Invisible Bonds - Chapter 10
Title: Invisible Bonds - Chapter 10
Length: 5,597 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and purely platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OCs are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to non_canonical for her friendship, brilliant advice, beta and Brit picking! :D Additional thanks to folha5eca and 99everafter for being my Chinese betas and to deplore, jan_rea, neonbiscuits, and pending60 for their recent assistance with identification. :)
Special thanks go out to abundantlyqueer. If it wasn't for her initial encouragement, I wouldn't be writing at all.
Notes: This is the second story in the Fallen series. One should read Fallen first, otherwise this probably won't make much sense. ;) This is also a WIP, but I'm VERY committed to finishing it! 48,556 words posted, 58,000+ words written so far!
Invisible Bonds: Chapter 10
Sherlock was up for several more hours after he laid John upon the couch. In order to study the cipher, of course. He took pictures of the board, made prints, but most of his thought process took place upon the blackboard and within the confines of his own mind, to be shared with no one but himself. And if, from time to time, he paused to check on John, well, he was just conveniently there, wasn’t he? And it was unusual for him to sleep so soundly with Sherlock prowling about, speaking aloud from time to time, even playing the violin for a little while despite the lateness of the hour. It was the pounding on the wall from what Mrs. Hudson said was the ‘married’ ones that stopped him from playing further. All that pounding would wake John, after all.
At some point he must have dozed off himself in John’s chair, which he moved till it was facing the board with John stretched out on the couch to his left. He woke disoriented for a moment, glancing at his watch and then ejecting himself from the comfortable easy chair sharply. 9 am! He stared at the board a moment longer, vexed that he had come so far only to be stymied again before his gaze flickered over to John.
Right. Time to up their game a little. Now that he knew what they were dealing with, the last thing he wanted was to be taken unawares again. His lips purse into an unhappy line, however, when he ponders what steps he will have to take to ensure his and John’s protection with a ghost as powerful as the one they are dealing with. They were lucky this last time, if John was telling him the truth. It’s unlikely they will be so lucky in their next encounter.
A quick look in a mirror tells him that he needs to shower and change his clothes if he is to endeavor to get into anyone’s good graces today. So vexing, all these rules and patterns of conduct that people insist upon. Can’t they realize he’s brilliant enough that they should concede to his way and put aside their petty needs and proprietary requirements? A quick shower, fingers flicking over suits and shirts with casual aplomb, Sherlock dresses with a blithe negligence that still leaves him looking stylish and dapper. A holdover from his youth and the demands of his family. With a huff he emerges from his room, pulling on his coat and scarf before pausing next to John.
He wants him with him. That is his instantaneous wish, which causes Sherlock’s brow to crease. Why? He never wanted anyone before, never even considered bringing someone with him before. How is it that John Watson has become as desirable to him as chalk and his magnifying glass? His lips purse, a hand reaching down to shake his flatmate’s shoulder before it stops, fingers curling into a fist before he draws it away.
If John is still asleep at this hour, then he needs the sleep. It’s a decided effort for Sherlock to turn and head out the door solo. On his way down the stairs, however, he pauses once more to knock on Mrs. Hudson’s door, noting that he’s popping out but that John has had a rough night and perhaps she would be so kind as to check on him in an hour or so? There. That will ensure that she is upstairs within a few minutes to sit with John till he wakes up. His lips quirk as she retorts to him on his way out the door that she is not their nursemaid either. No, no, naturally not. She’s far more than either a housekeeper or a nursemaid.
Striding down the street, Sherlock flags down a cab and slides into the back of it with ease. Pulling out his mobile, he gets the address within seconds, giving the directions of Great Titchfield and Margaret St. before realizing that he could have just as easily walked there. Ah well, no matter. Settling back in his seat, Sherlock gives up his thoughts and concentration to the problem at hand.
He was told, in no uncertain terms, that if he ever stepped into a Buddhist temple again, he would be struck down. But struck down how? Lightning seems the obvious choice, when it comes to the whims of gods. His head tilts to one side, pale eyes flickering upward toward the unusually blue and cheerfully sunny sky above. For once, London’s weather would be rather thwarting to such a goal, but he dare not assume that a god would care about such trivialities as cause and effect or making a scene, as it were.
He’s still lost in his thoughts when the taxi reaches a red light at Marylebone Road, only peripherally aware of the large black Mercedes Benz with tinted windows that pulls up alongside. It’s when the passenger door opens and a familiar figure steps out that Sherlock’s hand automatically reaches for his own door, only to find it locked.
“Driver, let me out!”
“Sorry sir, can’t do that,” offers the cabbie in a voice that is wholly unapologetic, a faint smile visible as he glances back at Sherlock through the rear view mirror. The rear door across from him opens up and Mycroft slips inside, tutting mildly. “Now, now, Sherlock, unwilling to share a cab? Seems rather petty of you, don’t you think?”
“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll walk the rest of the way. Lovely day as it is. Fine weather, best not to waste it.”
With a soft sigh, Mycroft puts on his best ‘put upon’ voice, singsonging the greeting he would have preferred to receive. “Good morning, brother, how lovely to see you again. How long has it been?”
“Not long enough. What do you want, Mycroft?”
Mycroft settles back into his seat gesturing to the driver to circle the block for a while with a little flick of his finger before he folds his hands across his lap. “Very well, I’ll cut to the chase then. I hope that Dr. Watson is still alive and well despite your ‘experiment’ on him last night? What precisely happened? I only had partial visual and no sound, thanks to your most recent bug raid.” Amazing how utterly unrepentant he sounds at his own confession.
What happened. Yes, Sherlock spent half his time mulling over the cipher and the other half over what happened to John, what went wrong with the spell. The idea that he made some kind of mistake was quickly dismissed. He had performed the spell dozens upon dozens of times before with no ill effects. But he had to confess that he didn’t take into consideration John’s abilities as a Sensitive. A data point for the next time - re-craft the incantation such that only the magic can see the memories and then use the individual as a conduit from which the magic can articulate what was seen and experienced. A delicate process, to be sure, but Sherlock is always up for a challenge. That, however, is not the point at the moment. Getting free of Mycroft is his primary goal right now. Scowling, Sherlock chooses not to answer the question, instead sniping back, “What, spying on me again?”
“I prefer to think of it as ‘keeping tabs’ on you. Since you go to such lengths to avoid my company and never seem to realize that I only have your best interests at heart.”
“Which just conveniently happen to be the same as your best interests…”
“Naturally.”
