Sherlock/Highlander: Ten Minutes
Title: Ten Minutes
Author:
mad_maudlin
Fandoms: Sherlock, Highlander
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Molly, "Adam Pierson," OCs
Spoilers/Warnings: Non-graphic character death
Summary: The death and resurrection of Sherlock Holmes
A/N: This is the last of my unposted kink meme fills, which is ironic considering that it was probably the first one I actually completed. I had delusions of expanding this one with added bonus!Lestrade, but alas, not to be--besides, it stands fine on its own.
Ten Minutes
John showered, changed, and picked up a few things on his way to Bart's, where he went straight to the morgue. He could hear Molly crying from far down the corridor, and he had to hesitate outside the doors for a moment to brace himself. Bullets and bombs, sure, but even John Watson quailed in the face of a crying woman.
His watch kept ticking down, though. He shifted the rucksack to his other hand and pushed the doors open.
Molly was sitting at a desk, sobbing into a cup of tea: she'd been experimenting with mascara lately and it had left long black streaks at the corners of her eyes. With a hiccup, she looked up and managed a choked, "Oh, John--" before dropping her tea and running to him.
John found himself comforting her in a one-armed embrace as she transferred some of that mascara to the shoulder of his jacket. He could see the time on his watch in this position, and he hated himself a little for what he was about to do. "I need to see him, Molly," he said, his own voice not entirely steady.
She peeled herself away and hiccuped again. "Of course," she said. "Of course. This way. He's...I knew he wouldn't want to be with the others."
Thank god for small favors. John followed her deeper into the morgue, past the coolers where most of the dead were interred, to one of the autopsy tables. Sherlock was still in the body bag, but when John tugged down the zip he could see he'd already been undressed. Inspiration struck him. "Molly, can you do me a favor?" he asked.
She hiccuped again, which he took as assent.
"I need his clothes," John said. "The ones he was wearing when they brought him in. Can you go get them for me?"
"Are you looking for evidence?" she asked thickly.
"Yeah," John said, hating the lie.
She nodded. "I'll be just a minute."
John tried not to be obvious about it, but he watched every step she took out of the room. The moment the swinging door to the labs was firmly shut behind her, he unzipped the body bag the rest of the way.
There were still bright smears of blood on Sherlock's chest, one for every bullet that had torn him open, but it was obvious that under the dark crusts his skin had already healed. John knelt down and rooted around in the rucksack for the packet of wet wipes he'd brought, and cleaned the blood away. He also pulled out the clothes he'd brought with him, and stacked those at the foot of the table. He checked his watch again. Any second now.
On the table, Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he inhaled in a great noisy gasp.
John planted one arm across his chest, holding him down to the table, and clamped his free hand over Sherlock's mouth. "It's me," he said, the first thing that came into his head, "it's me, Sherlock, I'm right here, we're at Bart's. You need to keep quiet. Understand?"
When Sherlock's eyes finally focused on his face, John felt safe releasing his mouth, though he still kept one hand on Sherlock's chest where the skin was starting to come back up to temperature. Sherlock stared at him, face betraying more emotion in a minute than he normally showed in a month. He reached up and splayed a hand over his ribs, where the first bullet had torn in.
"Impossible," he said, barely a sigh.
"I know," John said, fighting for calm. "And I promise I will explain everything in--" He checked his watch again. "Ten minutes. But right now you need to keep quiet, and you need to get dressed, so we can get out of here before Molly come back here and sees you."
Sherlock just stared for a minute longer, eyes still too wide, and John wondered for the thousandth time what was going on in his head, what would happen next. If Sherlock refused to cooperate with him--and Sherlock so rarely cooperated with anyone--then Molly was going to catch them and they would have a full-blown Situation.
"Ten minutes," Sherlock said, as if he were going to start a countdown. John finally felt safe to exhale, and let Sherlock sit up.
He'd picked up some clothes from a second-hand shop, guessing at the sizes and erring on the side of caution: Sherlock had to borrow his belt to hold up his trousers, and his sleeves puddled awkwardly over his wrists. The hooded sweatshirt mostly hid his face, though, and John had to admit that nobody used to seeing Sherlock in his fitted suits would ever recognize him in these natty castoffs. He didn't comment on the clothes' obvious origins, either, and got his shoes tied just before the sound of Molly's footsteps became audible through the swinging doors. "John? Here they--hic!--are..."
John grabbed his rucksack in one hand and Sherlock's arm in the other, all but dragging him out of the morgue. They couldn't run in the corridors without drawing too much attention, but Sherlock had long legs and John was used to keeping up with him. He led the way down a little-used corridor, towards a fire exit that certain medical students had once used for illicit smoking breaks. Smoking habits may have got harder to maintain since then, but for the first time all night, John's luck was with him: there was still a scrap of cardboard wedged in the door frame, and John pushed Sherlock through it into the damp night air.
They'd gone nearly three blocks before John realized he still had a hand on Sherlock's arm, clenched so tight it had to be painful. Still no sign of pursuit, but they were going to draw attention, and anyway it wasn't like Sherlock needed to be lead anyway. He took a deep breath and forced himself to let go.
Not long after that, Sherlock grabbed him by the jacket and dragged him into an alleyway.
"Ten minutes," Sherlock hissed, as he shoved John into a brick wall, pinning him there with his greater height. "Or, rather, eight minutes and forty-five seconds, but there won't be another such convenient blind spot in the security cameras for some distance." His voice was quite controlled, almost as if John were just another suspect to interrogate: almost, but not quite. "Now would be the time for your promised explanation, John, because a quarter of an hour ago I was dead and yet you aren't frightened."
John was willing to argue that point, actually, especially with Sherlock's hands pressing hard into his shoulders. But he supposed he rather deserved that. He swallowed, and found that he couldn't look Sherlock in the eye for this bit. "Mycroft's not the only person who's ever asked me to spy on you," he admitted.
Sherlock released him, and took a wide step across the alley. "Explain," he said flatly, pulling down a mask of passivity.
"They call themselves Watchers," John said, fully aware or just how absurd it sounded here, in a dirty alleyway, two meters from a skip and with traffic all around. "They approached me just after I got back from Afghanistan--I told them to fuck off. A few months ago they contacted me again through the blog. They said you were in danger."
"Yet they couldn't inform me directly?" Sherlock asked archly.
John shook his head. "You wouldn't have believed it. I didn't believe it, at first." They hadn't told him everything up front, of course--only the first hit is free. They'd strung him along, played out a line of impossibilities and revelations, and it was only in hindsight that he could see how he'd dug himself in deeper--every time he'd skipped a lunch or canceled an appointment to meet with them, every lie he'd carefully crafted to conceal from Sherlock just where he'd been, what he'd been up to. He'd built up a whole second life, asymptotic to the first, except now they'd just come crashing together and the wreckage was likely to be spectacular.
