Break My Spine, Burn My Pages 3/?
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: Man, I really dropped the ball on this one. I completely forgot to upload it here. But here it is!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
If Sherlock had doubted himself even the slightest bit, he would have thought he was going insane. John and he were now known to the enemy. It had been far easier when they were mere collateral damage and their movements unnoticed. Now, he felt as if there were People everywhere, glimpsed out of the corner of his eye and unknown to everyone else. A man with a limp that was definitely not psychosomatic brushed by them on the street, smelling strongly of iron. A person sitting at a cafe reading a newspaper was simultaneously a woman dressed in drag and a recent MTF patient. Two young men with matching arrowhead necklaces were swooning over each other in a restaurant at the table beside them. Any information gleaned from the first look would be contradicted in the second. It put Sherlock sharply on edge.
Sherlock continued his private hunt for favoured. He needed to know their movements, who they were connected with, if they were a threat. His homeless network was taxed beyond its limits; once the connection was made between who he wanted followed and how often their trackers ended up dead, few people were willing to take up his requests. Even as Sherlock began to feel the strain of keeping track of so many (suspected) favoured at the same time, he refrained from telling John. John was a man of action, a doctor. You don't sit and watch a problem get worse, you attack it with the best tactics you have. He would never let Sherlock continue as he was if he knew how deeply he was involved.
He wasn't worried. Of course not. He was safe. John was safe. As long as the grace given to them remained, they were fine. They could be injured, yes, even grievously so, but they would not be taken out by a lucky strike such as had befallen Fear's unfortunate puppet. But the People had a way of working around the rules.
Mycroft had noticed his distractedness - Sherlock refused to call it paranoia. Whatever it was, Mycroft had likely noticed months ago but had waited until now to say anything. Sherlock had borrowed John's mobile (his was in the kitchen) and surreptitiously checked his calls and texts. It wasn't snooping, he told himself. If something went wrong, he wanted to know with whom John had been in contact. Sherlock scowled as he saw a text from Mycroft, dated a week ago. My brother appears to be jumping at ghosts, it said. Anything I should be concerned about? -MH. After his initial flash of irritation that Mycroft was going through John once again to acquire information, Sherlock realized that for once Mycroft had given him a valuable insight. He didn't know about the People; they likely weren't showing up on any of his surveillance methods. It meant that the half-formed thought of asking Mycroft for help was pointless. John had replied to the text, suitably vague and dismissive: Nothing we can't handle.
It all came to a head one day when they were visiting the flat of a suspected embezzler. They were looking for the reason of the embezzling; a large cache of meth. Sherlock was feeling for hiding spots under the windowsill when he noticed a man who had stopped to smoke across the street. He wouldn't have given him a second glance if his appearance wasn't shifting like oil on water. Sherlock froze and stared.
"I can't find anything in here," John called from the bedroom. "Maybe they should call in the drug dogs." He watched John's reflection approach him in the window. "Sherlock? What's wrong?"
"What can you tell me about that man down there?" he asked.
John joined him at the window. "Short, lean. Maybe forty. Looks posh. Why, what's he actually like?"
Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know." John looked at him sharply. "I don't know what's important and what isn't. It's all blurring together." He turned away in frustration.
It was half a minute before John said his name in a familiar and unwelcome tone of voice.
"It's fine, it's nothing," Sherlock said in a fruitless effort to stall the lecture. John followed him across the room.
"It's not nothing," John said. "Something's been eating at you for weeks. It's not healthy. The way you've been acting lately, all jumpy...people are worried."
"You mean Mycroft."
John blinked, but didn't ask how he knew. He was used to Sherlock's regular invasions of privacy. "Among others." He sighed, and steeled himself. "I think you should drop this whole patron obsession. Forget about Babel and the favoured and try to get back to normal," he continued over Sherlock's scoff at obsession. "It's affecting your work, can't you see that?"
Sherlock knew. He hadn't been as attentive to cases as usual, always keeping half an eye open for People. It didn't help matters that he was the only one who knew what to look for, or could see them for what they were. But their numbers were growing, and sightings more frequent. He was narrowing his list of favoured down. He couldn't give up now.
