Fic: Break My Spine, Burn My Pages 1/?
Title: Break My Spine, Burn My Pages
Author: alex_caligari
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: All puppets still firmly attached to the BBC.
Summary: "We only take an interest in extraordinary people, and extraordinary people tend to attract one another. You'd be surprised at how many people you know that have been favoured by us."
Author's Note: A sequel to Heartbeats and Footfalls. Multi-chaptered and as yet a WIP, so no guarantees on quick updates. But updates there shall be!
The bookshop was one of those old, tucked-away places that never seem to show up on a map. It looked small from the outside, with a large, slightly dirty picture window made up of many individual panes. Unfamiliar titles could be glimpsed through the window, if you peered closely, and might be enough to tempt someone inside. The interior matched the drab exterior, and tall shelves stuffed with second-hand books made for a confusing maze through the shop. There didn't appear to be any sort of order to it, either alphabetically or topically, unless you were the sort of person who would make connections between composer biographies, vegan cookbooks, and pregnancy guides. The front desk was well hidden, visible only after you had traversed the imposing shelves and perhaps had the rare fortune to actually find what you were looking for. It was a moment full of trepidation, for you wouldn't know if the person behind the desk was a gentle book collector with a kind nature and would only very reluctantly let the book go, or a raving, crass, possibly drunken lunatic who seemed confused as to why customers would come bother him at his shop.
It was either very lucky, or, depending on your viewpoint, very unlucky that the owner of the bookshop in which Sherlock and John found themselves was neither of these things. There had been rumors that it was a front for money laundering, which is why they were here in the first place. John was unsure whether they had been hired or 'requested' to come here, only that it had involved much coat drama and rapid instructions.
Sherlock was glancing over the cashier desk and John was perusing the dusty titles when a familiar voice sounded out. "Did you miss me, dear heart?"
They froze momentarily, then Sherlock charged towards the back of the shop, with John close behind. They both had recognized that voice.
Leaning in the doorway of the back room was a tall thin man with hair the colour and thickness of lamb's wool, which had been swept artfully back. He had mischief written all over his face, and his eyes were a curious opalescent green. He was dressed well, although old-fashioned; his trousers were high-waisted, and he wore a waistcoat over shirtsleeves, complete with armbands. It looked like he had simply ignored changes in fashion for the last eighty years.
"Babel!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"Oh, we're still using that moniker, are we?" Babel said. "Very well. How are you doing, my dear? I see the soul made it back alright." Babel nodded to John, who had an expression of faint recognition but couldn't quite place him. Sherlock remembered that John's memories of Babel weren't as clear as his own.
"Mr Babel was my guide when you were..." Sherlock paused. Damn it, it had been three years already, just say it. "...in the Underground," Sherlock finished.
John's face left confusion, flirted briefly with alarm, before settling down with stoicism. "Right," he said, "The one who said he was your patron." Babel beamed.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded of Babel. "You never before lowered yourself to interfere with my life, why start now?"
Babel lost his casual eagerness. "My dear, precious though you are to me, my existence does not solely revolve around you." He sniffed, making sure Sherlock was properly cowed. "I am here to meet my brother, a distasteful but necessary chore. As for why I am here in this particular shop, it is because I only ever agree to meet with him if I am able to choose the location, and hopefully he will be too distracted by the 60-year-old law books to spend much time on me."
"Good Lord," John muttered, causing both men to turn to him. "Sorry, just realizing why you like him," he said to Babel with a nod to Sherlock.
"So it's a coincidence that we happen to cross paths like this?" Sherlock asked.
"Absolument," Babel said, spreading his hands. "Although it is funny you're here, because it's your brother we need to discuss. Oh yes," he said at Sherlock's expression, "you are not the only special one around here."
"Mycroft has a patron too?" John said. Sherlock made an offended noise.
"Of course," Babel said. "We only take an interest in extraordinary people, and extraordinary people tend to attract one another." He glanced pointedly at Sherlock. "You'd be surprised at how many people you know that have been favoured by us."
"Does extraordinarily lazy count?" Sherlock groused.
"Now, now, dear heart," Babel said, "behave. If you do, I might allow you to stay and observe. It would be most interesting to you."
While Sherlock paused long enough to actually consider this offer, the front door opened and closed with a soft click, somehow ignoring the little bell perched above it. "Ah, that's Paul now. Quick!" He flapped his hands at the pair of them, and they moved out of sight behind one of the towering bookshelves. They were definitely not hiding, Sherlock decided, merely observing an interaction without interfering in it.