He realized he'd been quiet for several minutes, but Sherlock hadn't prompted him to continue. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was staring at him--just staring, face completely impassive. They locked eyes for a moment, and Sherlock asked, very quietly, "What's happened to me?"
John had to look away again, and rubbed his hands on this thighs to wipe away any sweat. "So, according to the Watchers, there are people in the world who are...basically, immortal. They don't seem any different from anyone else, not in any way you could test for, but if they die violently--or ought to have died, I guess I should say--"
"Such as a gunshot wound to the chest?" Sherlock put in.
He was too bloody calm about it, and it made John flinch. He'd been doing a very good thus far just focusing on the near future, on what had to be done next, and not how Sherlock's blood had felt flowing between fingers, the smell of cordite in the air or the very real fear he'd seen in Sherlock's eyes the moment before--
He nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock put a hand on his arm. His left arm. Just above the hand that was trembling slightly. Focus, Watson, he told himself. "They don't age," he blurted. "They don't get sick. They can be injured, I guess, but they can't be killed, except by decapitation."
"Like our serial killings?" Sherlock asked, eyes lighting up. Of course it all came back to the work.
John nodded. "They warned me, after the first one, that you might be a target. He must shoot them, then wait from them to come back, and then...well."
Sherlock released John's hand and began pacing the alley. "Fascinating. Murdering an immortal. But the victims have no clear connection to one another...and what about the electrical damage the murder scenes? What's that got to do with it?"
"I don't know," John said wearily. "You know how I get when people ask me to spy on you."
Sherlock stopped, and John could see the exact moment when the circuit closed, when that wonderful hard drive threw up a pop-up window. He looked at his hands, turning them over like he expected to see the difference in himself. "Immortal," he said slowly, tasting the word. Then he looked piercingly at John. "And you knew."
John swallowed. "They knew," he said. "I thought it was a load of bollocks."
"Clearly you've amended that opinion," Sherlock said.
"Or I could be having a psychotic break," John pointed out weakly. "I've still not made up my mind."
Sherlock looked at his hands again, flexing his fingers, and the pressed one flat against his chest. "If you are, it's an astonishing case of folie a deux."
A laugh formed somewhere in John's chest, and it started out dead on arrival, just a weak giggle, but then Sherlock made a face like he was trying not to smile, an absurd grimace that made John laugh harder; and then suddenly they were both laughing, leaning against each other for support even though it was so not very funny. Sherlock was alive and laughing at his side, and John was so relieved he couldn't have been terrified if he'd tried.
"Thank you," Sherlock said as the laughing trailed off. What for, John wasn't sure, but he would take it over outrage and rejection any day.
"I should call someone," he said reluctantly. "The Watchers. They'll want to talk to you, I reckon."
"And I should very much like to talk to them," Sherlock said firmly. "Undead or not, I have every intention of solving this case, and they appear to have all the answers."
John leaned against the wall and scrolled through the contacts on his phone; he'd saved this particular one under the name "Rupert Giles," on the grounds that Sherlock would never, ever get the joke. It rang three times before the call connected. "Mark Davidson.
"Mark, it's John Watson."
"Dr. Watson. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
John still found the whole situation a bit too bizarre to put into words, so he just said, "It's about Sherlock Holmes."
"Say no more. The shooting was on the news. Is he with you?"
"Yeah, yeah, I...he's here."
"Good. Take down this address and meet me there as soon as you can."
John repeated after him out loud; Sherlock, of course, committed it to memory right away, and was flagging a taxi at the other end of the alley before John had even hung up. "Keep your hood up," John hissed at him.
"The blind spot extends as far as the lamppost," Sherlock said testily. "No one will see us."
"Mark said the shooting's been on the telly, though. You don't want to be recognized."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and did something improbable with his posture; John wasn't sure what, exactly, but under the baggy clothes he seemed to actually shrink, falling into a slump that made him seem both shorter and stockier than he really was. "Better?" he asked.
"This is actually more frightening than the coming back from the dead thing," John said, and even though they both knew he didn't mean it, Sherlock quirked a smile at him.
-\-\-\-
About ten minutes into the ride, Sherlock said quietly, "I don't believe in coincidences."
"I know that," John said, wondering where this was going.
Sherlock was leaning against the door, and he put his hand against the window as if to check that it hadn't gone transparent. "We are going to a small Indian restaurant run by a middle-aged widow named Amala," he declared with authority.
John immediately shot back, "You did not just deduce that."
Sherlock smiled, faint and brief. "No. One of her waitresses was involved in a rather messy blackmail scheme a few months ago, and I helped her prove that it had all been orchestrated by a particularly devious member of her fiance's family."
John had worked with Sherlock for long enough that he'd learned something about how to recovery the salient details no matter how digressive the comment. "A few months ago," he repeated. "Before the pink lady?"
"Mm," Sherlock said. "Six weeks before, exactly."
Nearly the same time that the Watchers had first approached John. And now they were being summoned back to the same location. John suddenly had a bad taste in his mouth. "Least that explains how they knew you were...knew you'd be 'back,' that is."
Sherlock dropped his hands, leaving smudged fingerprints on the glass. "Yet you said there was no way to tell."
"Which is what they told me," John said. "I never assumed they were telling me everything, though."
"Good man," Sherlock said, and relaxed into the seat.
When they arrived at the restaurant, it appeared to have closed early; most of the windows on the ground level were dark, but the floor above was brightly lit. A tall, stocky woman was waiting for them on the front steps, a jacket thrown over a well-used apron, and though she was graying at the temples her forearms were nearly as thick as John's biceps. "Amala," Sherlock said in greeting as he climbed out of the cab, but he also paused a moment, the barest hitch in his step, and there was something odd about the way he said, "You're looking well. How are Parvinder and Shakhti fairing?"
"Expecting their first in December," she said warmly, with just a trace of an accent. She looked over Sherlock's shoulder at John, and for a moment a crease appeared in her dark brows. "You must be Dr. Watson," she said, studying him just a little too close.
John nodded, and tried to ignore the funny look that Sherlock was now giving him. "Is, er, is Mark here?"
"In the dining room," she said, leading the way into the restaurant. "Mr. Holmes, if I could have a word with you upstairs?"
They both hesitated just outside the doors, and made eye contact. It was irrational, of course: John knew these people, had met them before, and Sherlock was obviously on friendly terms with Amala. There was no reason to anticipate a threat.
There was also no reason for the dead not to stay that way. Tonight seemed to be full of surprises.
John pulled back the side of his jacket and tugged briefly on his jumper, just enough to pull the wool taught over the outline of his gun. Sherlock nodded, getting the message. He straightened up, emphasizing how his borrowed clothes hung off his frame, and followed Amala down a short hallway behind the front counter. John ventured into the dining room, navigating around the empty tables to the corner where a light still glowed.