"Why are you doing this?" John asked. "What's worth tearing yourself to pieces over? This isn't a game or a puzzle. There's no solution."
Sherlock paused. He was tempted to brush it off or give a meaningless half-truth, but John deserved better than that. He told him, because John being worried about him was awful, and it was better to have him at his back rather than at arm's length. He told him about the People he'd seen, and not knowing if they were enemy or ally, and about how everyone involved with Ares seemed to end up dead.
"Why don't you back off, then?" John asked, and Sherlock saw that he very much wanted to ask a different question.
"I can't," he said. "You're right; if I let this be, things would get back to normal. I could leave the fight to Babel and get on with my life. But I can't. There's something about this. It would be easy to say it was the novelty of chasing down the impossible, or knowing I was the only one who could it, or even that I was concerned about retaliation and wanted to strike first. But that doesn't explain it. I feel driven, like it's an impulse. It feels out of my control." By the time he finishing talking, his hands were tightly fisted and he was breathing harder than normal.
"Damn it, Sherlock," John murmured, and finally came to the question he needed to ask. "Why the hell didn't you tell me all this was happening?"
"Everyone dies, John, whether they're Ares' enemies or not. Do you think I wanted us involved with that?"
John shrugged. "Not us, clearly, but you? You'd love it. You live for stuff like that, matching wits with death on the line. Just like the first night I met you."
Something ticked at the back of Sherlock's mind that this was wrong, but he barrelled on anyway. "I was trying to protect you, idiot!"
"By not telling me you felt you weren't in control!" John shouted him down. This was wrong, he needed John on his side.
"It wasn't just that," Sherlock said quietly. "I lost you once, and there is no force on earth that will make me go through that again."
John quieted down as well. "You won't," he said, his anger at Sherlock fading.
Sherlock nodded quickly. "I know, but-" He couldn't finish. It was irrational, he knew. They were perfectly safe but the thought of harm coming to John terrified him.
"Your nightmares are getting worse," John said.
Sherlock fixed him with a stare. "How-?"
"I know you, I know your patterns. I know that even when you do sleep you're not getting rest."
"It's nearly every night now," Sherlock admitted. "Over and over, and there's nothing I can do about it. These People have ways of cheating the odds; you know the stories better than I do. There's always a loophole you never saw coming."
"And you thought that I could better avoid that by not knowing about it?" John had stepped closer to him, and he couldn't hide his discomfort.
"The rationale made sense at the time," he said, only slightly joking.
John shook his head, not in irritation this time but in disbelief. "Alright," he said. "No more of this. You get any more funny twinges, you tell me. We're in this together or not at all. Agreed?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Right then. Back to this bloke at the window. What do you want to do about him?"
And just like that, they were back. One simple question and the tension that had been building in Sherlock in the weeks since Fear's appearance was suddenly released. He didn't have to fight the impulse anymore; he was being allowed to hunt, and John would be with him. He let a small smile of relief and pleasure (and perhaps gratitude) escape before stepping back to the window. The man had started walking down the street, leaving a trail of cigarette smoke in his wake. "I want to follow him," Sherlock said. He turned to John and saw that the worry had been replaced with the familiar excitement. This was what he needed. This felt right.
They abandoned the flat and hit the street together. The man had just turned a corner in front of them, but was moving slowly enough that they didn't lose him. As they went, Sherlock described his fleeting impressions to try to identify him. He moved with the lithe precision of a dancer or an acrobat, but there was little that could be used to pinpoint who exactly he was.
After an hour they arrived at Trafalgar Square, where some street performer had gathered a crowd of people near the fountain. The man headed straight for the thickest part of the crowd, and Sherlock didn't hesitate in following, with John close behind.
If Sherlock hadn't been so focused on his prey, he might have noticed it sooner. Like a flock of startled pigeons, the crowd started to move. People milled around in random directions and grew too close, blocking the man from view. Sherlock growled in frustration and moved faster, pushing people aside. "Damn!" Sherlock cursed. "I lost him." He tried scanning the crowd to take advantage of his height, but the man's short stature meant he blended in easily. John was looking around as well, not liking that they were trapped in the crowd, when Sherlock grabbed his arm. "John," he said in a tone that demanded instant attention. "They're here," he hissed.
