Chaos Theory
Title: Chaos Theory
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock (mostly pre-slash)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3000
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: "You want me to let him go, of course," Mycroft says, before John even opens his mouth to speak.
AN: Fifth story in the challenge I'm doing with goldenusagi to write a story every month where Sherlock is something other than human. For another take on the genie theme, you should try Genius of the Bottle.
There are already coffee and cakes laid out when John gets there, expensive ones, as if to tell him that Mycroft already knows why he's chosen to storm into his office today. Though John isn't entirely sure it's possible to storm anywhere once you're expected. He sometimes wonders if it's even possible to schedule any meeting that Mycroft hasn't already planned the outcome of. Which doesn't bode well for this one. But John's not in the sort of mood that can be placated by cakes and pleasantries.
"You want me to let him go, of course," Mycroft says, before John sits down, or even opens his mouth to speak. He's already sitting behind the desk, legs crossed casually to one side, the steam from his mug rises, in an almost impossible curl. It doesn't smell like coffee, but it doesn't smell like tea either. "You must understand that it's quite impossible."
John fumes while Mycroft drinks - or pretends to.
"I understand that you don't want to lose his power," John says stiffly. He nods, half to himself and half to ease some of the angry tension building in him. "I understand that keeping him is about keeping whatever -" He waves a hand at the desk, and the bookshelf beside him, at Mycroft's life in general. "Whatever this is. Whatever you've made him create for you."
Mycroft sighs, like John's disappointed him. Though it sounds more than a little forced, as if he's forgotten how to do anything sincerely. He sets his mug down on the desk, and shakes his head.
"It's absolutely nothing to do with power. My relationship with Sherlock is not weighted in my direction, I assure you. I would go so far as to suggest that it never was."
"I don't believe you," John says, firmly, angrily. When it's so obviously what this is all about. "The sort of man you are -"
Mycroft's eyes narrow briefly. A hairline crack in his mask. Unrehearsed and genuine. For the first time John has ever known him, he looks genuinely offended.
"Everything I have, I accomplished, or I acquired myself, whether you believe that or not. My first - I refuse to call it a wish, it sounds so childish - my first, and only, request was a test. I needed confirmation that Sherlock was what I suspected he was. A minor thing, of little consequence, but quite impossible under normal circumstances, and I certainly stood to gain very little from it."
"But you still made him do tricks for you," John accuses. "He's not a performing monkey -"
"No." Mycroft is more than comfortable interrupting him, without raising his voice. "He is an inhuman being of immense power, contained and obedient only because of a thin sliver of metal, inscribed with runes so old that they are no longer understood. But that we must continue to recreate nonetheless, because we have discovered no other alternative. He is old, and devious, and uncontrollable, and I think you're the one who has lost sight of that."
That blunt, emotionless description of him has John's teeth clenching again. Because Mycroft twists everything Sherlock is. He makes him sound like a dangerous animal, a mistake in the natural order, something that must be controlled.
"I know what he is." John stares over the desk at Mycroft, daring him to tell him otherwise. Sherlock had never hidden that from John. From the moment they'd met, Sherlock had swept him along, in his impossible, destructive wake. Dragged him headfirst into Sherlock's unbelievable, crime-solving life, and all the mythological madness that it entailed. All because he thought John was interesting.
"But I don't think you understand what he is," Mycroft continues. "I don't think you've fully accepted the vast gulf that separates you." He sighs and uncrosses his legs, leans forward. It's an awkward movement, as if he needs John to listen, and is risking humanity for long enough to get his point across. For all that John thinks he hates him at this very moment he also doesn't think Mycroft deigns to explain himself to many people, possibly to anyone. "For all that he's chosen to be...friendly with you, to involve you in his constant need for stimulation and mystery, you are as unalike as it's possible to be. And if he played you for his own ends, forgive me for being blunt, but you would have no idea until it was far too late."
It's not the first time John's heard it. Sherlock's told him as much himself. But John thinks Sherlock likes having someone around who treats him like a person, not some sort of supernatural monster who grants wishes. Because how long must he have been treated like exactly that?
"He wants to be free, is that too much to ask for?"