There were three people gathered into a corner booth, two men and one woman. Mark Davidson had been John's main point of contact with the Watchers so far, a man in his sixties with scarred knuckles and iron-gray hair; he nodded when he saw John approaching but didn't smile. The other man at the table was unfamiliar, but he made John think of a large, predatory bird of some type, all nose and intense dark eyes. The woman appeared to be the youngest of the three of them, with brutally short hair and a tiny nose piercing, and she watched John's every move like she expected him to whip out his gun and start shooting at random.
Ridiculous, of course. If he intended to shoot someone, he aimed.
John pulled up a chair rather than sliding into the booth, and the bird-man gave him a wry smile. Mark said simply, "How many witnesses?"
"Getting him out of the morgue? Maybe one." Someone pushed a drink in John's direction--not beer, just soda--and he took it just to occupy his hands. "His death? Half of bloody Scotland Yard."
"Well, that was stupid of you," the woman said.
"Vera, don't." Mark took a sip of his own drink. "In some ways that makes it easier, actually."
"Makes what easier?" John asked.
Mark ignored him. "How much do the police know about the shooter? Have they got any leads?"
"Assuming it's the same bloke that's been lopping off the victims' heads after he shoots them," John said, "no. Sherlock worked up a profile, but it hadn't come to anything yet."
"How'd he know it was a man?" Vera asked--no, demanded. She seemed like the sort of person to demand everything.
"Something about the angle of the decapitations," John said. "Figured the killer had to be at least six-three with some serious upper body strength, so, more likely a man."
But Mark and Vera traded a significant look. "That confirms it," Mark said heavily.
Something deep inside John went very, very still. "You know who did this," he said.
Mark sighed, looking down at his hands. "We've suspected, but we haven't known for certain."
"Is it one of yours?" John asked. "An immortal?"
"What business of that is yours?" Vera asked haughtily. "You said you didn't want to be involved."
"People have died," John said. "And most of them aren't coming back. If you knew who was behind this and you've been letting him walk free--"
"The Watchers don't interfere in the Game," the other man said, with quiet authority. He sipped his drink. "This headhunter might not be playing honorably, but he is still playing by the rules."
That word Game made the hair on John's neck stand on end. "What do you mean, game?" he asked.
Vera started to say something, but Mark put a hand on her forearm. "Let Adam explain," he said, then nodded.
The bird man--Adam--nodded graciously in Mark's direction. "Immortals take part in a vast Game that has been going on for...well, as long as they've existed. It makes the very term 'Immortal' something of a misnomer. We duel, and we die, and the victor becomes ever more powerful...and eventually there will be only one."
John felt a chill at the words, spoken with the flat intonation of a curse or a prayer. "Why? I mean, what the hell's the point?"
"It's our nature," Adam said with a shrug.
"It's about power," Vera put in.
"Among other things," Mark added wearily. "We can't keep perfect tabs on all the Immortals in the world, especially not the dedicated headhunters. We have a suspect in this one--he's followed the same pattern in Warsaw and Tashkent, but we never expected him to be bold enough to try in a city as big as London. But the Watchers aren't a police force."
He said this with a slanting look at Adam, who sipped his drink again. "I have my reasons for staying out of the Game," he said mildly. "Some of them are even good ones."
"So you're going to sit here and wait for someone else to put a stop to it?" John asked incredulously.
"Why do you even care?" Vera asked. "You made it pretty clear that your interest in Immortals began and ended with your flatmate."
John clenched his hand around his glass. Oh, he should've seen that one coming. "I hate to break it to you, but as recruitment pitches go that's not the best I've seen."
"It's not a pitch, John," Mark said gravely, and John didn't miss the switch to his first name. "It's a fact. You don't get to do this thing by halves. You helped Sherlock, saved us all a bit of trouble, and we're grateful, don't get me wrong. But if you're not in this all the way--if you're not playing by our rules--then that's where it ends. You can go home and try to forget what you know; we'll take care of him from here."
He stomach seethed, but there was nothing he could do except be contrary. "You're really deluded if you think Sherlock's going to let anyone 'take care' of him," he said sharply.
"He's legally dead," Mark said. "You called it yourself. The small matter of a disappearing body doesn't stop the bureaucratic processes from grinding on. We can provide him with documents, a bit of money--"
"You'll have to deport him to the Arctic in handcuffs," John said. "Maybe hire someone to sit on him."
Vera snorted. "It's in his own best interest."
John wanted to laugh, so he did. They stared. "And when has Sherlock Holmes ever acted in his own interest?" he asked. "The man is a genius--I'm not exaggerating--and the only thing bigger than his brain is his ego. He like playing to an audience and he likes to prove he's clever even at the risk of his own life. You're asking him to put his light under a bushel basket? He'll set the basket on fire and dance on the ashes. And he's not going to give a damn who else suffers for it as long as he's not bored."
They were all staring at John now, Mark and Vera with obvious unease, Adam inscrutably. Bit not good, he realized dimly, but it was too late to take back the words, and if he'd scared them...good. He'd gladly scare the hell out of them if it meant they'd take Sherlock seriously. If they'd keep him safe.
Because it was looking more and more like that would not longer be the exclusive territory of Dr. John Watson.
The uncomfortable silence was broken by a knock at the door, one that was clearly unexpected: Vera's head snapped up, and Mark frowned warily, glancing at Adam. "You invite anyone else?" he asked.
"Don't look at me," Adam said.
The knock came again, and with a growled curse Vera slid past John and went to the front of the restaurant. "We're closed, mate--" she called, even before she opened the door, but with the tinkle of the little bell her voice trailed off.
The next voice John heard sent his heart pounding. "Good evening, Miss Lowe. I've come for my brother and Dr. Watson."
John was already on his feet as Vera blustered, "Don't know who you're talking about," and when he came around the corner he found Mycroft had already shouldered his way inside. The look on his face could probably be described as mildly dyspeptic on any other man, but given the mask of smug geniality that Mycroft usually presented, John had an irrational urge to check his gun again.
He spotted John almost immediately, of course, and his lips curled slightly. "Ah, Dr. Watson. I must say, I'm rather disappointed in you. I thought for certain your loyalty to Sherlock would win out in the end."
"Loyalty to Sherlock is the only reason I'm here," John said, not quite certain what Mycroft was getting at.
Mycroft raised one eyebrow. "Then you're a bigger idiot than I ever took you for," he said blandly, and turned slightly to face the other two men behind John. "Mr. Davidson. Mr....Pierson. My brother, if you please."
"Who the hell are you?" Mark asked. "And how do you know our names?"
"You might be surprised what I know about the Watchers' organization," Mycroft said. "Certain parts of the government have been observing your activities for quite some time. We've been content to let you carry on unmolested thus far...until, of course, you decided to target my brother for your little game."
"What do you mean, target?" John asked, glancing between the two of them. Mark looked almost as confused as John felt, though.
It was Adam who stepped forward. "Your sources seem to have you misinformed, Mr. Holmes," he said. "It's not a matter of choice."
"So you claim," Mycroft said. "But I'm familiar with the research on the subject. No empirical study has ever been able to prove the existence of the so-called 'pre-immortal.'"