"Who?"
"Them, the People, they're everywhere."
John looked from face to face, but he didn't have the skills needed to catch on to their shifting details. From his limited experience he knew that they tended towards rather outrageous outfits, but these people wouldn't have looked out of place on any university campus. "Any that we need to worry about?"
"I don't recognize anyone," Sherlock said, trying to focus in the midst of a maelstrom of people and People. "I could try to pick out details and see if they match anything you know, but it's a long shot." When no reply came, he turned. "John?"
John was staring at a woman in the crowd some fifteen feet away. She was staring back unflinchingly; clearly one of the People, but Sherlock didn't feel threatened as he did when Fear was watching them. Average height for a woman, with an athletic and sleek build. Her hair was dark, her complexion dusky, and her eyes a piercing green, visible even at this distance. She wore a tan shalwar kameez and a loose green hijab, all based on function rather than form.
"I know her," John said. The woman smiled, and walked forward. John didn't react until she stood right in front of him. "I know you," he said again.
"Yes," she said.
John watched her for a moment until his eyes widened in recognition. "You were there. You talked to me in the Underground."
The woman grinned. It was hard to tell who moved first, but suddenly they were swept up in a tight embrace. The woman hung on to John's neck and laughed while John had his face buried against her shoulder. It was like a meeting between long lost partners.
Sherlock stood back and watched. He felt a pang of annoyance and impatience at this distraction, the feelings expected but unwelcome. What was unexpected was the sharp acidic sting of jealously and the distant feeling of being left out. As soon as he recognized these reactions he tamped them down. They were useless to him, especially in this situation. He cleared his throat. "John."
He released the woman, still grinning broadly. "What do I call you?"
"Aria," she replied. "It's good to meet you in the flesh, as it were."
"You too," he said warmly. He finally seemed to remember Sherlock was there. "Aria, my friend Sherlock Holmes."
She nodded at him, but didn't extend her hand. After the way that Paul hesitated before touching him, he didn't take offense. "You're John's patron," he said.
"The very same. And you're the mortal who stole your John back from my dear uncle. That takes dedication."
Sherlock glanced at John, who was looking at him with an easy smile. John had never treated Sherlock differently after he brought him back, for which he was grateful. He didn't know how he would have handled misplaced hero worship or overprotective pestering. Sherlock, for his part, had done the same. Consequently, they never talked about it with any seriousness. "Uh, yes, it did. But well worth the effort."
"Is there something wrong?" John asked, suddenly serious. "We usually only see people like you when something bad is about to happen."
"I could feel you hunting divines around here," she said. "A very strong divine in particular. I wanted to investigate." She looked them over, resembling her twin brother for the first time. "You know what the stakes are, and how dangerous it can be. I wanted to make sure you were protected."
"Yes, Babel did reluctantly inform us," Sherlock drawled, cut short as John asked, "What danger?"
When they both stared at him, he rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know, big, angry, insane war god, but it's been nearly eight months since we saw Babel, and nothing has happened to us, not directly."
"It's because you're important," Aria said. "It's easier to take out the foot solders first. Surely you must have noticed that?"
Sherlock looked at the thinning crowd to avoid looking at John. "Well, someone decided to keep that information to himself," he heard John growl.
Aria continued. "It wouldn't have mattered anyway; we've been keeping you as far from the front lines as possible. Yet you still managed to make some interesting developments."
Sherlock opened his mouth to demand an explanation about that little tidbit when he saw her eyes widen at something over his shoulder. He turned in time to get an impression of white hair before the breath was knocked out of him.
"By the nymphs, what the hell did you think you were doing?" Babel asked, somewhat muffled by Sherlock's coat.
"Good to see you too, Babel," he muttered.
Babel pulled back to hold Sherlock at arm's length. "I told you to stay out of this, to stay away, and then where do I find you? Chasing down a higher divine without telling me first!"
"Calm yourself, Babel," Aria said. "It's partly your fault they were hunting in the first place."
Sherlock stilled, and watched Babel release him fully. He wasn't sure, but he took a chance. "You're what's making me want to follow them?"