"Rather more than you think," Mycroft says immediately, infuriating as ever. "I have done my research, please understand that I do not keep Sherlock captive on a mere whim. I am, as you can imagine, rather immune to whims of any kind, and I'm not so monstrous that I would condone that. No, it is for everyone's benefit that he remains as he is."
"And yet he still has no say in this? None at all. For how long, until you're dead? Until everyone's dead? There's nothing you can tell me that will excuse that." John's hands are curled on his knees, almost gripping. He feels helpless, and angry that there's nothing he can do - no action he can take. No argument he can make against Mycroft's determination to keep Sherlock contained. He's never been good at this. But he has to try, he has to try.
Mycroft is quiet for a moment, before he reads something in John's face and nods, almost to himself.
"Do you really think he would stay, John?"
The jab at that small, selfish part of himself is intentional, and maddening. He shakes it off, refuses to play Mycroft's game.
"I'm his friend, of course I would wonder. What we do is important, but I know it's a...that it's more of a game for him. But that's not what this is about. He's a person, a thinking being, he's not some sort of exotic bird. You're really prepared to keep him in what is essentially slavery?" John has to shut his mouth then, press his lips together tightly, to stop the flow of words he knows won't be helpful. He doesn't continue until he feels confident he won't say something...unhelpful. "To control him, for how long?"
John expects Mycroft to look angry, to at least look as if he's been accused of something horrible. Instead the expression on Mycroft's face looks a lot like pity. He crosses his fingers in front of his face, a familiar gesture to John, strange because Sherlock doesn't seem the type to copy people, or to pick up habits. Mycroft leans forward across the desk again, almost into his space.
"Genies are not kind, John," he says simply, slowly, as if he's explaining something terrible to a small child. "They don't feel the same way we do, some would say that they don't feel at all. You're close enough to Sherlock that I'm quite certain you understand how they may have come to that conclusion by now. Some people believe that they're something of a wrench in the universal machine, the blind hand of chaos at work. Immeasurably powerful, easily bored, and constantly seeking entertainment at the expense of others. They, like weather systems, cannot be predicted, mankind is simply a bystander to their fury. Surely you must understand why our forefathers considered containment the only option?"
John's already shaking his head. "No, I don't. We find this amazing, impossible...magical thing, and what do we do? Because we're afraid of it, we put it in a cage. We keep it in chains. It should never have been an option, let alone the only one."
Mycroft retrieves a folder from the table beside his chair, pushes it across the desk, fingers holding it to the polished surface.
"You really do need to read this."
Mycroft clearly intends for him to take it, but John stays where he is, doesn't even shift in his chair.
"What is it?"
"An account of the consequences, and the cost, involved in releasing a genie in a populated area." Mycroft slowly takes his fingers away from the file. "Mother Nature, at least, is blind in her destructive powers. They however are capricious, and fond of punishment, and they have no care for collateral damage. Read it, and understand why we keep them in chains."
John pointedly doesn't open the file, doesn't look at it.
"Or maybe we made that cycle ourselves, did you ever wonder that?"
"Of course," Mycroft says. "But it simply doesn't matter. The cycle of obedience and destruction is already in place. Throw a wrench in the machine now..." Mycroft spreads his hands, and says nothing else.
"God forbid you upset the status quo," John says, thoroughly disgusted. "I'm not listening to any more of this." He stands up, shaking his head. "You're evil, you know that, don't you? What you're doing is evil."
He turns away from the coffee, and the expensive cakes, and the still and unbendable man in the chair. Heads for the door.
"He'll try to seduce you," Mycroft says quietly. "To discover the location of the ring. They are most intelligent and tenacious creatures."
"He's not a creature," John says, through what feels like an almost unbearable wave of rage.
He slams the door behind him.
---
He's still in a door-slamming mood when he gets back to the flat, but in respect for Mrs Hudson he restrains himself. He does stomp all the way upstairs though, pulling his coat off with rather more force than is strictly necessary, before throwing it on the hook and not caring if it's left mostly hanging by a sleeve.
Sherlock is still spread like a particularly pernicious ivy over the sofa, in his dressing down, looking lazy and unconcerned by anything that might have happened to John today. Which is something of a baseline with Sherlock, to be fair. He doesn't actually look up until John throws himself into his chair.