“And where exactly does John fit into all of this?”
Mycroft smiles, his eyes gleaming with interest. “Ahhh, the mysterious Dr. Watson. He really is rather a conundrum, isn’t he? Seemingly so plain and simple, and yet you and I both feel he is quite a bit something more, don’t we?”
Sherlock stiffens, reminded of his testing of John, of his protests and Sherlock’s own lingering doubts. But he finds himself defending John, or perhaps protecting him. After all, Mycroft still has a passion for ‘collecting’ the unusual and the supernatural. “He’s a powerful Sensitive. Nothing more.”
“Oh, I’ll give him that, certainly…” Mycroft’s tone is introspective, his lips forming a dubious line.
Sherlock’s lips curl into a sneer, his tone disparaging as he senses a potential chink in his brother’s armor. “What’s the matter, Mycroft? Feeling a bit jealous, are we? I dare say, John is probably as powerful as you are, perhaps even more so. And now that I have a Sensitive of my own, it’s not like I need you at all now, do I?”
“Jealous? Certainly not.” But Sherlock cannot miss the faint air of insecurity that touches Mycroft’s face as he thrusts out his chin and works his jaw in irritation. “It’s doubtful that John is a more powerful Sensitive than myself. And even if he is, he doesn’t have nearly the connections or networks that I have access to.” He pauses for a moment, studying his brother pityingly as he murmurs, “It’s such a tragedy. We could do such great work together, you and I. It’s what Mummy always had hoped for, you know. Holmes & Holmes.”
“Piss off.”
With a resigned sigh, Mycroft deftly shifts gears once again, turning the conversation back toward Sherlock’s mistake. “Still, it is curious. Tell me, what spell in particular had such a drastic effect on him such that you had to carry him like a swooning maiden?”
“Mycroft, don’t you have anything better to do with your time? Like start a war?”
“You’ll forgive me if I harbor a certain degree of concern for his well-being as well as your own, and suffer from a certain lack of, shall we say, trust?”
“What, in John?”
“No, in you, Sherlock, and your inability at times to extend the most basic skill of common sense. For example, the fact that you didn’t take into consideration John’s abilities as a Sensitive, which he ended up paying the price for. Or, right now. You’re heading to the Fo Guang Shan Temple, I presume? Bit risky, don’t you think?” Mycroft examines his perfect manicure minutely, as if determined to find some flaw with it, content in the fact that he does not. “If you’d only been able to rein in your sense of superiority for a change, or consider the possibility of making amends.” His eyes lift to capture Sherlock’s, an insincere smile curling his lips. “I think you’ll find an apology can go a long way.”
“Are you speaking of John or Erlang Shen?”
“Both, actually. But since I know you’re too proud, I’ll arrange for an appropriate offering to be made to the latter, to ease his displeasure, and a generous donation to the temple. That should cover whatever you need from them. Luckily for you, Master Tien Da is a good friend of mine. I’ll make you an appointment.” He pulls out his phone, letting it rest in his palm. “It’s not too late to offer John an apology, however, once he wakes up.” And then, after an ominous pause he adds, “If he wakes up.”
The very idea that John would not wake up, that the backlash of the spell might have been powerful enough to actively damage his brain, had not occurred to Sherlock before now. A faint shiver of dismay runs up his spine. No, Mycroft is just trying to rattle him, get under his skin. John was aware after the spell dispersed. Exhausted, yes, but coherent. Wasn’t he? It is with no small sense of consternation that Sherlock recalls that John didn’t actually say anything to him before passing out on the couch. His voice comes out sharply in reaction.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but it was a memory spell. And the only reason it went awry was because John’s Sensitivity is so powerful. A technicality, nothing more.”
Mycroft cannot help but laugh soundlessly, his smile sardonic as he ripostes. “How ironic, that you would use the same spell on John that got you into trouble with Erlang Shen in the first place. And, again, when the case involves the Chinese.” His head shakes from side to side, as he laments, “Really, Sherlock, to make the same mistake twice? You best hope Erlang does not learn of you using Mnemosyne again instead of him.”
Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “That’s complete bollocks. Erlang Shen may bear the third truth-seeing eye, but that’s beside the point! I was interested in recovering memories. Opening John’s third eye was merely allowing her a point of access and a tool to use, just as it was in the previous case…”
“Which, when offense was taken, you then felt the need to point out, in his own temple, shaming him publicly while working on what was already a very delicate case requiring at least a modicum of diplomacy. Really, Sherlock.” Flipping open his phone, Mycroft presses a number and lifts to his ear.
He can’t tell which is worse; his brother’s superior tone, as if they were children again and Mycroft was admonishing him for breaking a Ming vase in a gravity experiment, or the fact that he is going to once again interfere, as if Sherlock were incapable of solving his own problems. Rolling his eyes in irritation, Sherlock snaps, “Mycroft. I do not need favors from you to speak to the Zhanglao of the temple.”
The narrowing of his eyes, the small, smug smile of satisfaction that touches Mycroft’s lips is nearly enough to set Sherlock’s blood to boiling.
“Of course you do. And as your brother, I’m happy to do so.” He offers a condescending smile, emphasizing once again his position as the elder sibling. “You really need to work on saying ‘Thank you’ in addition to ‘I’m sorry’. Just two little words, Sherlock, but they really do go a long way when it comes to ingratiating oneself into the good graces of others.” Mycroft lightly raps upon the glass with one knuckle, the taxi pulling over as the door adjacent to Sherlock unlatches with a soft snick.
Sherlock barely waits for the cab to stop moving before he opens said door and leaps out onto the pavement.
With his hand over the phone, Mycroft leans over the seat and requests, “Please don’t be a child and slam the…”
Sherlock slams the door of the cab and stalks off down the street.
*****
The taxi ended up dropping him off further away than where he started from, but Sherlock is grateful for the exercise and the time. He hates it when Mycroft can get past his defenses, which seems to be just about always. The walk helps him regain his perspective and find his center once more.
Standing before 84 Margaret St, Sherlock studies the building with a faint air of displeasure. It’s an awkward blend of Victorian and Edwardian architecture with ecclesiastical details thanks to the fact that it used to be a Protestant institute wherein clergymen were trained. How ironic that it now houses the Fo Guang Shan Temple. From the outside, it couldn’t look any less like a home for a Chinese Buddhist center of faith.