Babel's face changed rapidly, from glaring at Aria, to looking helplessly at John, before settling on Sherlock with a sheepish expression. "That's why I didn't want you involved. I'm your patron, you're my favoured. We're connected. I couldn't afford to stay out of this, but you could. I didn't foresee certain side effects."
"I thought I was going mad!" Sherlock ground out. He felt John's hand on his arm, reminding him that it was a bit hypocritical to be angry when someone kept him ignorant in order to protect him.
"Babel, what are you doing here?" Aria asked.
Babel went from chagrined to anguished. "I had him!" he cried. "I found him and was following him. Months of tracking and finally he reveals himself. He wanted to be seen!" Babel fumed uselessly before reaching a decision. "Aria, check the area. Use your scouts; there were a lot of divines here who covered his tracks, but there's still a chance you can sniff something out."
She nodded, then turned to her ward. "We'll meet again, I promise."
John looked resigned at her departure. "I know. Probably when the world needs saving." She smiled and turned into the crowd, disappearing faster than should have been possible.
John was left with Sherlock and Babel staring at each other, both trying to make the other accept their will. "Babel," Sherlock started, but was quickly cut off.
"No," he said, "no chance, no way, never ever, not a virgin's chance in Father's boudoir. You are not getting involved."
"But-"
"No. Can't you understand that? I will not allow it."
"I can-"
"I know you can, I am fully aware that you can. You would be brilliant at it; you'd be able to find and ruin whatever Ares tried to throw at you." Babel was actually wringing his hands, he was so agitated. "But this isn't about whether you can or not, it's whether I can stand watching you take such a big risk."
Oh.
Sherlock had assumed that the People picked favoured based on who was most likely to triumph over challenges and thus allow the patron to be more powerful. Maybe that's how the relationship started, but Sherlock could see the pain and fear in Babel's usually unreadable eyes. He was genuinely concerned about him.
Silence took over as Babel focused on the tattoo on his wrist and Sherlock tried to find something to say.
"We can help," John said.
Babel's desperation turned into anger. "How? What would mere mortals be able to do in a war of the gods?"
"Mortals?" Sherlock spat the word as if Babel had called them slugs. "We are not 'mere mortals.' You would never have favoured us if we were 'mere mortals.' You said so yourself, we are extraordinary, we are brilliant, we are-" Sherlock cut himself off and turned sharply, too worked up to continue.
John, who had been reading stories like these since he was eight, knew exactly what Sherlock had been trying to say but couldn't admit. He supplied the missing title. "We're heroes," he said simply. Behind him Sherlock scoffed, but didn't argue. "Babel, please. It'll tear him to pieces if you keep refusing him. And I have to live with it."
Babel paused. He turned towards Sherlock, more pain in his eyes than Sherlock thought had ever been directed at him. "I can't ask you to fight," he said. "This isn't your war. I can't risk you and your John."
"You're hardly forcing us," Sherlock argued.
"Sorry," John interrupted, "I know this is a tiny detail compared to the major, world-encompassing battle of the gods, but why does everyone call me 'his John'?"
Babel blinked. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked in a perfect imitation of the man standing in front of him. "He bought your soul. He traded his art and willpower to get you back, so, technically, he owns you."
John kept himself under control rather well, considering what he had just heard. "Right, okay, that's...unexpected, but fine, whatever, doesn't matter right now." Sherlock, on the other hand, was insufferably smug.
"Seems like you have a choice, Babel," Sherlock said, returning to the topic at hand. "You can either let us help, or keep watching as we stumble our way through the dark and still get into trouble."
Babel glared at him, fury warring with marvel on his face. "Fine," he said. "As there is an excellent example of your tenacity and outright idiocy standing before us, I will concede to your wishes. But," he held up one finger, "you will not hold back any information you find. You will work with us on this; no going off on your own because you think you know best. Same goes for you," he added, pointing at John, who frowned. He backed off a few steps. "I'll see you tomorrow with everything we've gathered." A group of students passed between them and he was gone.
John took a deep breath. "I hope you know what you've got us into."
Sherlock turned towards him with a feral grin. "Oh, yes," he said, "we're on the hunt."