"I told you he'd say no," Sherlock drawls out, before rolling his head sideways and looking at him through his hair. He looks more amused than annoyed. As if he honestly never expected John to accomplish anything. Proving how useless he is again. "I told you you'd come back angry and upset. You went anyway. You should listen to me, I'm very old and very intelligent. It's amazing how often people don't listen to me, because they think they know best, no matter the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Is it any wonder how tedious I find people when they just don't listen?" Piece said, he seems to lose some of his theatrical air, rearranging the spread of papers he has on his chest, into an order that probably wouldn't mean anything to anyone else.
"He insinuated it was your idea in the first place," John snaps out, hating how Sherlock can consider a conversation done before it's even started. But it's all so bloody exhausting. It's all so exhausting, and impossible, and he sometimes wonders if there's something wrong with him that he's starting to find this normal. He would never have considered this normal a year ago.
John gives in to insanity for a moment and tips his head back, shuts his eyes. He has a headache forming behind them.
Sherlock grunts and there's the sound of limbs rearranging themselves.
"I suppose it could have been my idea," he says, and John thinks Sherlock's picking up the shards of conversation for his benefit. "I am horribly manipulative, especially when I'm not paying attention."
"He also said you'd try and seduce me," John adds, because Sherlock probably knows that already too.
Sherlock's quiet for long enough that John opens his eyes and turns his head to look at him again. Sherlock has his head tipped over the couch now, curls dragging on the fabric, he's staring at John.
"Predictable," Sherlock complains. "Though I've done that before."
John doesn't think there's going to be anything else, but Sherlock slides round completely on the sofa, slaps his dressing gown out behind him, and strides his way to the other chair. John can see him clearly from his position now. Human from every angle that John's been able to catch him from. From every impossible one, and from the strangely stark and ill-fitting ones too. He has no idea what Sherlock really looks like, if he has any sort of form that John would recognise. Or if his human body is another thing he doesn't have a choice in. The long, half-bare arm, that dangles off the furniture, is circled at the wrist by a wide slash of gold. The other arm is the same. You can't chain someone without shackles after all.
"More than once. Sometimes they even think the sex is their idea, that they've commanded me in some way I should be humiliated by. Sometimes they're even ashamed. You humans have a rather limited idea of what constitutes 'perversity.' You're actually rather dreadful and boring sexually. I once had an affair with a Lich, half her face was literally rotted away. You would have liked her, she embalmed corpses, and had zombie servants, excellent sense of humour."
John stares at Sherlock, and doesn't quite know what to say. He settles for commenting on the second part of that confession, to save him thinking about the first.
"Zombie servants? You know, I honestly still can't tell when you're lying."
"Almost never," Sherlock sends back. "The world is so boring, it wasn't this boring six thousand years ago. Also, her necromantic chants were fascinating. I should teach you some." Sherlock looks genuinely enthusiastic for a second, in a way that John thinks should worry him. No, in a way that should almost certainly worry him.
"Not sure 'controlling the dead' would look good on my CV."
"It would look interesting on your CV," Sherlock points out. He looks like he's a second away from clapping his hands together, and jumping up to go and find some bodies to practice on. John's honestly not sure if necromancy is something Sherlock could actually do. John tends to leave most of Sherlock stranger suggestions, recollections and requests as amusing asides that will lead to madness. Unless they turn out to be part of an investigation, and then he tries very hard to pretend everything's normal. Which Sherlock seems to find hilarious, considering how people normally react to finding out that... for example, a basilisk has eaten their aunt.
"No necromancy," John says firmly, and absolutely doesn't laugh at Sherlock pout of disappointment.
He mutters something about it being important having a competent assistant, that John is going to pretend he didn't hear. John gets up instead, makes his way to the kitchen, to the kettle and the chocolate digestives - and where he'll find no more talk of zombie servants, or the fire demons who were terrible gossips, or the ice dragon sleeping inside Mount Everest. Because that way lies madness.
"Would you like me to?" Sherlock says quietly, from where he now stands just behind John's shoulder. John can feel the way he hovers, just out of touching distance.
There's a pause while his brain scrolls back through the parts of the conversation it remembers.
"I'm not your -" John trips over the word, can't say it. He has trouble thinking it, hearing it out of Mycroft's mouth.