Adam gave a short bark of a laugh. "And which studies were these, then? Wirths 1939? Mengele 1943? That wasn't science, that was torture."
"The methods do not alter the facts," Mycroft said coldly. "What you call 'immortality' has never been empirically identified in any human population. If it is not naturally occurring, it can only be imposed."
"Through a bite on the neck, I suppose?"
Sherlock breezed through the door behind the counter, depositing something in the shadow of the doorway before coming to stand directly in front of Mycroft. He looked distinctly less impressive than usual in his baggy disguise--he'd lost the hoodie somewhere and the neck of the t-shirt gaped awkwardly, exposing a slice of collarbone. But he folded his arms and raised his chin as imperiously as if they were back at home. Mycroft, if anything, looked even more annoyed. "Sherlock," he said flatly. "I'm pleased to see your sense of humor was revived with you."
"Pity we can't resurrect yours," Sherlock shot back. "How did you even find us?"
"A security camera at St. Bartholomew's recorded Dr. Watson's visit to the morgue earlier tonight," Mycroft said. "It also recorded his departure with a suspiciously animated companion. Given his recent contacts with the subversive organization known as the Watchers and your sudden absence from your own body bag, the conclusions were obvious."
"You'd rather I let him wake up in the hospital, then?" John snapped. He hadn't even been thinking about the bloody cameras.
They both ignored him. "So you've presumed to come save me from the wicked wiles of some amateur historians?" Sherlock asked, which made Vera scowl and Adam chuckled softly. "Really, Mycroft, this is overreacting even for you."
"Surely by now they've explained what they expect from you," Mycroft said.
"They have explained the rules," Sherlock said. "I am not obligated to follow them."
Mark stiffened, and briefly made eye contact with John, who could only shrug. I did warn you.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "I would have thought you'd be more irritated at what they have done to you."
"They have done nothing," Sherlock said distinctly. "Or, if that thought cannot penetrate your fat head, let me restate: they have done nothing that I am displeased with."
"Dragging into their insane competition--" Mycroft started.
Sherlock cut him off. "Don't be stupid. Do you really think I'd consent to participate in some kind of supernatural blood sport?"
Mycroft actually paused, and John knew he was calculating the odds that anyone could compel Sherlock Holmes to do anything against his considerable will. "You may not be given a choice in the matter," he said uneasily.
"No one ever is," Adam said quietly.
There was a moment of standing around and staring at one another awkwardly, before Mycroft raised his head and adjusted his tie. "Very well," he said. "If you insist on taking part in this madness--I presume you have been recruited as his handler, Dr. Watson?"
"That hasn't been decided," Mark put in, before John could answer.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Allow me to rephrase. John is Sherlock's handler, and my point of contact with your organization. I do take an interest in my brother's welfare, after all, and if you value your secrecy you will as well." He turned back to Sherlock. "The paramedics and the doctor in the morgue have been dealt with; as for the police, I think they're willing to agree that John's emotions may have compromised his professional evaluation of your condition at the scene."
"What do you mean, dealt with?" John asked, thinking of Molly and her runny mascara.
"I mean they will not say anything that might embarrass themselves," Mycroft said. "In short, the reports of the death of Sherlock Holmes will appear to have been greatly exaggerated."
"Who are you?" Vera asked, mouth hanging slightly open.
"He is a meddling busybody with nuclear launch codes," Sherlock said with a scowl, but he couldn't seem to muster up proper loathing, not when Mycroft had just handed him his life back.
"There is a car outside that will take you back to Baker Street," Mycroft continued. "Remember that you are not entirely invulnerable, Sherlock, not matter what nonsense these people may have filled your head with. And do try not to get John killed."
One side of Sherlock's mouth twisted upward slightly. "I assure you there is little chance of that."
Mycroft nodded stiffly to them all, and let himself out of the restaurant. Mark exhaled loudly as soon as the door shut; Adam merely nodded, and went back to the table with the drinks. "Well," John said. "That was...Mycroft."
"I may never forgive him for the assistance," Sherlock said bitterly. He glanced at John and Mark and then back again. "Though since it appears your arrangements have been made for you..."
"How does he know about us?" Mark asked. "Who the hell is he?"
"With any luck? No one you ever have to deal with again." Sherlock said. He reached back into the doorway and retrieved the object he'd propped up there when he came downstairs--a long, narrow bundle wrapped in canvas. John had a very good idea what it contained. "Now. I need all the information the Watchers have on the Immortal known as Alexei Fetisov."
"Why should we?" Vera demanded.
Sherlock smiled thinly. "Because you've been waiting for an Immortal to challenge him, and now you've got one."
It took John a moment to process this. "Sherlock, you just said--"
"I said I would not be forced to participate in anything against my will," Sherlock said flatly. "But it's not as if Scotland Yard is likely to catch the man on their own--he's got a few hundred years' experience evading detection. And I would like to have a few words with the man who ruined one of my favorite suits."
Vera grimaced, and Mark tried to catch John's eye again with one of those what-the-hell looks, but Adam just laughed softly and said, "I'll see about forwarding some things to Dr. Watson by email. My regards, Mr. Holmes...and good luck." He mimed a vague sort of salute and went back into the shadows of the dining room.
"Excellent," Sherlock declared, and hefted the sword in one hand. "Now, to change out of these ridiculous clothes...come along, John."
He brushed past Vera, who looked too shell-shocked to try to stop him. Mark , however, caught John by the elbow before he could follow Sherlock down the steps. "This doesn't give you a free pass," he said urgently.
"Actually, I think it does," John said tightly. Though he might not forgive Mycroft for it either, in the end.
"The rules of the game exist for a reason," Mark said. "And one day, Sherlock's brother won't be around to protect him."
John swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. "Neither will the rest of us."
"John! Do try to keep up!"
The car--sleek and black and anonymous, as ever--pulled away from the curb, and Sherlock fingered the bundled sword that lay across his knees. "You do know how to use that, I hope?" John asked.
"Of course," Sherlock said, as if medieval sword fighting were obviously of far higher value than the identity of the current Prime Minister in his mental hard drive.
"Need I remind you he's already killed you once?" John asked.
"A mistake on my part that I don't intend to make again," he said. "I need to put on some proper clothing, and then we need to find Lestrade. I have a theory about how he's choosing his targets and if I'm right, we may be able to trap him."
"And then chop off his head," John said, just to be clear on all the points of this plan.
"Well, obviously." John sighed, and Sherlock scowled at him. "I thought you would be pleased about this. We're going to get a dangerous killer off the street before any more innocents are harmed."
"I just..." He looked out the window before his mouth could finish that sentence. I can't watch you die again.
"John." Sherlock laid a hand on John's forearm, surprisingly gentle even as his eyes danced with dark humor. "There's an immortal serial killer out there, and I am going to be the one to put a stop to him. It matters very little whether this ends in decapitation or arrest. The Game is on."