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: Man, I really dropped the ball on this one. I completely forgot to upload it here. But here it is!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
If Sherlock had doubted himself even the slightest bit, he would have thought he was going insane. John and he were now known to the enemy. It had been far easier when they were mere collateral damage and their movements unnoticed. Now, he felt as if there were People everywhere, glimpsed out of the corner of his eye and unknown to everyone else. A man with a limp that was definitely not psychosomatic brushed by them on the street, smelling strongly of iron. A person sitting at a cafe reading a newspaper was simultaneously a woman dressed in drag and a recent MTF patient. Two young men with matching arrowhead necklaces were swooning over each other in a restaurant at the table beside them. Any information gleaned from the first look would be contradicted in the second. It put Sherlock sharply on edge.
Sherlock continued his private hunt for favoured. He needed to know their movements, who they were connected with, if they were a threat. His homeless network was taxed beyond its limits; once the connection was made between who he wanted followed and how often their trackers ended up dead, few people were willing to take up his requests. Even as Sherlock began to feel the strain of keeping track of so many (suspected) favoured at the same time, he refrained from telling John. John was a man of action, a doctor. You don't sit and watch a problem get worse, you attack it with the best tactics you have. He would never let Sherlock continue as he was if he knew how deeply he was involved.
He wasn't worried. Of course not. He was safe. John was safe. As long as the grace given to them remained, they were fine. They could be injured, yes, even grievously so, but they would not be taken out by a lucky strike such as had befallen Fear's unfortunate puppet. But the People had a way of working around the rules.
Mycroft had noticed his distractedness - Sherlock refused to call it paranoia. Whatever it was, Mycroft had likely noticed months ago but had waited until now to say anything. Sherlock had borrowed John's mobile (his was in the kitchen) and surreptitiously checked his calls and texts. It wasn't snooping, he told himself. If something went wrong, he wanted to know with whom John had been in contact. Sherlock scowled as he saw a text from Mycroft, dated a week ago. My brother appears to be jumping at ghosts, it said. Anything I should be concerned about? -MH. After his initial flash of irritation that Mycroft was going through John once again to acquire information, Sherlock realized that for once Mycroft had given him a valuable insight. He didn't know about the People; they likely weren't showing up on any of his surveillance methods. It meant that the half-formed thought of asking Mycroft for help was pointless. John had replied to the text, suitably vague and dismissive: Nothing we can't handle.
It all came to a head one day when they were visiting the flat of a suspected embezzler. They were looking for the reason of the embezzling; a large cache of meth. Sherlock was feeling for hiding spots under the windowsill when he noticed a man who had stopped to smoke across the street. He wouldn't have given him a second glance if his appearance wasn't shifting like oil on water. Sherlock froze and stared.
"I can't find anything in here," John called from the bedroom. "Maybe they should call in the drug dogs." He watched John's reflection approach him in the window. "Sherlock? What's wrong?"
"What can you tell me about that man down there?" he asked.
John joined him at the window. "Short, lean. Maybe forty. Looks posh. Why, what's he actually like?"
Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know." John looked at him sharply. "I don't know what's important and what isn't. It's all blurring together." He turned away in frustration.
It was half a minute before John said his name in a familiar and unwelcome tone of voice.
"It's fine, it's nothing," Sherlock said in a fruitless effort to stall the lecture. John followed him across the room.
"It's not nothing," John said. "Something's been eating at you for weeks. It's not healthy. The way you've been acting lately, all jumpy...people are worried."
"You mean Mycroft."
John blinked, but didn't ask how he knew. He was used to Sherlock's regular invasions of privacy. "Among others." He sighed, and steeled himself. "I think you should drop this whole patron obsession. Forget about Babel and the favoured and try to get back to normal," he continued over Sherlock's scoff at obsession. "It's affecting your work, can't you see that?"
Sherlock knew. He hadn't been as attentive to cases as usual, always keeping half an eye open for People. It didn't help matters that he was the only one who knew what to look for, or could see them for what they were. But their numbers were growing, and sightings more frequent. He was narrowing his list of favoured down. He couldn't give up now.