The patron in question walked past them, boot heels ringing on the hardwood floor. John had expected him to look similar to Mycroft, as Babel looked similar to Sherlock, and in a way it was true. Mycroft managed to be ostentatious while still looking inconspicuous, what with his bespoke suits and umbrella and black cars. He could be wearing a bright orange safety vest and still blend in. This man was the same. He was dressed in cream coloured linen and had tanned skin and a straight nose. Short black hair peeked out from under a Panama hat, and his eyes were covered by gold wire-framed aviator sunglasses with green lenses. He didn't have an umbrella, but he did have snakeskin boots. He looked like he had stepped off a cruise of the Mediterranean Riviera in 1949. "Brother mine," he said.
"Dearest Paul," Babel answered.
"Apollo," John breathed beside Sherlock. "I thought for sure Mycroft's patron would have been Anthea, it's an obvious name change." He caught Sherlock staring at him. "What?"
Outside their non-hiding spot, Paul sighed. "Why must you stick me with these ridiculous nicknames? Especially when there are ears to hear them." He turned slightly in Sherlock and John's direction but said nothing else regarding them. "Shall we?"
Babel hesitated. "You know why we're meeting?"
"I know you called the meeting," Paul answered. "And I know you would rather not be in debt to me for anything. So please, brother, get to the point and stop acting as if this is against your will."
"It's impossible for Anthea to be one of them," Sherlock whispered back. "I can see her." He waved vaguely in the direction of his temple. "I can't see People like them. They're blank."
Babel drew himself up, an unnecessary action as he was already taller than Paul. "It's about your favoured. The politician."
Paul smiled, showing far more teeth than was friendly. "Ah, yes. He's one of my favourites. What has he got into now?"
John turned towards Sherlock. "Really? Nothing at all?"
Sherlock huffed. "It's more like a kaleidoscope. Everything's changing all the time, sliding away."
"Show me," John said. "Do Paul."
Sherlock sighed but indulged him. "Judging by how thin his face is compared to the rest of his muscle mass, he's likely had a severe illness recently, but has since recovered. A businessman's tan, he obviously travels quite frequently and to warm climates. He has calluses on his fingers from some sort of stringed instrument, and he's wearing an Oxford ring, so he's well educated. The snakeskin boots say eccentric but wealthy enough for people to ignore it." Sherlock looked again and saw that it was all wrong. "Except he hasn't had an illness, there are no calluses, and there is no ring."
"He's getting too close to us," Babel said. "I think he should be discouraged."
"I hardly think so," Paul said.
"For Father's sake, he has Iris working for him!" Babel exclaimed.
"You don't think that Iris could be..." John whispered.
"Anthea is not one of them!" Sherlock insisted. "Who is Iris?"
"She's a messenger." At Sherlock's look, he explained. "I've been reading up on this stuff, just in case. Haven't you?"
Paul had been silent for some time. Finally he removed his hat and said, "Dear brother, I am aware how frivolous you can be and how the current situation may have missed you. But you must trust that everything is being done in our best interests."
"Does that include our favoured?" Babel challenged. "Or just our People?"
Paul didn't answer the question, and instead turned towards them and called out, "You should hear this. It concerns you as well."
Sherlock and John glanced at each other before stepping out into view. Paul looked them over intently. "I see," he murmured. "Yes, I can see what all the fuss was over these two."
Sherlock cut to the chase by asking, "To what situation are you referring?"
Paul took a few more seconds to watch them, unwilling to be hurried. "The People have never been a very cohesive organization, and alliances made yesterday can be broken tomorrow. Things have been getting out of hand with a few of the more powerful divines, and normally we could deal with them without too much collateral damage."
"Yeah, we've heard about the collateral damage," John said, unimpressed.
Paul gazed coolly at him before continuing. "It's true; it used to be that turning someone into a tree or striking them down with lightening was enough. But the world has changed, and we must be subtler with our intervention. Hence, your brother."
John snorted. It would burn Mycroft up to learn that he was a tool of the gods, directed to 'intervene' on their behalf. Sherlock looked furious. "You said that Mycroft was getting close to you; has he known this whole time? Leaving me to struggle along the hard way?"