He can hear the amused rush of air behind him, and suspects Sherlock wants him to say it, curiousity, or some perverse desire to shame him.
"You don't have to obey me," John says instead. When he thinks the answer should be, no, of course, no, that's not something he'd let happen. He's not sure why he doesn't say that. When it's such a firm sentence in his head, carefully thought out, concise.
"That's not what I asked," Sherlock points out, before John can confuse himself into some sort of humiliation. He's fallen into stillness still holding one of the kitchen cupboards open, but it doesn't seem that important.
"You know I hate it when you ask me questions that are actually tests," John complains. Not least because he always thinks he fails them, in ways that Sherlock finds disappointing. It's not good for his self-esteem.
Sherlock laughs, because of course he loves it. Of course he loves watching people hang themselves.
John turns around and stares at him.
"Would you do it?"
Sherlock doesn't insult him by pretending not to know what he's talking about. He stares at him from under his hair. Focused and not evasive at all.
"Yes, I would seduce you if I thought you could free me. Without hesitation."
John notices that he doesn't phrase it 'try and seduce you' Sherlock doesn't try anything, he does things, or he doesn't.
"But I can't." John shakes his head. There's a strange pause, an unnatural stillness, before Sherlock relaxes, shrugs.
"Evidently."
John lets that one go. He doesn't ask if he's disappointed him.
"So...Mycroft?"
Sherlock makes a disgusted noise.
"The man has a mind full of traps, all back-up plans and worst-case scenario preparations. He's like a mummy, wrapped up for a thousand years, no spontaneity to him at all. It's so hard to find somewhere to push, seducing him would have been more trouble than it was worth. Would also probably have resulted in dust everywhere."
John thinks about it for a minute, then can't stop thinking about it, regrets asking horribly. Sherlock seems to find that amusing as well.
"Make me one too," Sherlock grumbles, before taking his papers and the digestives back to the couch. "Then come and help me, we have a locked room mystery, and I'm hoping there's a wraith involved."
John listens to the rustle of paper as Sherlock settles again. He thinks about desperation, and about humanity, and stirs the tea for far too long.
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock (mostly pre-slash)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3000
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: "You want me to let him go, of course," Mycroft says, before John even opens his mouth to speak.
AN: Fifth story in the challenge I'm doing with goldenusagi to write a story every month where Sherlock is something other than human. For another take on the genie theme, you should try Genius of the Bottle.
There are already coffee and cakes laid out when John gets there, expensive ones, as if to tell him that Mycroft already knows why he's chosen to storm into his office today. Though John isn't entirely sure it's possible to storm anywhere once you're expected. He sometimes wonders if it's even possible to schedule any meeting that Mycroft hasn't already planned the outcome of. Which doesn't bode well for this one. But John's not in the sort of mood that can be placated by cakes and pleasantries.
"You want me to let him go, of course," Mycroft says, before John sits down, or even opens his mouth to speak. He's already sitting behind the desk, legs crossed casually to one side, the steam from his mug rises, in an almost impossible curl. It doesn't smell like coffee, but it doesn't smell like tea either. "You must understand that it's quite impossible."
John fumes while Mycroft drinks - or pretends to.
"I understand that you don't want to lose his power," John says stiffly. He nods, half to himself and half to ease some of the angry tension building in him. "I understand that keeping him is about keeping whatever -" He waves a hand at the desk, and the bookshelf beside him, at Mycroft's life in general. "Whatever this is. Whatever you've made him create for you."
Mycroft sighs, like John's disappointed him. Though it sounds more than a little forced, as if he's forgotten how to do anything sincerely. He sets his mug down on the desk, and shakes his head.
"It's absolutely nothing to do with power. My relationship with Sherlock is not weighted in my direction, I assure you. I would go so far as to suggest that it never was."
"I don't believe you," John says, firmly, angrily. When it's so obviously what this is all about. "The sort of man you are -"
Mycroft's eyes narrow briefly. A hairline crack in his mask. Unrehearsed and genuine. For the first time John has ever known him, he looks genuinely offended.