John just nodded, and went back to staring out the window.
Author:
mad_maudlin
Fandoms: Sherlock, Highlander
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Molly, "Adam Pierson," OCs
Spoilers/Warnings: Non-graphic character death
Summary: The death and resurrection of Sherlock Holmes
A/N: This is the last of my unposted kink meme fills, which is ironic considering that it was probably the first one I actually completed. I had delusions of expanding this one with added bonus!Lestrade, but alas, not to be--besides, it stands fine on its own.
Ten Minutes
John showered, changed, and picked up a few things on his way to Bart's, where he went straight to the morgue. He could hear Molly crying from far down the corridor, and he had to hesitate outside the doors for a moment to brace himself. Bullets and bombs, sure, but even John Watson quailed in the face of a crying woman.
His watch kept ticking down, though. He shifted the rucksack to his other hand and pushed the doors open.
Molly was sitting at a desk, sobbing into a cup of tea: she'd been experimenting with mascara lately and it had left long black streaks at the corners of her eyes. With a hiccup, she looked up and managed a choked, "Oh, John--" before dropping her tea and running to him.
John found himself comforting her in a one-armed embrace as she transferred some of that mascara to the shoulder of his jacket. He could see the time on his watch in this position, and he hated himself a little for what he was about to do. "I need to see him, Molly," he said, his own voice not entirely steady.
She peeled herself away and hiccuped again. "Of course," she said. "Of course. This way. He's...I knew he wouldn't want to be with the others."
Thank god for small favors. John followed her deeper into the morgue, past the coolers where most of the dead were interred, to one of the autopsy tables. Sherlock was still in the body bag, but when John tugged down the zip he could see he'd already been undressed. Inspiration struck him. "Molly, can you do me a favor?" he asked.
She hiccuped again, which he took as assent.
"I need his clothes," John said. "The ones he was wearing when they brought him in. Can you go get them for me?"
"Are you looking for evidence?" she asked thickly.
"Yeah," John said, hating the lie.
She nodded. "I'll be just a minute."
John tried not to be obvious about it, but he watched every step she took out of the room. The moment the swinging door to the labs was firmly shut behind her, he unzipped the body bag the rest of the way.
There were still bright smears of blood on Sherlock's chest, one for every bullet that had torn him open, but it was obvious that under the dark crusts his skin had already healed. John knelt down and rooted around in the rucksack for the packet of wet wipes he'd brought, and cleaned the blood away. He also pulled out the clothes he'd brought with him, and stacked those at the foot of the table. He checked his watch again. Any second now.
On the table, Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he inhaled in a great noisy gasp.
John planted one arm across his chest, holding him down to the table, and clamped his free hand over Sherlock's mouth. "It's me," he said, the first thing that came into his head, "it's me, Sherlock, I'm right here, we're at Bart's. You need to keep quiet. Understand?"
When Sherlock's eyes finally focused on his face, John felt safe releasing his mouth, though he still kept one hand on Sherlock's chest where the skin was starting to come back up to temperature. Sherlock stared at him, face betraying more emotion in a minute than he normally showed in a month. He reached up and splayed a hand over his ribs, where the first bullet had torn in.
"Impossible," he said, barely a sigh.
"I know," John said, fighting for calm. "And I promise I will explain everything in--" He checked his watch again. "Ten minutes. But right now you need to keep quiet, and you need to get dressed, so we can get out of here before Molly come back here and sees you."
Sherlock just stared for a minute longer, eyes still too wide, and John wondered for the thousandth time what was going on in his head, what would happen next. If Sherlock refused to cooperate with him--and Sherlock so rarely cooperated with anyone--then Molly was going to catch them and they would have a full-blown Situation.
"Ten minutes," Sherlock said, as if he were going to start a countdown. John finally felt safe to exhale, and let Sherlock sit up.
He'd picked up some clothes from a second-hand shop, guessing at the sizes and erring on the side of caution: Sherlock had to borrow his belt to hold up his trousers, and his sleeves puddled awkwardly over his wrists. The hooded sweatshirt mostly hid his face, though, and John had to admit that nobody used to seeing Sherlock in his fitted suits would ever recognize him in these natty castoffs. He didn't comment on the clothes' obvious origins, either, and got his shoes tied just before the sound of Molly's footsteps became audible through the swinging doors. "John? Here they--hic!--are..."
John grabbed his rucksack in one hand and Sherlock's arm in the other, all but dragging him out of the morgue. They couldn't run in the corridors without drawing too much attention, but Sherlock had long legs and John was used to keeping up with him. He led the way down a little-used corridor, towards a fire exit that certain medical students had once used for illicit smoking breaks. Smoking habits may have got harder to maintain since then, but for the first time all night, John's luck was with him: there was still a scrap of cardboard wedged in the door frame, and John pushed Sherlock through it into the damp night air.
They'd gone nearly three blocks before John realized he still had a hand on Sherlock's arm, clenched so tight it had to be painful. Still no sign of pursuit, but they were going to draw attention, and anyway it wasn't like Sherlock needed to be lead anyway. He took a deep breath and forced himself to let go.
Not long after that, Sherlock grabbed him by the jacket and dragged him into an alleyway.
"Ten minutes," Sherlock hissed, as he shoved John into a brick wall, pinning him there with his greater height. "Or, rather, eight minutes and forty-five seconds, but there won't be another such convenient blind spot in the security cameras for some distance." His voice was quite controlled, almost as if John were just another suspect to interrogate: almost, but not quite. "Now would be the time for your promised explanation, John, because a quarter of an hour ago I was dead and yet you aren't frightened."
John was willing to argue that point, actually, especially with Sherlock's hands pressing hard into his shoulders. But he supposed he rather deserved that. He swallowed, and found that he couldn't look Sherlock in the eye for this bit. "Mycroft's not the only person who's ever asked me to spy on you," he admitted.
Sherlock released him, and took a wide step across the alley. "Explain," he said flatly, pulling down a mask of passivity.
"They call themselves Watchers," John said, fully aware or just how absurd it sounded here, in a dirty alleyway, two meters from a skip and with traffic all around. "They approached me just after I got back from Afghanistan--I told them to fuck off. A few months ago they contacted me again through the blog. They said you were in danger."
"Yet they couldn't inform me directly?" Sherlock asked archly.
John shook his head. "You wouldn't have believed it. I didn't believe it, at first." They hadn't told him everything up front, of course--only the first hit is free. They'd strung him along, played out a line of impossibilities and revelations, and it was only in hindsight that he could see how he'd dug himself in deeper--every time he'd skipped a lunch or canceled an appointment to meet with them, every lie he'd carefully crafted to conceal from Sherlock just where he'd been, what he'd been up to. He'd built up a whole second life, asymptotic to the first, except now they'd just come crashing together and the wreckage was likely to be spectacular.
He realized he'd been quiet for several minutes, but Sherlock hadn't prompted him to continue. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was staring at him--just staring, face completely impassive. They locked eyes for a moment, and Sherlock asked, very quietly, "What's happened to me?"