Sherlock walks up the front steps, hesitating only briefly before he passes beneath the sign declaring the temple and through the front doors, shoulders braced for a blow that never strikes. Teeth gritted in irritation at Mycroft’s infernal tampering, Sherlock can only find comfort in the fact that he never asked for his brother’s assistance, therefore the good deed was of his own choice, for his own reasons, and means nothing to Sherlock. There is, after all, no debt to be repaid for a favor unasked. He makes his way through the building with assurance in every step, informing those who think to stop him that he has an appointment with the Zhanglao. Ironically, for once, he actually does. He tries not to dwell on the fact that that too is thanks to Mycroft. Insufferable busybody!
He is led to the Guan Yin Shrine, entering in and studying the room quietly as the door is silently shut behind him. It’s an odd blend of Eastern and Western influences, but the overall feeling is one of warmth and comfort. The European wood paneled walls gracefully intermix with the gold statues and brass lamps, touches of red throughout. His gaze comes to rest, however, on the racks behind the altar for Guan Yin or, more precisely, the tablets neatly lined up along each row. Eyes narrowing, his hand slips into his coat pocket to pull out the smashed pieces of wood he found at Soo Lin’s flat, studying them in turn. They are not precisely the same, but similar enough…
As the Zhanglao enters the shrine, Sherlock turns and studies him quietly, eyes flickering over his orange and red robes, his shaved pate, noting wryly, “I’m assuming it’s no accident that you’re meeting me here, in the shrine of the bodhisattva of compassion and mercy?”
A very faint smile touches upon the lips of the elderly Abbot, his eyes gleaming with humor as he offers in turn, his voice heavily accented, “Despite your brother’s offerings, Erlang Shen is still very displeased with you. It is very unwise to anger the greatest warrior god of heaven. As such, it did indeed seem wisest to meet here, as Guan Yin will stand in his way and temper his anger.” Turning his head toward the altar, his smile deepens with respect and reverence. “Guan Yin is willing to look past your words to the value of your deeds and forgive.” His offers the pusa a slight bow before turning back to Sherlock. Leading away from the altar, he gestures to a low table and cushions that have been prepared for them and graciously invites, “Please, take a seat. What do you wish of me that your brother has gone through all this trouble?”
Jaw clenching, Sherlock dearly wishes the Zhanglao would stop referring to Mycroft in every other sentence. By the hint of mischief in the abbot’s eyes, he’s quite certain it’s entirely on purpose. Damn Mycroft and his networking charms. However, a totally different question than the one intended comes out first. “What are those?” Sherlock’s arm extends toward the altar, gesturing to the racks upon racks of tablets.
Turning his head toward the altar, the abbot replies, “They are called shen zhu pai. They are for honoring ancestors and those who have died. When a person dies, the soul leaves the body, but needs a place to reside. These tablets are built for the soul to inhabit. Some keep them in their homes upon an altar, but others prefer to come here and have their shen zhu pai placed upon the gong de qiang of the temple.” Bemusement colors his features as he asks in turn, “Surely this is not the favor that your brother paid so extravagantly for?”
Sherlock’s barely keeps himself from pointing out where Mycroft can stick his extravagant offers. “No, indeed not. I came to request of you some fu.”
The abbot blinks in surprise, clearly thinking this favor too small for the price paid. “You did not need to see me for such a request. There are many who could supply you with…”
Sherlock shakes his head, his hand slicing through the air as he corrects, “This is quite a bit more than the usual fu required. I’m fairly certain we are facing an èguǐ that has become a kui. It is an ancient ghost, able to shift easily from spirit form to physical form, very powerful, and so far he has murdered two people here in London, possibly three, and there’s no telling when or if he will stop.”
The light of humor has faded from Master Tien Da’s eyes, his expression quiet and grave now as he nods. “So you want fu, for protection?”
Shaking his head, Sherlock rumbles, “For myself, no. I need fu in order to fight the spirit, should we meet again. To bind it. The most powerful you can craft. I can wield the fu, but I do not have the means to make it myself.” He hesitates then, thinking for a moment. He would ask for an amulet of protection for John, but he didn’t bring anything of his to bind to it. He could request a talisman, but the fu would be more powerful if he’d taken a clip of hair or some of John’s blood to offer. Ironically, he had only thought of using those as evidence against his flatmate. It never occurred to him to use them for his protection. Once again there is a roiling in his belly, a sense of guilt and concern that is as unpleasant as it is unfamiliar.
Sensing Sherlock’s discomfort, the Abbot gives him a moment to himself, rising up and crossing over to the altar to collect the necessary materials. Returning with an ornate box, Master Tien Da takes his seat and begins to prepare the fu requested. It is done quietly, reverently, the elderly man’s hand holding the brush with steady ease, his voice warmly droning the necessary incantations. To either side of him, sticks of incense burn, the smoke swirling in patterns that have nothing to do with the air currents in the room as he paints the binding spells in red and black ink over long strips of white rice paper marked with yellow symbols.
Sherlock finds his mind shifting from his myriad concerns to the magic being performed before him. Magic is often highly specific - only certain gods can bestow specialized power. In this case, it is necessary for a true zhanglao to perform the rituals, to bind the charms to the paper. Shortly he finds himself lost in observation, his mind quieting and clearing as if he himself were working the magic. The worry, the chaos of his thoughts, all of it drains away till there is nothing left to focus on but the magic and the work, even though his hands lie still upon his thighs, his lips closed and silent. He’s almost startled when he hears the Zhanglao inquire, “Will that suffice for your needs?” Silver eyes drift down to the impressive stack of fu, his head bobbing as he comes back to himself, the noise of his mind and the world filtering back in.
Even if Sherlock were a terrible adept, he would have to be truly inept not to be able to bind the ghost with twenty pieces of fu at his disposal. He nods, lips quirking into a smile that is somehow both sardonic and grateful at the same time, and replies dryly, “If I need more than that, I’ll hang up my coat and never cast a spell again.”
*****
He returns to 221B Baker Street to find John awake and waiting for him anxiously, fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. It would appear that he has had as frustrating and difficult a morning as Sherlock. John looks wrung out, like a threadbare dishcloth tossed casually aside. At some point he showered and ate, going by the dampness of his hair and the plate of crumbs and empty cup of tea on the table. Good. That should help him feel better. Despite Mycroft’s implications, John seems utterly himself
At first there is a rush of relief, then annoyance at his brother, but in the end a lingering sense of guilt and worry remains, swirling in his belly like a poorly developed solution. His voice remains cool and dry, ever calm and in control as he notes, “I gather you did not get enough rest.” He sniffs the air before announcing, “No, clearly not. Which woke you up first? Mrs. Hudson’s cooking or your sister’s unwelcome visit?”
