t noticed that Jack had placed his other hand on top of Sherlock’s until his hand was already gone, the lack of touch feeling stark and foreign, although he knew it shouldn’t have. 

A scoff sat on John’s lips and he blinked once or twice. What a ridiculous request. The stress and confusion of his day began to wear, and the doctor grew a bit tired. He wasn’t the active person he used to be. Yet, the lifestyle was missed and chased after regularly. Denial grew thick– John wasn’t quite ready to accept the reality before him. It was too wild of a concept to grasp and believe. His toes went stiff in leather shoes.

The way John said Sherlock’s name made him question if his request was necessary. It was stern and exasperated, the way John would say his name when Sherlock wanted to do something particularly dangerous or ‘stupid’. In fact, every once in a while, it would actually work. It flashed Sherlock back, giving him an extreme sense of deja vu. They could very well have been in 221B, Sherlock experimenting with rats or medicines or whatever else struck his fancy.

Mh, it seems that you are getting wiser, Sherlock.

[private]

Well, I’m the Librarian so finding a dictionary wouldn’t be impossible.

Why would I want to read my own future? 

The brick practically rippling behind him, John met the wall with a huff. His instincts stroke to push Sherlock away. Still, he refrained from making any advancements. He didn’t want to startle the detective who was so clearly unstable. Now that their eyes met, piercingly cool, John noticed something about his face. Younger? Not as stiff, maybe. “Sherlock,” he scoffed with bewildered smile, “What are you talking about?!”

Sherlock didn’t notice John’s human reaction to colliding with the wall, he didn’t notice any of the obvious clues that would have let him know that this was John, the very John he missed solving crimes with. His only friend. He didn’t notice until John said his name again. Sherlock, what are you talking about? He froze again, surveying John’s face once more now that he was in such close proximity. His wrinkles were more prominent now, that was certain. He looked tired, the way he sometimes looked when he would come home after a long shift at St. Bart’s that had come right after a day of gallivanting around London with Sherlock. His eyes -- they looked at him the way they always had when Sherlock did something ‘not human’ or not up to the social constructs of the day. 

The Ghost of the Bar | Owen and Sherlock

Yes, of yourself.

You seem not to know the definition of the word ‘projection’. Would you like to google it or do you think you can manage a dictionary? 

Jack had been waiting in the parlour of the Town Hall for Sherlock Holmes to arrive. It wasn’t often that the famous detective would pay him a visit and it went without saying that the Captain was willing to go all out with the grandiose appearances.

Sherlock’s steps slowed as he descended the stairs, finding that something wasn’t... quite right. It seemed that his perceptive skills weren’t as sharp or focused when it came to Jack, because it turned out that he’d completely missed him in the parlor of the Town Hall. That was... disconcerting, but not enough for Sherlock to remain focused on it when Jack was right in such close proximity. He turned around, finding Jack standing right in front of him, his heart pounding harder in his chest for a reason he couldn’t ascertain. Sherlock wasn’t a very well-mannered person, but he did shake Jack’s hand out of pure desire to. In fact, Jack’s handshake was so strong that Sherlock had forgotten to take his hand back.

A friend, found. For merely a moment, nothing but the wind moved. It whipped past his fingers in through his hair. It brushed his nose. Although only a few days passed since he had seen Sherlock– Appledore had ruffled him– the doctor was still incredibly relieved to see a familiar face. He slowed his breaths by touching his knees for just a second, catching up on the current events. “Oh, thank god. Sherlock–” he cut himself off, bewildered. John gestured plainly to the world around them.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he’d stood there, studying John’s face. He was... older. Or was it simply that Sherlock hadn’t paid close attention to the details of John’s face once he’d memorized what he looked like on the day they’d met and the prolonged separation made everything evident now? Even after John had spoken to him, Sherlock stood there for a moment, stunned. 

Well I’m sure if I slap you hard enough it’ll knock that memory back into place.

Biologically impossible and not an altogether great metaphor.

Sherlock, please, don’t start blabbing now.

Classic projection.