John had to look away again, and rubbed his hands on this thighs to wipe away any sweat. "So, according to the Watchers, there are people in the world who are...basically, immortal. They don't seem any different from anyone else, not in any way you could test for, but if they die violently--or ought to have died, I guess I should say--"
"Such as a gunshot wound to the chest?" Sherlock put in.
He was too bloody calm about it, and it made John flinch. He'd been doing a very good thus far just focusing on the near future, on what had to be done next, and not how Sherlock's blood had felt flowing between fingers, the smell of cordite in the air or the very real fear he'd seen in Sherlock's eyes the moment before--
He nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock put a hand on his arm. His left arm. Just above the hand that was trembling slightly. Focus, Watson, he told himself. "They don't age," he blurted. "They don't get sick. They can be injured, I guess, but they can't be killed, except by decapitation."
"Like our serial killings?" Sherlock asked, eyes lighting up. Of course it all came back to the work.
John nodded. "They warned me, after the first one, that you might be a target. He must shoot them, then wait from them to come back, and then...well."
Sherlock released John's hand and began pacing the alley. "Fascinating. Murdering an immortal. But the victims have no clear connection to one another...and what about the electrical damage the murder scenes? What's that got to do with it?"
"I don't know," John said wearily. "You know how I get when people ask me to spy on you."
Sherlock stopped, and John could see the exact moment when the circuit closed, when that wonderful hard drive threw up a pop-up window. He looked at his hands, turning them over like he expected to see the difference in himself. "Immortal," he said slowly, tasting the word. Then he looked piercingly at John. "And you knew."
John swallowed. "They knew," he said. "I thought it was a load of bollocks."
"Clearly you've amended that opinion," Sherlock said.
"Or I could be having a psychotic break," John pointed out weakly. "I've still not made up my mind."
Sherlock looked at his hands again, flexing his fingers, and the pressed one flat against his chest. "If you are, it's an astonishing case of folie a deux."
A laugh formed somewhere in John's chest, and it started out dead on arrival, just a weak giggle, but then Sherlock made a face like he was trying not to smile, an absurd grimace that made John laugh harder; and then suddenly they were both laughing, leaning against each other for support even though it was so not very funny. Sherlock was alive and laughing at his side, and John was so relieved he couldn't have been terrified if he'd tried.
"Thank you," Sherlock said as the laughing trailed off. What for, John wasn't sure, but he would take it over outrage and rejection any day.
"I should call someone," he said reluctantly. "The Watchers. They'll want to talk to you, I reckon."
"And I should very much like to talk to them," Sherlock said firmly. "Undead or not, I have every intention of solving this case, and they appear to have all the answers."
John leaned against the wall and scrolled through the contacts on his phone; he'd saved this particular one under the name "Rupert Giles," on the grounds that Sherlock would never, ever get the joke. It rang three times before the call connected. "Mark Davidson.
"Mark, it's John Watson."
"Dr. Watson. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
John still found the whole situation a bit too bizarre to put into words, so he just said, "It's about Sherlock Holmes."
"Say no more. The shooting was on the news. Is he with you?"
"Yeah, yeah, I...he's here."
"Good. Take down this address and meet me there as soon as you can."
John repeated after him out loud; Sherlock, of course, committed it to memory right away, and was flagging a taxi at the other end of the alley before John had even hung up. "Keep your hood up," John hissed at him.
"The blind spot extends as far as the lamppost," Sherlock said testily. "No one will see us."
"Mark said the shooting's been on the telly, though. You don't want to be recognized."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and did something improbable with his posture; John wasn't sure what, exactly, but under the baggy clothes he seemed to actually shrink, falling into a slump that made him seem both shorter and stockier than he really was. "Better?" he asked.
"This is actually more frightening than the coming back from the dead thing," John said, and even though they both knew he didn't mean it, Sherlock quirked a smile at him.
-\-\-\-
About ten minutes into the ride, Sherlock said quietly, "I don't believe in coincidences."
"I know that," John said, wondering where this was going.
Sherlock was leaning against the door, and he put his hand against the window as if to check that it hadn't gone transparent. "We are going to a small Indian restaurant run by a middle-aged widow named Amala," he declared with authority.
John immediately shot back, "You did not just deduce that."
Sherlock smiled, faint and brief. "No. One of her waitresses was involved in a rather messy blackmail scheme a few months ago, and I helped her prove that it had all been orchestrated by a particularly devious member of her fiance's family."
John had worked with Sherlock for long enough that he'd learned something about how to recovery the salient details no matter how digressive the comment. "A few months ago," he repeated. "Before the pink lady?"
"Mm," Sherlock said. "Six weeks before, exactly."
Nearly the same time that the Watchers had first approached John. And now they were being summoned back to the same location. John suddenly had a bad taste in his mouth. "Least that explains how they knew you were...knew you'd be 'back,' that is."
Sherlock dropped his hands, leaving smudged fingerprints on the glass. "Yet you said there was no way to tell."
"Which is what they told me," John said. "I never assumed they were telling me everything, though."
"Good man," Sherlock said, and relaxed into the seat.
When they arrived at the restaurant, it appeared to have closed early; most of the windows on the ground level were dark, but the floor above was brightly lit. A tall, stocky woman was waiting for them on the front steps, a jacket thrown over a well-used apron, and though she was graying at the temples her forearms were nearly as thick as John's biceps. "Amala," Sherlock said in greeting as he climbed out of the cab, but he also paused a moment, the barest hitch in his step, and there was something odd about the way he said, "You're looking well. How are Parvinder and Shakhti fairing?"
"Expecting their first in December," she said warmly, with just a trace of an accent. She looked over Sherlock's shoulder at John, and for a moment a crease appeared in her dark brows. "You must be Dr. Watson," she said, studying him just a little too close.
John nodded, and tried to ignore the funny look that Sherlock was now giving him. "Is, er, is Mark here?"
"In the dining room," she said, leading the way into the restaurant. "Mr. Holmes, if I could have a word with you upstairs?"
They both hesitated just outside the doors, and made eye contact. It was irrational, of course: John knew these people, had met them before, and Sherlock was obviously on friendly terms with Amala. There was no reason to anticipate a threat.
There was also no reason for the dead not to stay that way. Tonight seemed to be full of surprises.
John pulled back the side of his jacket and tugged briefly on his jumper, just enough to pull the wool taught over the outline of his gun. Sherlock nodded, getting the message. He straightened up, emphasizing how his borrowed clothes hung off his frame, and followed Amala down a short hallway behind the front counter. John ventured into the dining room, navigating around the empty tables to the corner where a light still glowed.