John frowns, pulling at his sweater idly as he replies, “I could have done with a bit more… but how did you know my sister was here and why unwelcome?”
Sherlock narrows a look upon John, as if such a question was truly beneath his answering, but he does so anyways. “It’s a contest which wins out, the smell of Mrs. Hudson’s freshly baked scones or the lingering aroma of alcohol, and then there’s the box of course, which you tried to foist off on her and yet which is back here in our living room. And obviously she was unwelcome; you’ve gone to great pains to avoid seeing her or speaking with her since you moved in.” He unwinds the scarf from about his throat and crosses over to John, his head tilting to one side, his eyes assessing him till John begins to squirm uncomfortably beneath his stare. “Are you alright?”
John blinks and rubs his hands on his thighs, nodding as he replies, “Yes, yes of course. I’m fine. Totally fine.” He weathers Sherlock’s study for a moment longer before he rises up and adds, “Look, if you’re worried about last night, I’m fine. It was unpleasant, yes, but no harm done. I don’t blame you for what happened.”
“Of course you don’t blame me. I didn’t make a mistake, per se, you were just more Sensitive to the spell than expected.” Amazing how he can make it sound like John is the one at fault for being too Sensitive.
John snorts softly, deflecting that shifting responsibility. “Where have you been? Mrs. Hudson said something about you seeing a priest?”
“Mmmmm, yes, an abbot. More precisely a zhanglao. I needed to get a few things, in case we encounter the murderous ghost again.”
John’s head bobs up and down, before he turns to the blackboard, gesturing toward it. “It’s funny, I know I wrote all this out, but it’s all Greek to me.”
“Suzhou mazi.”
“Whatever. So what’s all this mean, then? Did you figure out what the message is? Did you manage to translate the cipher? I see you identified all the numbers.”
“Mmmm, yes and no.” Lifting his hands up to his lips, Sherlock steeples his fingers as he studies the board and his notes upon it. “Even without translating it, I can determine what the message is for. Due to its location by the tracks, the length of it, it is most likely a message requesting information. As I gathered by the damage done to both Van Coon’s and Lukis’ flats, whatever was stolen was not found there. Whatever it is, they’re still looking for it.” One hand peels away from the other, gesturing at the symbols. “They’re hoping that someone in the community knows something about it. Perhaps they are offering a reward for its return… or a warning. I’m sure after the deaths of Van Coon and Lukis, both of which were prominently noted in the papers and online, those in the smuggling community can’t help but be aware of the danger to anyone who might be thinking of cheating them.”
“But we don’t really know what it says at all. For all we know, it could say, 'Mind the Gap'.”
Sherlock’s pale gaze flickers sideways toward John disparagingly and then back to the board again. “I was able to identify all of the numbers, but we’re missing the key to the cipher.”
“The key?”
“Yes. Different ciphers have different keys. The system or object used to decode them. Without the key there isn’t much hope of deducing the message, but I’m fairly certain that I’m on to something.”
“Which is?”
“All of the numbers are in pairs. This strongly suggests that the cipher has a book key. The first number is the page, the second the word on the page.”
“A book key. But that means that we need to know what the book is. Sherlock.” Glancing about at the impressive collection of books that are already packed into their flat, he points out dryly, “There are an awful lot of books in the world. How do you propose we narrow it down? And what if you’re wrong? What if the key isn’t a book?” At the dark look that Sherlock flashes him, John shakes his head and points out, “You’re not always right. You make mistakes.”
Sherlock opens his mouth to argue that point, but considering the events of the previous evening he closes it again and simply glares at John a moment longer before turning his gaze back to the blackboard. Grumbling under his breath, Sherlock flexes his fingers in irritation. “We need Soo Lin Yao to solve this cipher. She is the key in this, somehow.”
“But we don’t know where she is. We don’t even know if she’s alive.”
“No, no we don’t. We need to go back to the beginning to find her. There was nothing of her in her apartment, no personal effects, no indication that she even lived there. Perhaps she left something of use behind at her work. If her colleague was correct, and her work was indeed her life, then there should be a clue there as to why she left and where she went.”
*****
“Andy.”
The awkward young man glances up from his desk, eyes widening as he takes in Sherlock’s tall approaching frame. Pushing his chair back, feet scraping against the floor, he asks in a rush, “Did you find her? Did you find Soo Lin?”
Sherlock’s lips twist ever so slightly as he shakes his head. “We went round her flat, but she wasn’t there. No sign of her at all. And obviously you haven’t heard from her either.”
“No.” The young man looks defeated, his gaze shifting between John and Sherlock before dropping to the floor. “I’m supposed to go look at two vases up for auction today, see if they’re something the museum should consider purchasing. But that’s Soo Lin’s area of expertise. She should be the one going, not me.”
Shaking his head at the rank sentimentalism, Sherlock strives to get Andy back on track. “Look, we need more information, anything you might be able to remember. Can you think of anyone she might have gone to stay with? Anyone she might have spoken with? Did Soo Lin leave anything behind? Any personal effects, papers and the like?”
Dark eyes flicker upward, unhappiness spreading over the young man’s features. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve asked everyone I could think of. Friends, colleagues, I even called around to some of the other museums and private collectors that are currently hiring, on the off chance she took on a position somewhere else but didn’t want us to know that was why she was leaving. No one has heard from her. She didn’t tell anyone where she was going or why.” His brown eyes sidle over to the bare desk a few yards away, the shape of them softening with worry and unrequited affection. “There wasn’t anything in her desk that wasn’t related to work. I know I shouldn’t have, but I looked through it before Mrs. Leighton collected everything and redistributed her work amongst the remaining staff. No notes, letters, messages. Nothing.”
Gritting his teeth, Sherlock softly curses himself for not following up on that potential lead sooner. What Andy might have dismissed as inconsequential or irrelevant might have pinpointed her exact position instantaneously to Sherlock. But with the work taken and put Gods know where, there is little chance that he would be able to find anything now. Sighing softly, Sherlock rumbles, “Show us once more what she did on her final day.”
“Alright.” Leading them into the museum proper, they wind their way along till they reach a room dedicated to Ancient Chinese pottery.