"Hush, dear," Babel said. "You were doing perfectly well before you met me and you will continue to do well afterwards. Envy does not suit you. Mycroft knows no more than you did before you took back your John. He only suspects that someone is helping him, giving him the right nudge at the right time."
Paul nodded. "This means that Mycroft could help suppress our kin by suppressing their favoured, but he has no idea what his actions are truly doing. If we involve him in this current insurrection, he could unknowingly become the target of an angry divine. It is a very fine line to walk."
"You're worried about him," John realized.
"Of course," Paul said. "I am his patron."
It was a serious situation indeed if someone was worried about Mycroft's safety. Sherlock looked torn between asking what could threaten his brother and dismissing it as uninteresting because it didn't involve him. Curiosity won out. "Who is your primary concern?
Babel and Paul glanced at each other, Babel looking as curious as Sherlock. "Our brother Ares," Paul said. Babel hissed. "He's being more devious this time, not his usual method," Paul continued. "He's using our favoured against each other."
Babel scowled. "So he's finally come out of the dark ages," he muttered.
Paul turned to Sherlock and John, assessing them from behind his green lenses. "As I said before, our methods have become subtler. Rather than face one another directly and leave deep wounds upon the world, we instead allow our favoured to determine the outcome."
John snorted at the euphemism.
Paul ignored him. "Our power no longer comes from the number of believers, but from our favoured. When they succeed, so do we."
"And when they fail..." Sherlock muttered. Paul nodded.
"So you're more worried about Ares' favoured than Ares himself," John said. He knew he was right, and was saying it out loud more for his benefit than anyone else's. But the reaction the statement produced was unexpected. Paul merely bowed his head, but Babel looked stricken and Sherlock was nearly quivering with impatience and excitement. It was one of those moments where everyone knew what was going on except him. John replayed the last few minutes of the conversation in his head and came up with a rather unsettling conclusion. "Oh, shit." Mycroft was a potential target, and Babel said that their favoured tended to cross paths... "It's someone we know. You think you might be a target as well?" he asked Sherlock.
Sherlock thought fast. He had told John everything from his time in the Underground, but had left out what he considered extraneous details. This included much of what Babel had said to him, and the implication that the people closest to him also had divine patrons. If Sherlock became a target, it was irrelevant whether John had a patron or not. He would become a target as well; it was a given in their life. Sherlock decided to address John's first statement instead. "It is highly likely that we would have met them at some point; I assume that you would have more than one favoured at any given time?" he asked Paul.
Babel, tired of being ignored, broke in. "Some do," he said, sneering at Paul. "Most of us don't. Ares only has so many because he goes through them so fast. His favoured tend to be like him; impulsive, violent, and insane."
"Well, that narrows it down," John said drily.
"What information can you give us on them?" Sherlock asked. Two pairs of divine eyes stared back.
"Pardon?" Paul said, sounding confused.
"So we can find them," Sherlock explained. "We are aware of the full situation, unlike Mycroft, so we can protect ourselves better. If it is indeed true that we have had contact with the people in question, we can locate and stop them before Ares gets more powerful, allowing you to step in and bring things under control. Simple. Why else would you tell us all this if you didn't want our help?"
Babel continued to stare while Paul turned thoughtful. He started to reach out towards Sherlock before stopping with a quick glance to Babel. When Babel nodded, Paul gently cupped Sherlock's face, thumb running over his cheek. Sherlock blinked at the contact but held himself still. "If you help us, there will be blood spilled," he said. "We will not be able to protect you if you are attacked by a divine. Are you willing to risk yourself and your John for a fight that isn't even yours?"
Sherlock stared back, keeping his face carefully blank. John remembered with a chill that Apollo was also the god of prophecy.
Babel had a very different reaction. He paled and started to shake. "No, no, no, no," he was saying, "you will not be part of this." He knocked Paul's hand away and grabbed Sherlock roughly by the shoulder, shoving him towards the door. Sherlock resisted, but Babel was stronger and ignored his protests. He finally pushed Sherlock out the door and stepped back with a cold glare until John followed. "This isn't your concern," Babel said. "I will not risk losing you to one of Ares' favoured." He spat his brother's name.
"You could use us," Sherlock argued, " and you know it."
"Leave it!" Babel said. He met Sherlock's eyes for a long moment before softening. "Stay vigilant, and look out for each other." He turned and disappeared behind the closed door before either of them could speak.
Sherlock immediately shoved the door open again, but there was no sign of Babel or Paul.