There were three people gathered into a corner booth, two men and one woman. Mark Davidson had been John's main point of contact with the Watchers so far, a man in his sixties with scarred knuckles and iron-gray hair; he nodded when he saw John approaching but didn't smile. The other man at the table was unfamiliar, but he made John think of a large, predatory bird of some type, all nose and intense dark eyes. The woman appeared to be the youngest of the three of them, with brutally short hair and a tiny nose piercing, and she watched John's every move like she expected him to whip out his gun and start shooting at random.
Ridiculous, of course. If he intended to shoot someone, he aimed.
John pulled up a chair rather than sliding into the booth, and the bird-man gave him a wry smile. Mark said simply, "How many witnesses?"
"Getting him out of the morgue? Maybe one." Someone pushed a drink in John's direction--not beer, just soda--and he took it just to occupy his hands. "His death? Half of bloody Scotland Yard."
"Well, that was stupid of you," the woman said.
"Vera, don't." Mark took a sip of his own drink. "In some ways that makes it easier, actually."
"Makes what easier?" John asked.
Mark ignored him. "How much do the police know about the shooter? Have they got any leads?"
"Assuming it's the same bloke that's been lopping off the victims' heads after he shoots them," John said, "no. Sherlock worked up a profile, but it hadn't come to anything yet."
"How'd he know it was a man?" Vera asked--no, demanded. She seemed like the sort of person to demand everything.
"Something about the angle of the decapitations," John said. "Figured the killer had to be at least six-three with some serious upper body strength, so, more likely a man."
But Mark and Vera traded a significant look. "That confirms it," Mark said heavily.
Something deep inside John went very, very still. "You know who did this," he said.
Mark sighed, looking down at his hands. "We've suspected, but we haven't known for certain."
"Is it one of yours?" John asked. "An immortal?"
"What business of that is yours?" Vera asked haughtily. "You said you didn't want to be involved."
"People have died," John said. "And most of them aren't coming back. If you knew who was behind this and you've been letting him walk free--"
"The Watchers don't interfere in the Game," the other man said, with quiet authority. He sipped his drink. "This headhunter might not be playing honorably, but he is still playing by the rules."
That word Game made the hair on John's neck stand on end. "What do you mean, game?" he asked.
Vera started to say something, but Mark put a hand on her forearm. "Let Adam explain," he said, then nodded.
The bird man--Adam--nodded graciously in Mark's direction. "Immortals take part in a vast Game that has been going on for...well, as long as they've existed. It makes the very term 'Immortal' something of a misnomer. We duel, and we die, and the victor becomes ever more powerful...and eventually there will be only one."
John felt a chill at the words, spoken with the flat intonation of a curse or a prayer. "Why? I mean, what the hell's the point?"
"It's our nature," Adam said with a shrug.
"It's about power," Vera put in.
"Among other things," Mark added wearily. "We can't keep perfect tabs on all the Immortals in the world, especially not the dedicated headhunters. We have a suspect in this one--he's followed the same pattern in Warsaw and Tashkent, but we never expected him to be bold enough to try in a city as big as London. But the Watchers aren't a police force."
He said this with a slanting look at Adam, who sipped his drink again. "I have my reasons for staying out of the Game," he said mildly. "Some of them are even good ones."
"So you're going to sit here and wait for someone else to put a stop to it?" John asked incredulously.
"Why do you even care?" Vera asked. "You made it pretty clear that your interest in Immortals began and ended with your flatmate."
John clenched his hand around his glass. Oh, he should've seen that one coming. "I hate to break it to you, but as recruitment pitches go that's not the best I've seen."
"It's not a pitch, John," Mark said gravely, and John didn't miss the switch to his first name. "It's a fact. You don't get to do this thing by halves. You helped Sherlock, saved us all a bit of trouble, and we're grateful, don't get me wrong. But if you're not in this all the way--if you're not playing by our rules--then that's where it ends. You can go home and try to forget what you know; we'll take care of him from here."
He stomach seethed, but there was nothing he could do except be contrary. "You're really deluded if you think Sherlock's going to let anyone 'take care' of him," he said sharply.
"He's legally dead," Mark said. "You called it yourself. The small matter of a disappearing body doesn't stop the bureaucratic processes from grinding on. We can provide him with documents, a bit of money--"
"You'll have to deport him to the Arctic in handcuffs," John said. "Maybe hire someone to sit on him."
Vera snorted. "It's in his own best interest."
John wanted to laugh, so he did. They stared. "And when has Sherlock Holmes ever acted in his own interest?" he asked. "The man is a genius--I'm not exaggerating--and the only thing bigger than his brain is his ego. He like playing to an audience and he likes to prove he's clever even at the risk of his own life. You're asking him to put his light under a bushel basket? He'll set the basket on fire and dance on the ashes. And he's not going to give a damn who else suffers for it as long as he's not bored."
They were all staring at John now, Mark and Vera with obvious unease, Adam inscrutably. Bit not good, he realized dimly, but it was too late to take back the words, and if he'd scared them...good. He'd gladly scare the hell out of them if it meant they'd take Sherlock seriously. If they'd keep him safe.
Because it was looking more and more like that would not longer be the exclusive territory of Dr. John Watson.
The uncomfortable silence was broken by a knock at the door, one that was clearly unexpected: Vera's head snapped up, and Mark frowned warily, glancing at Adam. "You invite anyone else?" he asked.
"Don't look at me," Adam said.
The knock came again, and with a growled curse Vera slid past John and went to the front of the restaurant. "We're closed, mate--" she called, even before she opened the door, but with the tinkle of the little bell her voice trailed off.
The next voice John heard sent his heart pounding. "Good evening, Miss Lowe. I've come for my brother and Dr. Watson."
John was already on his feet as Vera blustered, "Don't know who you're talking about," and when he came around the corner he found Mycroft had already shouldered his way inside. The look on his face could probably be described as mildly dyspeptic on any other man, but given the mask of smug geniality that Mycroft usually presented, John had an irrational urge to check his gun again.
He spotted John almost immediately, of course, and his lips curled slightly. "Ah, Dr. Watson. I must say, I'm rather disappointed in you. I thought for certain your loyalty to Sherlock would win out in the end."
"Loyalty to Sherlock is the only reason I'm here," John said, not quite certain what Mycroft was getting at.
Mycroft raised one eyebrow. "Then you're a bigger idiot than I ever took you for," he said blandly, and turned slightly to face the other two men behind John. "Mr. Davidson. Mr....Pierson. My brother, if you please."
"Who the hell are you?" Mark asked. "And how do you know our names?"
"You might be surprised what I know about the Watchers' organization," Mycroft said. "Certain parts of the government have been observing your activities for quite some time. We've been content to let you carry on unmolested thus far...until, of course, you decided to target my brother for your little game."
"What do you mean, target?" John asked, glancing between the two of them. Mark looked almost as confused as John felt, though.
It was Adam who stepped forward. "Your sources seem to have you misinformed, Mr. Holmes," he said. "It's not a matter of choice."
"So you claim," Mycroft said. "But I'm familiar with the research on the subject. No empirical study has ever been able to prove the existence of the so-called 'pre-immortal.'"