"Everything I have, I accomplished, or I acquired myself, whether you believe that or not. My first - I refuse to call it a wish, it sounds so childish - my first, and only, request was a test. I needed confirmation that Sherlock was what I suspected he was. A minor thing, of little consequence, but quite impossible under normal circumstances, and I certainly stood to gain very little from it."
"But you still made him do tricks for you," John accuses. "He's not a performing monkey -"
"No." Mycroft is more than comfortable interrupting him, without raising his voice. "He is an inhuman being of immense power, contained and obedient only because of a thin sliver of metal, inscribed with runes so old that they are no longer understood. But that we must continue to recreate nonetheless, because we have discovered no other alternative. He is old, and devious, and uncontrollable, and I think you're the one who has lost sight of that."
That blunt, emotionless description of him has John's teeth clenching again. Because Mycroft twists everything Sherlock is. He makes him sound like a dangerous animal, a mistake in the natural order, something that must be controlled.
"I know what he is." John stares over the desk at Mycroft, daring him to tell him otherwise. Sherlock had never hidden that from John. From the moment they'd met, Sherlock had swept him along, in his impossible, destructive wake. Dragged him headfirst into Sherlock's unbelievable, crime-solving life, and all the mythological madness that it entailed. All because he thought John was interesting.
"But I don't think you understand what he is," Mycroft continues. "I don't think you've fully accepted the vast gulf that separates you." He sighs and uncrosses his legs, leans forward. It's an awkward movement, as if he needs John to listen, and is risking humanity for long enough to get his point across. For all that John thinks he hates him at this very moment he also doesn't think Mycroft deigns to explain himself to many people, possibly to anyone. "For all that he's chosen to be...friendly with you, to involve you in his constant need for stimulation and mystery, you are as unalike as it's possible to be. And if he played you for his own ends, forgive me for being blunt, but you would have no idea until it was far too late."
It's not the first time John's heard it. Sherlock's told him as much himself. But John thinks Sherlock likes having someone around who treats him like a person, not some sort of supernatural monster who grants wishes. Because how long must he have been treated like exactly that?
"He wants to be free, is that too much to ask for?"
"Rather more than you think," Mycroft says immediately, infuriating as ever. "I have done my research, please understand that I do not keep Sherlock captive on a mere whim. I am, as you can imagine, rather immune to whims of any kind, and I'm not so monstrous that I would condone that. No, it is for everyone's benefit that he remains as he is."
"And yet he still has no say in this? None at all. For how long, until you're dead? Until everyone's dead? There's nothing you can tell me that will excuse that." John's hands are curled on his knees, almost gripping. He feels helpless, and angry that there's nothing he can do - no action he can take. No argument he can make against Mycroft's determination to keep Sherlock contained. He's never been good at this. But he has to try, he has to try.
Mycroft is quiet for a moment, before he reads something in John's face and nods, almost to himself.
"Do you really think he would stay, John?"
The jab at that small, selfish part of himself is intentional, and maddening. He shakes it off, refuses to play Mycroft's game.
"I'm his friend, of course I would wonder. What we do is important, but I know it's a...that it's more of a game for him. But that's not what this is about. He's a person, a thinking being, he's not some sort of exotic bird. You're really prepared to keep him in what is essentially slavery?" John has to shut his mouth then, press his lips together tightly, to stop the flow of words he knows won't be helpful. He doesn't continue until he feels confident he won't say something...unhelpful. "To control him, for how long?"
John expects Mycroft to look angry, to at least look as if he's been accused of something horrible. Instead the expression on Mycroft's face looks a lot like pity. He crosses his fingers in front of his face, a familiar gesture to John, strange because Sherlock doesn't seem the type to copy people, or to pick up habits. Mycroft leans forward across the desk again, almost into his space.
"Genies are not kind, John," he says simply, slowly, as if he's explaining something terrible to a small child. "They don't feel the same way we do, some would say that they don't feel at all. You're close enough to Sherlock that I'm quite certain you understand how they may have come to that conclusion by now. Some people believe that they're something of a wrench in the universal machine, the blind hand of chaos at work. Immeasurably powerful, easily bored, and constantly seeking entertainment at the expense of others. They, like weather systems, cannot be predicted, mankind is simply a bystander to their fury. Surely you must understand why our forefathers considered containment the only option?"