“She did her demonstration there,” Andy repeats, pointing to an open space in the center of the room. “She would have performed the tea ceremony. It was something she did right before closing. Then, afterward she would have gathered all of her materials together and taken them down to the storage area…”
But Sherlock has already stopped listening to the young man’s words, his eyes affixed upon a display case to his left. “Mmmm, yes, thank you. Well, if we find her, we’ll be in touch.” He turns and without so much as a glance at Andy, wanders off toward the case, leaving John to offer the young man an awkward smile and shrug, adding, “Yes, thank you for your time,” before following after his flatmate.
He doesn’t even have to ask, Sherlock’s voice beckoning to him as he draws near.
“John, look.”
John stares at the display case, feeling the pressure of Sherlock’s intellect bearing down on him, demanding that John see what he does. Which, of course, he doesn’t.
“Right, okay. I’m looking. What am I supposed to see?”
“Look closely, John.”
He hates this. Coming up short. How is it that an ex-angel can come up short with a human? There’s probably only one man in ten million that could pull that off, and just his luck, he’s standing next to one of them. Releasing a rough breath, John turns his head to stare at Sherlock. “I see pots. Clay pots. Five of them. And cups. Very simple, no designs or details. So what? What is it that I’m supposed to see?”
“You’re right John, they are quite plain. Even their finish, for the most part, is dry and dull.” His eyes lift to John’s, a wicked smile of smug delight curling his lips as he points out, “The last time we were here, there was only one pot shining. Now there are two.”
*****
zhanglao = a senior Buddhist monk, also sometimes called an abbot
pusa = bodhisattva
shen zhu pai = wooden tablets made to house the souls of ones ancestors and recently deceased
gong de qiang = "karma wall", a place in a Buddhist temple where one can pay to place shen zhu pai
fu = a type of protection spell made from paper
èguǐ = "hungry ghost", a ghost whose death was violent or unhappy, or that suffered from neglect or desertion
kui = the demon part of the soul (the opposite being shen, the spirit part of the yin-yang balance)
Length: 5,597 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and purely platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OCs are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to non_canonical for her friendship, brilliant advice, beta and Brit picking! :D Additional thanks to folha5eca and 99everafter for being my Chinese betas and to deplore, jan_rea, neonbiscuits, and pending60 for their recent assistance with identification. :)
Special thanks go out to abundantlyqueer. If it wasn't for her initial encouragement, I wouldn't be writing at all.
Notes: This is the second story in the Fallen series. One should read Fallen first, otherwise this probably won't make much sense. ;) This is also a WIP, but I'm VERY committed to finishing it! 48,556 words posted, 58,000+ words written so far!
Invisible Bonds: Chapter 10
Sherlock was up for several more hours after he laid John upon the couch. In order to study the cipher, of course. He took pictures of the board, made prints, but most of his thought process took place upon the blackboard and within the confines of his own mind, to be shared with no one but himself. And if, from time to time, he paused to check on John, well, he was just conveniently there, wasn’t he? And it was unusual for him to sleep so soundly with Sherlock prowling about, speaking aloud from time to time, even playing the violin for a little while despite the lateness of the hour. It was the pounding on the wall from what Mrs. Hudson said was the ‘married’ ones that stopped him from playing further. All that pounding would wake John, after all.
At some point he must have dozed off himself in John’s chair, which he moved till it was facing the board with John stretched out on the couch to his left. He woke disoriented for a moment, glancing at his watch and then ejecting himself from the comfortable easy chair sharply. 9 am! He stared at the board a moment longer, vexed that he had come so far only to be stymied again before his gaze flickered over to John.
Right. Time to up their game a little. Now that he knew what they were dealing with, the last thing he wanted was to be taken unawares again. His lips purse into an unhappy line, however, when he ponders what steps he will have to take to ensure his and John’s protection with a ghost as powerful as the one they are dealing with. They were lucky this last time, if John was telling him the truth. It’s unlikely they will be so lucky in their next encounter.
A quick look in a mirror tells him that he needs to shower and change his clothes if he is to endeavor to get into anyone’s good graces today. So vexing, all these rules and patterns of conduct that people insist upon. Can’t they realize he’s brilliant enough that they should concede to his way and put aside their petty needs and proprietary requirements? A quick shower, fingers flicking over suits and shirts with casual aplomb, Sherlock dresses with a blithe negligence that still leaves him looking stylish and dapper. A holdover from his youth and the demands of his family. With a huff he emerges from his room, pulling on his coat and scarf before pausing next to John.
He wants him with him. That is his instantaneous wish, which causes Sherlock’s brow to crease. Why? He never wanted anyone before, never even considered bringing someone with him before. How is it that John Watson has become as desirable to him as chalk and his magnifying glass? His lips purse, a hand reaching down to shake his flatmate’s shoulder before it stops, fingers curling into a fist before he draws it away.
If John is still asleep at this hour, then he needs the sleep. It’s a decided effort for Sherlock to turn and head out the door solo. On his way down the stairs, however, he pauses once more to knock on Mrs. Hudson’s door, noting that he’s popping out but that John has had a rough night and perhaps she would be so kind as to check on him in an hour or so? There. That will ensure that she is upstairs within a few minutes to sit with John till he wakes up. His lips quirk as she retorts to him on his way out the door that she is not their nursemaid either. No, no, naturally not. She’s far more than either a housekeeper or a nursemaid.
Striding down the street, Sherlock flags down a cab and slides into the back of it with ease. Pulling out his mobile, he gets the address within seconds, giving the directions of Great Titchfield and Margaret St. before realizing that he could have just as easily walked there. Ah well, no matter. Settling back in his seat, Sherlock gives up his thoughts and concentration to the problem at hand.
He was told, in no uncertain terms, that if he ever stepped into a Buddhist temple again, he would be struck down. But struck down how? Lightning seems the obvious choice, when it comes to the whims of gods. His head tilts to one side, pale eyes flickering upward toward the unusually blue and cheerfully sunny sky above. For once, London’s weather would be rather thwarting to such a goal, but he dare not assume that a god would care about such trivialities as cause and effect or making a scene, as it were.
He’s still lost in his thoughts when the taxi reaches a red light at Marylebone Road, only peripherally aware of the large black Mercedes Benz with tinted windows that pulls up alongside. It’s when the passenger door opens and a familiar figure steps out that Sherlock’s hand automatically reaches for his own door, only to find it locked.
“Driver, let me out!”
“Sorry sir, can’t do that,” offers the cabbie in a voice that is wholly unapologetic, a faint smile visible as he glances back at Sherlock through the rear view mirror. The rear door across from him opens up and Mycroft slips inside, tutting mildly. “Now, now, Sherlock, unwilling to share a cab? Seems rather petty of you, don’t you think?”