"Why are you doing this?" John asked. "What's worth tearing yourself to pieces over? This isn't a game or a puzzle. There's no solution."
Sherlock paused. He was tempted to brush it off or give a meaningless half-truth, but John deserved better than that. He told him, because John being worried about him was awful, and it was better to have him at his back rather than at arm's length. He told him about the People he'd seen, and not knowing if they were enemy or ally, and about how everyone involved with Ares seemed to end up dead.
"Why don't you back off, then?" John asked, and Sherlock saw that he very much wanted to ask a different question.
"I can't," he said. "You're right; if I let this be, things would get back to normal. I could leave the fight to Babel and get on with my life. But I can't. There's something about this. It would be easy to say it was the novelty of chasing down the impossible, or knowing I was the only one who could it, or even that I was concerned about retaliation and wanted to strike first. But that doesn't explain it. I feel driven, like it's an impulse. It feels out of my control." By the time he finishing talking, his hands were tightly fisted and he was breathing harder than normal.
"Damn it, Sherlock," John murmured, and finally came to the question he needed to ask. "Why the hell didn't you tell me all this was happening?"
"Everyone dies, John, whether they're Ares' enemies or not. Do you think I wanted us involved with that?"
John shrugged. "Not us, clearly, but you? You'd love it. You live for stuff like that, matching wits with death on the line. Just like the first night I met you."
Something ticked at the back of Sherlock's mind that this was wrong, but he barrelled on anyway. "I was trying to protect you, idiot!"
"By not telling me you felt you weren't in control!" John shouted him down. This was wrong, he needed John on his side.
"It wasn't just that," Sherlock said quietly. "I lost you once, and there is no force on earth that will make me go through that again."
John quieted down as well. "You won't," he said, his anger at Sherlock fading.
Sherlock nodded quickly. "I know, but-" He couldn't finish. It was irrational, he knew. They were perfectly safe but the thought of harm coming to John terrified him.
"Your nightmares are getting worse," John said.
Sherlock fixed him with a stare. "How-?"
"I know you, I know your patterns. I know that even when you do sleep you're not getting rest."
"It's nearly every night now," Sherlock admitted. "Over and over, and there's nothing I can do about it. These People have ways of cheating the odds; you know the stories better than I do. There's always a loophole you never saw coming."
"And you thought that I could better avoid that by not knowing about it?" John had stepped closer to him, and he couldn't hide his discomfort.
"The rationale made sense at the time," he said, only slightly joking.
John shook his head, not in irritation this time but in disbelief. "Alright," he said. "No more of this. You get any more funny twinges, you tell me. We're in this together or not at all. Agreed?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Right then. Back to this bloke at the window. What do you want to do about him?"
And just like that, they were back. One simple question and the tension that had been building in Sherlock in the weeks since Fear's appearance was suddenly released. He didn't have to fight the impulse anymore; he was being allowed to hunt, and John would be with him. He let a small smile of relief and pleasure (and perhaps gratitude) escape before stepping back to the window. The man had started walking down the street, leaving a trail of cigarette smoke in his wake. "I want to follow him," Sherlock said. He turned to John and saw that the worry had been replaced with the familiar excitement. This was what he needed. This felt right.
They abandoned the flat and hit the street together. The man had just turned a corner in front of them, but was moving slowly enough that they didn't lose him. As they went, Sherlock described his fleeting impressions to try to identify him. He moved with the lithe precision of a dancer or an acrobat, but there was little that could be used to pinpoint who exactly he was.
After an hour they arrived at Trafalgar Square, where some street performer had gathered a crowd of people near the fountain. The man headed straight for the thickest part of the crowd, and Sherlock didn't hesitate in following, with John close behind.
If Sherlock hadn't been so focused on his prey, he might have noticed it sooner. Like a flock of startled pigeons, the crowd started to move. People milled around in random directions and grew too close, blocking the man from view. Sherlock growled in frustration and moved faster, pushing people aside. "Damn!" Sherlock cursed. "I lost him." He tried scanning the crowd to take advantage of his height, but the man's short stature meant he blended in easily. John was looking around as well, not liking that they were trapped in the crowd, when Sherlock grabbed his arm. "John," he said in a tone that demanded instant attention. "They're here," he hissed.