John's already shaking his head. "No, I don't. We find this amazing, impossible...magical thing, and what do we do? Because we're afraid of it, we put it in a cage. We keep it in chains. It should never have been an option, let alone the only one."
Mycroft retrieves a folder from the table beside his chair, pushes it across the desk, fingers holding it to the polished surface.
"You really do need to read this."
Mycroft clearly intends for him to take it, but John stays where he is, doesn't even shift in his chair.
"What is it?"
"An account of the consequences, and the cost, involved in releasing a genie in a populated area." Mycroft slowly takes his fingers away from the file. "Mother Nature, at least, is blind in her destructive powers. They however are capricious, and fond of punishment, and they have no care for collateral damage. Read it, and understand why we keep them in chains."
John pointedly doesn't open the file, doesn't look at it.
"Or maybe we made that cycle ourselves, did you ever wonder that?"
"Of course," Mycroft says. "But it simply doesn't matter. The cycle of obedience and destruction is already in place. Throw a wrench in the machine now..." Mycroft spreads his hands, and says nothing else.
"God forbid you upset the status quo," John says, thoroughly disgusted. "I'm not listening to any more of this." He stands up, shaking his head. "You're evil, you know that, don't you? What you're doing is evil."
He turns away from the coffee, and the expensive cakes, and the still and unbendable man in the chair. Heads for the door.
"He'll try to seduce you," Mycroft says quietly. "To discover the location of the ring. They are most intelligent and tenacious creatures."
"He's not a creature," John says, through what feels like an almost unbearable wave of rage.
He slams the door behind him.
---
He's still in a door-slamming mood when he gets back to the flat, but in respect for Mrs Hudson he restrains himself. He does stomp all the way upstairs though, pulling his coat off with rather more force than is strictly necessary, before throwing it on the hook and not caring if it's left mostly hanging by a sleeve.
Sherlock is still spread like a particularly pernicious ivy over the sofa, in his dressing down, looking lazy and unconcerned by anything that might have happened to John today. Which is something of a baseline with Sherlock, to be fair. He doesn't actually look up until John throws himself into his chair.
"I told you he'd say no," Sherlock drawls out, before rolling his head sideways and looking at him through his hair. He looks more amused than annoyed. As if he honestly never expected John to accomplish anything. Proving how useless he is again. "I told you you'd come back angry and upset. You went anyway. You should listen to me, I'm very old and very intelligent. It's amazing how often people don't listen to me, because they think they know best, no matter the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Is it any wonder how tedious I find people when they just don't listen?" Piece said, he seems to lose some of his theatrical air, rearranging the spread of papers he has on his chest, into an order that probably wouldn't mean anything to anyone else.
"He insinuated it was your idea in the first place," John snaps out, hating how Sherlock can consider a conversation done before it's even started. But it's all so bloody exhausting. It's all so exhausting, and impossible, and he sometimes wonders if there's something wrong with him that he's starting to find this normal. He would never have considered this normal a year ago.
John gives in to insanity for a moment and tips his head back, shuts his eyes. He has a headache forming behind them.
Sherlock grunts and there's the sound of limbs rearranging themselves.
"I suppose it could have been my idea," he says, and John thinks Sherlock's picking up the shards of conversation for his benefit. "I am horribly manipulative, especially when I'm not paying attention."
"He also said you'd try and seduce me," John adds, because Sherlock probably knows that already too.
Sherlock's quiet for long enough that John opens his eyes and turns his head to look at him again. Sherlock has his head tipped over the couch now, curls dragging on the fabric, he's staring at John.
"Predictable," Sherlock complains. "Though I've done that before."
John doesn't think there's going to be anything else, but Sherlock slides round completely on the sofa, slaps his dressing gown out behind him, and strides his way to the other chair. John can see him clearly from his position now. Human from every angle that John's been able to catch him from. From every impossible one, and from the strangely stark and ill-fitting ones too. He has no idea what Sherlock really looks like, if he has any sort of form that John would recognise. Or if his human body is another thing he doesn't have a choice in. The long, half-bare arm, that dangles off the furniture, is circled at the wrist by a wide slash of gold. The other arm is the same. You can't chain someone without shackles after all.