“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll walk the rest of the way. Lovely day as it is. Fine weather, best not to waste it.”
With a soft sigh, Mycroft puts on his best ‘put upon’ voice, singsonging the greeting he would have preferred to receive. “Good morning, brother, how lovely to see you again. How long has it been?”
“Not long enough. What do you want, Mycroft?”
Mycroft settles back into his seat gesturing to the driver to circle the block for a while with a little flick of his finger before he folds his hands across his lap. “Very well, I’ll cut to the chase then. I hope that Dr. Watson is still alive and well despite your ‘experiment’ on him last night? What precisely happened? I only had partial visual and no sound, thanks to your most recent bug raid.” Amazing how utterly unrepentant he sounds at his own confession.
What happened. Yes, Sherlock spent half his time mulling over the cipher and the other half over what happened to John, what went wrong with the spell. The idea that he made some kind of mistake was quickly dismissed. He had performed the spell dozens upon dozens of times before with no ill effects. But he had to confess that he didn’t take into consideration John’s abilities as a Sensitive. A data point for the next time - re-craft the incantation such that only the magic can see the memories and then use the individual as a conduit from which the magic can articulate what was seen and experienced. A delicate process, to be sure, but Sherlock is always up for a challenge. That, however, is not the point at the moment. Getting free of Mycroft is his primary goal right now. Scowling, Sherlock chooses not to answer the question, instead sniping back, “What, spying on me again?”
“I prefer to think of it as ‘keeping tabs’ on you. Since you go to such lengths to avoid my company and never seem to realize that I only have your best interests at heart.”
“Which just conveniently happen to be the same as your best interests…”
“Naturally.”
“And where exactly does John fit into all of this?”
Mycroft smiles, his eyes gleaming with interest. “Ahhh, the mysterious Dr. Watson. He really is rather a conundrum, isn’t he? Seemingly so plain and simple, and yet you and I both feel he is quite a bit something more, don’t we?”
Sherlock stiffens, reminded of his testing of John, of his protests and Sherlock’s own lingering doubts. But he finds himself defending John, or perhaps protecting him. After all, Mycroft still has a passion for ‘collecting’ the unusual and the supernatural. “He’s a powerful Sensitive. Nothing more.”
“Oh, I’ll give him that, certainly…” Mycroft’s tone is introspective, his lips forming a dubious line.
Sherlock’s lips curl into a sneer, his tone disparaging as he senses a potential chink in his brother’s armor. “What’s the matter, Mycroft? Feeling a bit jealous, are we? I dare say, John is probably as powerful as you are, perhaps even more so. And now that I have a Sensitive of my own, it’s not like I need you at all now, do I?”
“Jealous? Certainly not.” But Sherlock cannot miss the faint air of insecurity that touches Mycroft’s face as he thrusts out his chin and works his jaw in irritation. “It’s doubtful that John is a more powerful Sensitive than myself. And even if he is, he doesn’t have nearly the connections or networks that I have access to.” He pauses for a moment, studying his brother pityingly as he murmurs, “It’s such a tragedy. We could do such great work together, you and I. It’s what Mummy always had hoped for, you know. Holmes & Holmes.”
“Piss off.”
With a resigned sigh, Mycroft deftly shifts gears once again, turning the conversation back toward Sherlock’s mistake. “Still, it is curious. Tell me, what spell in particular had such a drastic effect on him such that you had to carry him like a swooning maiden?”
“Mycroft, don’t you have anything better to do with your time? Like start a war?”
“You’ll forgive me if I harbor a certain degree of concern for his well-being as well as your own, and suffer from a certain lack of, shall we say, trust?”
“What, in John?”
“No, in you, Sherlock, and your inability at times to extend the most basic skill of common sense. For example, the fact that you didn’t take into consideration John’s abilities as a Sensitive, which he ended up paying the price for. Or, right now. You’re heading to the Fo Guang Shan Temple, I presume? Bit risky, don’t you think?” Mycroft examines his perfect manicure minutely, as if determined to find some flaw with it, content in the fact that he does not. “If you’d only been able to rein in your sense of superiority for a change, or consider the possibility of making amends.” His eyes lift to capture Sherlock’s, an insincere smile curling his lips. “I think you’ll find an apology can go a long way.”
“Are you speaking of John or Erlang Shen?”
“Both, actually. But since I know you’re too proud, I’ll arrange for an appropriate offering to be made to the latter, to ease his displeasure, and a generous donation to the temple. That should cover whatever you need from them. Luckily for you, Master Tien Da is a good friend of mine. I’ll make you an appointment.” He pulls out his phone, letting it rest in his palm. “It’s not too late to offer John an apology, however, once he wakes up.” And then, after an ominous pause he adds, “If he wakes up.”
The very idea that John would not wake up, that the backlash of the spell might have been powerful enough to actively damage his brain, had not occurred to Sherlock before now. A faint shiver of dismay runs up his spine. No, Mycroft is just trying to rattle him, get under his skin. John was aware after the spell dispersed. Exhausted, yes, but coherent. Wasn’t he? It is with no small sense of consternation that Sherlock recalls that John didn’t actually say anything to him before passing out on the couch. His voice comes out sharply in reaction.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but it was a memory spell. And the only reason it went awry was because John’s Sensitivity is so powerful. A technicality, nothing more.”
Mycroft cannot help but laugh soundlessly, his smile sardonic as he ripostes. “How ironic, that you would use the same spell on John that got you into trouble with Erlang Shen in the first place. And, again, when the case involves the Chinese.” His head shakes from side to side, as he laments, “Really, Sherlock, to make the same mistake twice? You best hope Erlang does not learn of you using Mnemosyne again instead of him.”
Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “That’s complete bollocks. Erlang Shen may bear the third truth-seeing eye, but that’s beside the point! I was interested in recovering memories. Opening John’s third eye was merely allowing her a point of access and a tool to use, just as it was in the previous case…”
“Which, when offense was taken, you then felt the need to point out, in his own temple, shaming him publicly while working on what was already a very delicate case requiring at least a modicum of diplomacy. Really, Sherlock.” Flipping open his phone, Mycroft presses a number and lifts to his ear.
He can’t tell which is worse; his brother’s superior tone, as if they were children again and Mycroft was admonishing him for breaking a Ming vase in a gravity experiment, or the fact that he is going to once again interfere, as if Sherlock were incapable of solving his own problems. Rolling his eyes in irritation, Sherlock snaps, “Mycroft. I do not need favors from you to speak to the Zhanglao of the temple.”