"Who?"
"Them, the People, they're everywhere."
John looked from face to face, but he didn't have the skills needed to catch on to their shifting details. From his limited experience he knew that they tended towards rather outrageous outfits, but these people wouldn't have looked out of place on any university campus. "Any that we need to worry about?"
"I don't recognize anyone," Sherlock said, trying to focus in the midst of a maelstrom of people and People. "I could try to pick out details and see if they match anything you know, but it's a long shot." When no reply came, he turned. "John?"
John was staring at a woman in the crowd some fifteen feet away. She was staring back unflinchingly; clearly one of the People, but Sherlock didn't feel threatened as he did when Fear was watching them. Average height for a woman, with an athletic and sleek build. Her hair was dark, her complexion dusky, and her eyes a piercing green, visible even at this distance. She wore a tan shalwar kameez and a loose green hijab, all based on function rather than form.
"I know her," John said. The woman smiled, and walked forward. John didn't react until she stood right in front of him. "I know you," he said again.
"Yes," she said.
John watched her for a moment until his eyes widened in recognition. "You were there. You talked to me in the Underground."
The woman grinned. It was hard to tell who moved first, but suddenly they were swept up in a tight embrace. The woman hung on to John's neck and laughed while John had his face buried against her shoulder. It was like a meeting between long lost partners.
Sherlock stood back and watched. He felt a pang of annoyance and impatience at this distraction, the feelings expected but unwelcome. What was unexpected was the sharp acidic sting of jealously and the distant feeling of being left out. As soon as he recognized these reactions he tamped them down. They were useless to him, especially in this situation. He cleared his throat. "John."
He released the woman, still grinning broadly. "What do I call you?"
"Aria," she replied. "It's good to meet you in the flesh, as it were."
"You too," he said warmly. He finally seemed to remember Sherlock was there. "Aria, my friend Sherlock Holmes."
She nodded at him, but didn't extend her hand. After the way that Paul hesitated before touching him, he didn't take offense. "You're John's patron," he said.
"The very same. And you're the mortal who stole your John back from my dear uncle. That takes dedication."
Sherlock glanced at John, who was looking at him with an easy smile. John had never treated Sherlock differently after he brought him back, for which he was grateful. He didn't know how he would have handled misplaced hero worship or overprotective pestering. Sherlock, for his part, had done the same. Consequently, they never talked about it with any seriousness. "Uh, yes, it did. But well worth the effort."
"Is there something wrong?" John asked, suddenly serious. "We usually only see people like you when something bad is about to happen."
"I could feel you hunting divines around here," she said. "A very strong divine in particular. I wanted to investigate." She looked them over, resembling her twin brother for the first time. "You know what the stakes are, and how dangerous it can be. I wanted to make sure you were protected."
"Yes, Babel did reluctantly inform us," Sherlock drawled, cut short as John asked, "What danger?"
When they both stared at him, he rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know, big, angry, insane war god, but it's been nearly eight months since we saw Babel, and nothing has happened to us, not directly."
"It's because you're important," Aria said. "It's easier to take out the foot solders first. Surely you must have noticed that?"
Sherlock looked at the thinning crowd to avoid looking at John. "Well, someone decided to keep that information to himself," he heard John growl.
Aria continued. "It wouldn't have mattered anyway; we've been keeping you as far from the front lines as possible. Yet you still managed to make some interesting developments."
Sherlock opened his mouth to demand an explanation about that little tidbit when he saw her eyes widen at something over his shoulder. He turned in time to get an impression of white hair before the breath was knocked out of him.
"By the nymphs, what the hell did you think you were doing?" Babel asked, somewhat muffled by Sherlock's coat.
"Good to see you too, Babel," he muttered.
Babel pulled back to hold Sherlock at arm's length. "I told you to stay out of this, to stay away, and then where do I find you? Chasing down a higher divine without telling me first!"
"Calm yourself, Babel," Aria said. "It's partly your fault they were hunting in the first place."
Sherlock stilled, and watched Babel release him fully. He wasn't sure, but he took a chance. "You're what's making me want to follow them?"