Chapter 2
Author: alex_caligari
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: All puppets still firmly attached to the BBC.
Summary: "We only take an interest in extraordinary people, and extraordinary people tend to attract one another. You'd be surprised at how many people you know that have been favoured by us."
Author's Note: A sequel to Heartbeats and Footfalls. Multi-chaptered and as yet a WIP, so no guarantees on quick updates. But updates there shall be!
The bookshop was one of those old, tucked-away places that never seem to show up on a map. It looked small from the outside, with a large, slightly dirty picture window made up of many individual panes. Unfamiliar titles could be glimpsed through the window, if you peered closely, and might be enough to tempt someone inside. The interior matched the drab exterior, and tall shelves stuffed with second-hand books made for a confusing maze through the shop. There didn't appear to be any sort of order to it, either alphabetically or topically, unless you were the sort of person who would make connections between composer biographies, vegan cookbooks, and pregnancy guides. The front desk was well hidden, visible only after you had traversed the imposing shelves and perhaps had the rare fortune to actually find what you were looking for. It was a moment full of trepidation, for you wouldn't know if the person behind the desk was a gentle book collector with a kind nature and would only very reluctantly let the book go, or a raving, crass, possibly drunken lunatic who seemed confused as to why customers would come bother him at his shop.
It was either very lucky, or, depending on your viewpoint, very unlucky that the owner of the bookshop in which Sherlock and John found themselves was neither of these things. There had been rumors that it was a front for money laundering, which is why they were here in the first place. John was unsure whether they had been hired or 'requested' to come here, only that it had involved much coat drama and rapid instructions.
Sherlock was glancing over the cashier desk and John was perusing the dusty titles when a familiar voice sounded out. "Did you miss me, dear heart?"
They froze momentarily, then Sherlock charged towards the back of the shop, with John close behind. They both had recognized that voice.
Leaning in the doorway of the back room was a tall thin man with hair the colour and thickness of lamb's wool, which had been swept artfully back. He had mischief written all over his face, and his eyes were a curious opalescent green. He was dressed well, although old-fashioned; his trousers were high-waisted, and he wore a waistcoat over shirtsleeves, complete with armbands. It looked like he had simply ignored changes in fashion for the last eighty years.
"Babel!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"Oh, we're still using that moniker, are we?" Babel said. "Very well. How are you doing, my dear? I see the soul made it back alright." Babel nodded to John, who had an expression of faint recognition but couldn't quite place him. Sherlock remembered that John's memories of Babel weren't as clear as his own.
"Mr Babel was my guide when you were..." Sherlock paused. Damn it, it had been three years already, just say it. "...in the Underground," Sherlock finished.
John's face left confusion, flirted briefly with alarm, before settling down with stoicism. "Right," he said, "The one who said he was your patron." Babel beamed.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded of Babel. "You never before lowered yourself to interfere with my life, why start now?"
Babel lost his casual eagerness. "My dear, precious though you are to me, my existence does not solely revolve around you." He sniffed, making sure Sherlock was properly cowed. "I am here to meet my brother, a distasteful but necessary chore. As for why I am here in this particular shop, it is because I only ever agree to meet with him if I am able to choose the location, and hopefully he will be too distracted by the 60-year-old law books to spend much time on me."
"Good Lord," John muttered, causing both men to turn to him. "Sorry, just realizing why you like him," he said to Babel with a nod to Sherlock.
"So it's a coincidence that we happen to cross paths like this?" Sherlock asked.
"Absolument," Babel said, spreading his hands. "Although it is funny you're here, because it's your brother we need to discuss. Oh yes," he said at Sherlock's expression, "you are not the only special one around here."
"Mycroft has a patron too?" John said. Sherlock made an offended noise.
"Of course," Babel said. "We only take an interest in extraordinary people, and extraordinary people tend to attract one another." He glanced pointedly at Sherlock. "You'd be surprised at how many people you know that have been favoured by us."
"Does extraordinarily lazy count?" Sherlock groused.
"Now, now, dear heart," Babel said, "behave. If you do, I might allow you to stay and observe. It would be most interesting to you."
While Sherlock paused long enough to actually consider this offer, the front door opened and closed with a soft click, somehow ignoring the little bell perched above it. "Ah, that's Paul now. Quick!" He flapped his hands at the pair of them, and they moved out of sight behind one of the towering bookshelves. They were definitely not hiding, Sherlock decided, merely observing an interaction without interfering in it.