The narrowing of his eyes, the small, smug smile of satisfaction that touches Mycroft’s lips is nearly enough to set Sherlock’s blood to boiling.
“Of course you do. And as your brother, I’m happy to do so.” He offers a condescending smile, emphasizing once again his position as the elder sibling. “You really need to work on saying ‘Thank you’ in addition to ‘I’m sorry’. Just two little words, Sherlock, but they really do go a long way when it comes to ingratiating oneself into the good graces of others.” Mycroft lightly raps upon the glass with one knuckle, the taxi pulling over as the door adjacent to Sherlock unlatches with a soft snick.
Sherlock barely waits for the cab to stop moving before he opens said door and leaps out onto the pavement.
With his hand over the phone, Mycroft leans over the seat and requests, “Please don’t be a child and slam the…”
Sherlock slams the door of the cab and stalks off down the street.
*****
The taxi ended up dropping him off further away than where he started from, but Sherlock is grateful for the exercise and the time. He hates it when Mycroft can get past his defenses, which seems to be just about always. The walk helps him regain his perspective and find his center once more.
Standing before 84 Margaret St, Sherlock studies the building with a faint air of displeasure. It’s an awkward blend of Victorian and Edwardian architecture with ecclesiastical details thanks to the fact that it used to be a Protestant institute wherein clergymen were trained. How ironic that it now houses the Fo Guang Shan Temple. From the outside, it couldn’t look any less like a home for a Chinese Buddhist center of faith.
Sherlock walks up the front steps, hesitating only briefly before he passes beneath the sign declaring the temple and through the front doors, shoulders braced for a blow that never strikes. Teeth gritted in irritation at Mycroft’s infernal tampering, Sherlock can only find comfort in the fact that he never asked for his brother’s assistance, therefore the good deed was of his own choice, for his own reasons, and means nothing to Sherlock. There is, after all, no debt to be repaid for a favor unasked. He makes his way through the building with assurance in every step, informing those who think to stop him that he has an appointment with the Zhanglao. Ironically, for once, he actually does. He tries not to dwell on the fact that that too is thanks to Mycroft. Insufferable busybody!
He is led to the Guan Yin Shrine, entering in and studying the room quietly as the door is silently shut behind him. It’s an odd blend of Eastern and Western influences, but the overall feeling is one of warmth and comfort. The European wood paneled walls gracefully intermix with the gold statues and brass lamps, touches of red throughout. His gaze comes to rest, however, on the racks behind the altar for Guan Yin or, more precisely, the tablets neatly lined up along each row. Eyes narrowing, his hand slips into his coat pocket to pull out the smashed pieces of wood he found at Soo Lin’s flat, studying them in turn. They are not precisely the same, but similar enough…
As the Zhanglao enters the shrine, Sherlock turns and studies him quietly, eyes flickering over his orange and red robes, his shaved pate, noting wryly, “I’m assuming it’s no accident that you’re meeting me here, in the shrine of the bodhisattva of compassion and mercy?”
A very faint smile touches upon the lips of the elderly Abbot, his eyes gleaming with humor as he offers in turn, his voice heavily accented, “Despite your brother’s offerings, Erlang Shen is still very displeased with you. It is very unwise to anger the greatest warrior god of heaven. As such, it did indeed seem wisest to meet here, as Guan Yin will stand in his way and temper his anger.” Turning his head toward the altar, his smile deepens with respect and reverence. “Guan Yin is willing to look past your words to the value of your deeds and forgive.” His offers the pusa a slight bow before turning back to Sherlock. Leading away from the altar, he gestures to a low table and cushions that have been prepared for them and graciously invites, “Please, take a seat. What do you wish of me that your brother has gone through all this trouble?”
Jaw clenching, Sherlock dearly wishes the Zhanglao would stop referring to Mycroft in every other sentence. By the hint of mischief in the abbot’s eyes, he’s quite certain it’s entirely on purpose. Damn Mycroft and his networking charms. However, a totally different question than the one intended comes out first. “What are those?” Sherlock’s arm extends toward the altar, gesturing to the racks upon racks of tablets.
Turning his head toward the altar, the abbot replies, “They are called shen zhu pai. They are for honoring ancestors and those who have died. When a person dies, the soul leaves the body, but needs a place to reside. These tablets are built for the soul to inhabit. Some keep them in their homes upon an altar, but others prefer to come here and have their shen zhu pai placed upon the gong de qiang of the temple.” Bemusement colors his features as he asks in turn, “Surely this is not the favor that your brother paid so extravagantly for?”
Sherlock’s barely keeps himself from pointing out where Mycroft can stick his extravagant offers. “No, indeed not. I came to request of you some fu.”
The abbot blinks in surprise, clearly thinking this favor too small for the price paid. “You did not need to see me for such a request. There are many who could supply you with…”
Sherlock shakes his head, his hand slicing through the air as he corrects, “This is quite a bit more than the usual fu required. I’m fairly certain we are facing an èguǐ that has become a kui. It is an ancient ghost, able to shift easily from spirit form to physical form, very powerful, and so far he has murdered two people here in London, possibly three, and there’s no telling when or if he will stop.”
The light of humor has faded from Master Tien Da’s eyes, his expression quiet and grave now as he nods. “So you want fu, for protection?”
Shaking his head, Sherlock rumbles, “For myself, no. I need fu in order to fight the spirit, should we meet again. To bind it. The most powerful you can craft. I can wield the fu, but I do not have the means to make it myself.” He hesitates then, thinking for a moment. He would ask for an amulet of protection for John, but he didn’t bring anything of his to bind to it. He could request a talisman, but the fu would be more powerful if he’d taken a clip of hair or some of John’s blood to offer. Ironically, he had only thought of using those as evidence against his flatmate. It never occurred to him to use them for his protection. Once again there is a roiling in his belly, a sense of guilt and concern that is as unpleasant as it is unfamiliar.
Sensing Sherlock’s discomfort, the Abbot gives him a moment to himself, rising up and crossing over to the altar to collect the necessary materials. Returning with an ornate box, Master Tien Da takes his seat and begins to prepare the fu requested. It is done quietly, reverently, the elderly man’s hand holding the brush with steady ease, his voice warmly droning the necessary incantations. To either side of him, sticks of incense burn, the smoke swirling in patterns that have nothing to do with the air currents in the room as he paints the binding spells in red and black ink over long strips of white rice paper marked with yellow symbols.