Babel's face changed rapidly, from glaring at Aria, to looking helplessly at John, before settling on Sherlock with a sheepish expression. "That's why I didn't want you involved. I'm your patron, you're my favoured. We're connected. I couldn't afford to stay out of this, but you could. I didn't foresee certain side effects."
"I thought I was going mad!" Sherlock ground out. He felt John's hand on his arm, reminding him that it was a bit hypocritical to be angry when someone kept him ignorant in order to protect him.
"Babel, what are you doing here?" Aria asked.
Babel went from chagrined to anguished. "I had him!" he cried. "I found him and was following him. Months of tracking and finally he reveals himself. He wanted to be seen!" Babel fumed uselessly before reaching a decision. "Aria, check the area. Use your scouts; there were a lot of divines here who covered his tracks, but there's still a chance you can sniff something out."
She nodded, then turned to her ward. "We'll meet again, I promise."
John looked resigned at her departure. "I know. Probably when the world needs saving." She smiled and turned into the crowd, disappearing faster than should have been possible.
John was left with Sherlock and Babel staring at each other, both trying to make the other accept their will. "Babel," Sherlock started, but was quickly cut off.
"No," he said, "no chance, no way, never ever, not a virgin's chance in Father's boudoir. You are not getting involved."
"But-"
"No. Can't you understand that? I will not allow it."
"I can-"
"I know you can, I am fully aware that you can. You would be brilliant at it; you'd be able to find and ruin whatever Ares tried to throw at you." Babel was actually wringing his hands, he was so agitated. "But this isn't about whether you can or not, it's whether I can stand watching you take such a big risk."
Oh.
Sherlock had assumed that the People picked favoured based on who was most likely to triumph over challenges and thus allow the patron to be more powerful. Maybe that's how the relationship started, but Sherlock could see the pain and fear in Babel's usually unreadable eyes. He was genuinely concerned about him.
Silence took over as Babel focused on the tattoo on his wrist and Sherlock tried to find something to say.
"We can help," John said.
Babel's desperation turned into anger. "How? What would mere mortals be able to do in a war of the gods?"
"Mortals?" Sherlock spat the word as if Babel had called them slugs. "We are not 'mere mortals.' You would never have favoured us if we were 'mere mortals.' You said so yourself, we are extraordinary, we are brilliant, we are-" Sherlock cut himself off and turned sharply, too worked up to continue.
John, who had been reading stories like these since he was eight, knew exactly what Sherlock had been trying to say but couldn't admit. He supplied the missing title. "We're heroes," he said simply. Behind him Sherlock scoffed, but didn't argue. "Babel, please. It'll tear him to pieces if you keep refusing him. And I have to live with it."
Babel paused. He turned towards Sherlock, more pain in his eyes than Sherlock thought had ever been directed at him. "I can't ask you to fight," he said. "This isn't your war. I can't risk you and your John."
"You're hardly forcing us," Sherlock argued.
"Sorry," John interrupted, "I know this is a tiny detail compared to the major, world-encompassing battle of the gods, but why does everyone call me 'his John'?"
Babel blinked. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked in a perfect imitation of the man standing in front of him. "He bought your soul. He traded his art and willpower to get you back, so, technically, he owns you."
John kept himself under control rather well, considering what he had just heard. "Right, okay, that's...unexpected, but fine, whatever, doesn't matter right now." Sherlock, on the other hand, was insufferably smug.
"Seems like you have a choice, Babel," Sherlock said, returning to the topic at hand. "You can either let us help, or keep watching as we stumble our way through the dark and still get into trouble."
Babel glared at him, fury warring with marvel on his face. "Fine," he said. "As there is an excellent example of your tenacity and outright idiocy standing before us, I will concede to your wishes. But," he held up one finger, "you will not hold back any information you find. You will work with us on this; no going off on your own because you think you know best. Same goes for you," he added, pointing at John, who frowned. He backed off a few steps. "I'll see you tomorrow with everything we've gathered." A group of students passed between them and he was gone.
John took a deep breath. "I hope you know what you've got us into."
Sherlock turned towards him with a feral grin. "Oh, yes," he said, "we're on the hunt."