The patron in question walked past them, boot heels ringing on the hardwood floor. John had expected him to look similar to Mycroft, as Babel looked similar to Sherlock, and in a way it was true. Mycroft managed to be ostentatious while still looking inconspicuous, what with his bespoke suits and umbrella and black cars. He could be wearing a bright orange safety vest and still blend in. This man was the same. He was dressed in cream coloured linen and had tanned skin and a straight nose. Short black hair peeked out from under a Panama hat, and his eyes were covered by gold wire-framed aviator sunglasses with green lenses. He didn't have an umbrella, but he did have snakeskin boots. He looked like he had stepped off a cruise of the Mediterranean Riviera in 1949. "Brother mine," he said.
"Dearest Paul," Babel answered.
"Apollo," John breathed beside Sherlock. "I thought for sure Mycroft's patron would have been Anthea, it's an obvious name change." He caught Sherlock staring at him. "What?"
Outside their non-hiding spot, Paul sighed. "Why must you stick me with these ridiculous nicknames? Especially when there are ears to hear them." He turned slightly in Sherlock and John's direction but said nothing else regarding them. "Shall we?"
Babel hesitated. "You know why we're meeting?"
"I know you called the meeting," Paul answered. "And I know you would rather not be in debt to me for anything. So please, brother, get to the point and stop acting as if this is against your will."
"It's impossible for Anthea to be one of them," Sherlock whispered back. "I can see her." He waved vaguely in the direction of his temple. "I can't see People like them. They're blank."
Babel drew himself up, an unnecessary action as he was already taller than Paul. "It's about your favoured. The politician."
Paul smiled, showing far more teeth than was friendly. "Ah, yes. He's one of my favourites. What has he got into now?"
John turned towards Sherlock. "Really? Nothing at all?"
Sherlock huffed. "It's more like a kaleidoscope. Everything's changing all the time, sliding away."
"Show me," John said. "Do Paul."
Sherlock sighed but indulged him. "Judging by how thin his face is compared to the rest of his muscle mass, he's likely had a severe illness recently, but has since recovered. A businessman's tan, he obviously travels quite frequently and to warm climates. He has calluses on his fingers from some sort of stringed instrument, and he's wearing an Oxford ring, so he's well educated. The snakeskin boots say eccentric but wealthy enough for people to ignore it." Sherlock looked again and saw that it was all wrong. "Except he hasn't had an illness, there are no calluses, and there is no ring."
"He's getting too close to us," Babel said. "I think he should be discouraged."
"I hardly think so," Paul said.
"For Father's sake, he has Iris working for him!" Babel exclaimed.
"You don't think that Iris could be..." John whispered.
"Anthea is not one of them!" Sherlock insisted. "Who is Iris?"
"She's a messenger." At Sherlock's look, he explained. "I've been reading up on this stuff, just in case. Haven't you?"
Paul had been silent for some time. Finally he removed his hat and said, "Dear brother, I am aware how frivolous you can be and how the current situation may have missed you. But you must trust that everything is being done in our best interests."
"Does that include our favoured?" Babel challenged. "Or just our People?"
Paul didn't answer the question, and instead turned towards them and called out, "You should hear this. It concerns you as well."
Sherlock and John glanced at each other before stepping out into view. Paul looked them over intently. "I see," he murmured. "Yes, I can see what all the fuss was over these two."
Sherlock cut to the chase by asking, "To what situation are you referring?"
Paul took a few more seconds to watch them, unwilling to be hurried. "The People have never been a very cohesive organization, and alliances made yesterday can be broken tomorrow. Things have been getting out of hand with a few of the more powerful divines, and normally we could deal with them without too much collateral damage."
"Yeah, we've heard about the collateral damage," John said, unimpressed.
Paul gazed coolly at him before continuing. "It's true; it used to be that turning someone into a tree or striking them down with lightening was enough. But the world has changed, and we must be subtler with our intervention. Hence, your brother."
John snorted. It would burn Mycroft up to learn that he was a tool of the gods, directed to 'intervene' on their behalf. Sherlock looked furious. "You said that Mycroft was getting close to you; has he known this whole time? Leaving me to struggle along the hard way?"