"More than once. Sometimes they even think the sex is their idea, that they've commanded me in some way I should be humiliated by. Sometimes they're even ashamed. You humans have a rather limited idea of what constitutes 'perversity.' You're actually rather dreadful and boring sexually. I once had an affair with a Lich, half her face was literally rotted away. You would have liked her, she embalmed corpses, and had zombie servants, excellent sense of humour."
John stares at Sherlock, and doesn't quite know what to say. He settles for commenting on the second part of that confession, to save him thinking about the first.
"Zombie servants? You know, I honestly still can't tell when you're lying."
"Almost never," Sherlock sends back. "The world is so boring, it wasn't this boring six thousand years ago. Also, her necromantic chants were fascinating. I should teach you some." Sherlock looks genuinely enthusiastic for a second, in a way that John thinks should worry him. No, in a way that should almost certainly worry him.
"Not sure 'controlling the dead' would look good on my CV."
"It would look interesting on your CV," Sherlock points out. He looks like he's a second away from clapping his hands together, and jumping up to go and find some bodies to practice on. John's honestly not sure if necromancy is something Sherlock could actually do. John tends to leave most of Sherlock stranger suggestions, recollections and requests as amusing asides that will lead to madness. Unless they turn out to be part of an investigation, and then he tries very hard to pretend everything's normal. Which Sherlock seems to find hilarious, considering how people normally react to finding out that... for example, a basilisk has eaten their aunt.
"No necromancy," John says firmly, and absolutely doesn't laugh at Sherlock pout of disappointment.
He mutters something about it being important having a competent assistant, that John is going to pretend he didn't hear. John gets up instead, makes his way to the kitchen, to the kettle and the chocolate digestives - and where he'll find no more talk of zombie servants, or the fire demons who were terrible gossips, or the ice dragon sleeping inside Mount Everest. Because that way lies madness.
"Would you like me to?" Sherlock says quietly, from where he now stands just behind John's shoulder. John can feel the way he hovers, just out of touching distance.
There's a pause while his brain scrolls back through the parts of the conversation it remembers.
"I'm not your -" John trips over the word, can't say it. He has trouble thinking it, hearing it out of Mycroft's mouth.
He can hear the amused rush of air behind him, and suspects Sherlock wants him to say it, curiousity, or some perverse desire to shame him.
"You don't have to obey me," John says instead. When he thinks the answer should be, no, of course, no, that's not something he'd let happen. He's not sure why he doesn't say that. When it's such a firm sentence in his head, carefully thought out, concise.
"That's not what I asked," Sherlock points out, before John can confuse himself into some sort of humiliation. He's fallen into stillness still holding one of the kitchen cupboards open, but it doesn't seem that important.
"You know I hate it when you ask me questions that are actually tests," John complains. Not least because he always thinks he fails them, in ways that Sherlock finds disappointing. It's not good for his self-esteem.
Sherlock laughs, because of course he loves it. Of course he loves watching people hang themselves.
John turns around and stares at him.
"Would you do it?"
Sherlock doesn't insult him by pretending not to know what he's talking about. He stares at him from under his hair. Focused and not evasive at all.
"Yes, I would seduce you if I thought you could free me. Without hesitation."
John notices that he doesn't phrase it 'try and seduce you' Sherlock doesn't try anything, he does things, or he doesn't.
"But I can't." John shakes his head. There's a strange pause, an unnatural stillness, before Sherlock relaxes, shrugs.
"Evidently."
John lets that one go. He doesn't ask if he's disappointed him.
"So...Mycroft?"
Sherlock makes a disgusted noise.
"The man has a mind full of traps, all back-up plans and worst-case scenario preparations. He's like a mummy, wrapped up for a thousand years, no spontaneity to him at all. It's so hard to find somewhere to push, seducing him would have been more trouble than it was worth. Would also probably have resulted in dust everywhere."
John thinks about it for a minute, then can't stop thinking about it, regrets asking horribly. Sherlock seems to find that amusing as well.
"Make me one too," Sherlock grumbles, before taking his papers and the digestives back to the couch. "Then come and help me, we have a locked room mystery, and I'm hoping there's a wraith involved."
John listens to the rustle of paper as Sherlock settles again. He thinks about desperation, and about humanity, and stirs the tea for far too long.