Adam gave a short bark of a laugh. "And which studies were these, then? Wirths 1939? Mengele 1943? That wasn't science, that was torture."
"The methods do not alter the facts," Mycroft said coldly. "What you call 'immortality' has never been empirically identified in any human population. If it is not naturally occurring, it can only be imposed."
"Through a bite on the neck, I suppose?"
Sherlock breezed through the door behind the counter, depositing something in the shadow of the doorway before coming to stand directly in front of Mycroft. He looked distinctly less impressive than usual in his baggy disguise--he'd lost the hoodie somewhere and the neck of the t-shirt gaped awkwardly, exposing a slice of collarbone. But he folded his arms and raised his chin as imperiously as if they were back at home. Mycroft, if anything, looked even more annoyed. "Sherlock," he said flatly. "I'm pleased to see your sense of humor was revived with you."
"Pity we can't resurrect yours," Sherlock shot back. "How did you even find us?"
"A security camera at St. Bartholomew's recorded Dr. Watson's visit to the morgue earlier tonight," Mycroft said. "It also recorded his departure with a suspiciously animated companion. Given his recent contacts with the subversive organization known as the Watchers and your sudden absence from your own body bag, the conclusions were obvious."
"You'd rather I let him wake up in the hospital, then?" John snapped. He hadn't even been thinking about the bloody cameras.
They both ignored him. "So you've presumed to come save me from the wicked wiles of some amateur historians?" Sherlock asked, which made Vera scowl and Adam chuckled softly. "Really, Mycroft, this is overreacting even for you."
"Surely by now they've explained what they expect from you," Mycroft said.
"They have explained the rules," Sherlock said. "I am not obligated to follow them."
Mark stiffened, and briefly made eye contact with John, who could only shrug. I did warn you.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "I would have thought you'd be more irritated at what they have done to you."
"They have done nothing," Sherlock said distinctly. "Or, if that thought cannot penetrate your fat head, let me restate: they have done nothing that I am displeased with."
"Dragging into their insane competition--" Mycroft started.
Sherlock cut him off. "Don't be stupid. Do you really think I'd consent to participate in some kind of supernatural blood sport?"
Mycroft actually paused, and John knew he was calculating the odds that anyone could compel Sherlock Holmes to do anything against his considerable will. "You may not be given a choice in the matter," he said uneasily.
"No one ever is," Adam said quietly.
There was a moment of standing around and staring at one another awkwardly, before Mycroft raised his head and adjusted his tie. "Very well," he said. "If you insist on taking part in this madness--I presume you have been recruited as his handler, Dr. Watson?"
"That hasn't been decided," Mark put in, before John could answer.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Allow me to rephrase. John is Sherlock's handler, and my point of contact with your organization. I do take an interest in my brother's welfare, after all, and if you value your secrecy you will as well." He turned back to Sherlock. "The paramedics and the doctor in the morgue have been dealt with; as for the police, I think they're willing to agree that John's emotions may have compromised his professional evaluation of your condition at the scene."
"What do you mean, dealt with?" John asked, thinking of Molly and her runny mascara.
"I mean they will not say anything that might embarrass themselves," Mycroft said. "In short, the reports of the death of Sherlock Holmes will appear to have been greatly exaggerated."
"Who are you?" Vera asked, mouth hanging slightly open.
"He is a meddling busybody with nuclear launch codes," Sherlock said with a scowl, but he couldn't seem to muster up proper loathing, not when Mycroft had just handed him his life back.
"There is a car outside that will take you back to Baker Street," Mycroft continued. "Remember that you are not entirely invulnerable, Sherlock, not matter what nonsense these people may have filled your head with. And do try not to get John killed."
One side of Sherlock's mouth twisted upward slightly. "I assure you there is little chance of that."
Mycroft nodded stiffly to them all, and let himself out of the restaurant. Mark exhaled loudly as soon as the door shut; Adam merely nodded, and went back to the table with the drinks. "Well," John said. "That was...Mycroft."
"I may never forgive him for the assistance," Sherlock said bitterly. He glanced at John and Mark and then back again. "Though since it appears your arrangements have been made for you..."
"How does he know about us?" Mark asked. "Who the hell is he?"
"With any luck? No one you ever have to deal with again." Sherlock said. He reached back into the doorway and retrieved the object he'd propped up there when he came downstairs--a long, narrow bundle wrapped in canvas. John had a very good idea what it contained. "Now. I need all the information the Watchers have on the Immortal known as Alexei Fetisov."
"Why should we?" Vera demanded.
Sherlock smiled thinly. "Because you've been waiting for an Immortal to challenge him, and now you've got one."
It took John a moment to process this. "Sherlock, you just said--"
"I said I would not be forced to participate in anything against my will," Sherlock said flatly. "But it's not as if Scotland Yard is likely to catch the man on their own--he's got a few hundred years' experience evading detection. And I would like to have a few words with the man who ruined one of my favorite suits."
Vera grimaced, and Mark tried to catch John's eye again with one of those what-the-hell looks, but Adam just laughed softly and said, "I'll see about forwarding some things to Dr. Watson by email. My regards, Mr. Holmes...and good luck." He mimed a vague sort of salute and went back into the shadows of the dining room.
"Excellent," Sherlock declared, and hefted the sword in one hand. "Now, to change out of these ridiculous clothes...come along, John."
He brushed past Vera, who looked too shell-shocked to try to stop him. Mark , however, caught John by the elbow before he could follow Sherlock down the steps. "This doesn't give you a free pass," he said urgently.
"Actually, I think it does," John said tightly. Though he might not forgive Mycroft for it either, in the end.
"The rules of the game exist for a reason," Mark said. "And one day, Sherlock's brother won't be around to protect him."
John swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. "Neither will the rest of us."
"John! Do try to keep up!"
The car--sleek and black and anonymous, as ever--pulled away from the curb, and Sherlock fingered the bundled sword that lay across his knees. "You do know how to use that, I hope?" John asked.
"Of course," Sherlock said, as if medieval sword fighting were obviously of far higher value than the identity of the current Prime Minister in his mental hard drive.
"Need I remind you he's already killed you once?" John asked.
"A mistake on my part that I don't intend to make again," he said. "I need to put on some proper clothing, and then we need to find Lestrade. I have a theory about how he's choosing his targets and if I'm right, we may be able to trap him."
"And then chop off his head," John said, just to be clear on all the points of this plan.
"Well, obviously." John sighed, and Sherlock scowled at him. "I thought you would be pleased about this. We're going to get a dangerous killer off the street before any more innocents are harmed."
"I just..." He looked out the window before his mouth could finish that sentence. I can't watch you die again.
"John." Sherlock laid a hand on John's forearm, surprisingly gentle even as his eyes danced with dark humor. "There's an immortal serial killer out there, and I am going to be the one to put a stop to him. It matters very little whether this ends in decapitation or arrest. The Game is on."
John just nodded, and went back to staring out the window.