"Hush, dear," Babel said. "You were doing perfectly well before you met me and you will continue to do well afterwards. Envy does not suit you. Mycroft knows no more than you did before you took back your John. He only suspects that someone is helping him, giving him the right nudge at the right time."
Paul nodded. "This means that Mycroft could help suppress our kin by suppressing their favoured, but he has no idea what his actions are truly doing. If we involve him in this current insurrection, he could unknowingly become the target of an angry divine. It is a very fine line to walk."
"You're worried about him," John realized.
"Of course," Paul said. "I am his patron."
It was a serious situation indeed if someone was worried about Mycroft's safety. Sherlock looked torn between asking what could threaten his brother and dismissing it as uninteresting because it didn't involve him. Curiosity won out. "Who is your primary concern?
Babel and Paul glanced at each other, Babel looking as curious as Sherlock. "Our brother Ares," Paul said. Babel hissed. "He's being more devious this time, not his usual method," Paul continued. "He's using our favoured against each other."
Babel scowled. "So he's finally come out of the dark ages," he muttered.
Paul turned to Sherlock and John, assessing them from behind his green lenses. "As I said before, our methods have become subtler. Rather than face one another directly and leave deep wounds upon the world, we instead allow our favoured to determine the outcome."
John snorted at the euphemism.
Paul ignored him. "Our power no longer comes from the number of believers, but from our favoured. When they succeed, so do we."
"And when they fail..." Sherlock muttered. Paul nodded.
"So you're more worried about Ares' favoured than Ares himself," John said. He knew he was right, and was saying it out loud more for his benefit than anyone else's. But the reaction the statement produced was unexpected. Paul merely bowed his head, but Babel looked stricken and Sherlock was nearly quivering with impatience and excitement. It was one of those moments where everyone knew what was going on except him. John replayed the last few minutes of the conversation in his head and came up with a rather unsettling conclusion. "Oh, shit." Mycroft was a potential target, and Babel said that their favoured tended to cross paths... "It's someone we know. You think you might be a target as well?" he asked Sherlock.
Sherlock thought fast. He had told John everything from his time in the Underground, but had left out what he considered extraneous details. This included much of what Babel had said to him, and the implication that the people closest to him also had divine patrons. If Sherlock became a target, it was irrelevant whether John had a patron or not. He would become a target as well; it was a given in their life. Sherlock decided to address John's first statement instead. "It is highly likely that we would have met them at some point; I assume that you would have more than one favoured at any given time?" he asked Paul.
Babel, tired of being ignored, broke in. "Some do," he said, sneering at Paul. "Most of us don't. Ares only has so many because he goes through them so fast. His favoured tend to be like him; impulsive, violent, and insane."
"Well, that narrows it down," John said drily.
"What information can you give us on them?" Sherlock asked. Two pairs of divine eyes stared back.
"Pardon?" Paul said, sounding confused.
"So we can find them," Sherlock explained. "We are aware of the full situation, unlike Mycroft, so we can protect ourselves better. If it is indeed true that we have had contact with the people in question, we can locate and stop them before Ares gets more powerful, allowing you to step in and bring things under control. Simple. Why else would you tell us all this if you didn't want our help?"
Babel continued to stare while Paul turned thoughtful. He started to reach out towards Sherlock before stopping with a quick glance to Babel. When Babel nodded, Paul gently cupped Sherlock's face, thumb running over his cheek. Sherlock blinked at the contact but held himself still. "If you help us, there will be blood spilled," he said. "We will not be able to protect you if you are attacked by a divine. Are you willing to risk yourself and your John for a fight that isn't even yours?"
Sherlock stared back, keeping his face carefully blank. John remembered with a chill that Apollo was also the god of prophecy.
Babel had a very different reaction. He paled and started to shake. "No, no, no, no," he was saying, "you will not be part of this." He knocked Paul's hand away and grabbed Sherlock roughly by the shoulder, shoving him towards the door. Sherlock resisted, but Babel was stronger and ignored his protests. He finally pushed Sherlock out the door and stepped back with a cold glare until John followed. "This isn't your concern," Babel said. "I will not risk losing you to one of Ares' favoured." He spat his brother's name.
"You could use us," Sherlock argued, " and you know it."
"Leave it!" Babel said. He met Sherlock's eyes for a long moment before softening. "Stay vigilant, and look out for each other." He turned and disappeared behind the closed door before either of them could speak.
Sherlock immediately shoved the door open again, but there was no sign of Babel or Paul.
Chapter 2