Sherlock finds his mind shifting from his myriad concerns to the magic being performed before him. Magic is often highly specific - only certain gods can bestow specialized power. In this case, it is necessary for a true zhanglao to perform the rituals, to bind the charms to the paper. Shortly he finds himself lost in observation, his mind quieting and clearing as if he himself were working the magic. The worry, the chaos of his thoughts, all of it drains away till there is nothing left to focus on but the magic and the work, even though his hands lie still upon his thighs, his lips closed and silent. He’s almost startled when he hears the Zhanglao inquire, “Will that suffice for your needs?” Silver eyes drift down to the impressive stack of fu, his head bobbing as he comes back to himself, the noise of his mind and the world filtering back in.
Even if Sherlock were a terrible adept, he would have to be truly inept not to be able to bind the ghost with twenty pieces of fu at his disposal. He nods, lips quirking into a smile that is somehow both sardonic and grateful at the same time, and replies dryly, “If I need more than that, I’ll hang up my coat and never cast a spell again.”
*****
He returns to 221B Baker Street to find John awake and waiting for him anxiously, fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. It would appear that he has had as frustrating and difficult a morning as Sherlock. John looks wrung out, like a threadbare dishcloth tossed casually aside. At some point he showered and ate, going by the dampness of his hair and the plate of crumbs and empty cup of tea on the table. Good. That should help him feel better. Despite Mycroft’s implications, John seems utterly himself
At first there is a rush of relief, then annoyance at his brother, but in the end a lingering sense of guilt and worry remains, swirling in his belly like a poorly developed solution. His voice remains cool and dry, ever calm and in control as he notes, “I gather you did not get enough rest.” He sniffs the air before announcing, “No, clearly not. Which woke you up first? Mrs. Hudson’s cooking or your sister’s unwelcome visit?”
John frowns, pulling at his sweater idly as he replies, “I could have done with a bit more… but how did you know my sister was here and why unwelcome?”
Sherlock narrows a look upon John, as if such a question was truly beneath his answering, but he does so anyways. “It’s a contest which wins out, the smell of Mrs. Hudson’s freshly baked scones or the lingering aroma of alcohol, and then there’s the box of course, which you tried to foist off on her and yet which is back here in our living room. And obviously she was unwelcome; you’ve gone to great pains to avoid seeing her or speaking with her since you moved in.” He unwinds the scarf from about his throat and crosses over to John, his head tilting to one side, his eyes assessing him till John begins to squirm uncomfortably beneath his stare. “Are you alright?”
John blinks and rubs his hands on his thighs, nodding as he replies, “Yes, yes of course. I’m fine. Totally fine.” He weathers Sherlock’s study for a moment longer before he rises up and adds, “Look, if you’re worried about last night, I’m fine. It was unpleasant, yes, but no harm done. I don’t blame you for what happened.”
“Of course you don’t blame me. I didn’t make a mistake, per se, you were just more Sensitive to the spell than expected.” Amazing how he can make it sound like John is the one at fault for being too Sensitive.
John snorts softly, deflecting that shifting responsibility. “Where have you been? Mrs. Hudson said something about you seeing a priest?”
“Mmmmm, yes, an abbot. More precisely a zhanglao. I needed to get a few things, in case we encounter the murderous ghost again.”
John’s head bobs up and down, before he turns to the blackboard, gesturing toward it. “It’s funny, I know I wrote all this out, but it’s all Greek to me.”
“Suzhou mazi.”
“Whatever. So what’s all this mean, then? Did you figure out what the message is? Did you manage to translate the cipher? I see you identified all the numbers.”
“Mmmm, yes and no.” Lifting his hands up to his lips, Sherlock steeples his fingers as he studies the board and his notes upon it. “Even without translating it, I can determine what the message is for. Due to its location by the tracks, the length of it, it is most likely a message requesting information. As I gathered by the damage done to both Van Coon’s and Lukis’ flats, whatever was stolen was not found there. Whatever it is, they’re still looking for it.” One hand peels away from the other, gesturing at the symbols. “They’re hoping that someone in the community knows something about it. Perhaps they are offering a reward for its return… or a warning. I’m sure after the deaths of Van Coon and Lukis, both of which were prominently noted in the papers and online, those in the smuggling community can’t help but be aware of the danger to anyone who might be thinking of cheating them.”
“But we don’t really know what it says at all. For all we know, it could say, 'Mind the Gap'.”
Sherlock’s pale gaze flickers sideways toward John disparagingly and then back to the board again. “I was able to identify all of the numbers, but we’re missing the key to the cipher.”
“The key?”
“Yes. Different ciphers have different keys. The system or object used to decode them. Without the key there isn’t much hope of deducing the message, but I’m fairly certain that I’m on to something.”
“Which is?”
“All of the numbers are in pairs. This strongly suggests that the cipher has a book key. The first number is the page, the second the word on the page.”
“A book key. But that means that we need to know what the book is. Sherlock.” Glancing about at the impressive collection of books that are already packed into their flat, he points out dryly, “There are an awful lot of books in the world. How do you propose we narrow it down? And what if you’re wrong? What if the key isn’t a book?” At the dark look that Sherlock flashes him, John shakes his head and points out, “You’re not always right. You make mistakes.”
Sherlock opens his mouth to argue that point, but considering the events of the previous evening he closes it again and simply glares at John a moment longer before turning his gaze back to the blackboard. Grumbling under his breath, Sherlock flexes his fingers in irritation. “We need Soo Lin Yao to solve this cipher. She is the key in this, somehow.”
“But we don’t know where she is. We don’t even know if she’s alive.”
“No, no we don’t. We need to go back to the beginning to find her. There was nothing of her in her apartment, no personal effects, no indication that she even lived there. Perhaps she left something of use behind at her work. If her colleague was correct, and her work was indeed her life, then there should be a clue there as to why she left and where she went.”
*****
“Andy.”
The awkward young man glances up from his desk, eyes widening as he takes in Sherlock’s tall approaching frame. Pushing his chair back, feet scraping against the floor, he asks in a rush, “Did you find her? Did you find Soo Lin?”
Sherlock’s lips twist ever so slightly as he shakes his head. “We went round her flat, but she wasn’t there. No sign of her at all. And obviously you haven’t heard from her either.”
“No.” The young man looks defeated, his gaze shifting between John and Sherlock before dropping to the floor. “I’m supposed to go look at two vases up for auction today, see if they’re something the museum should consider purchasing. But that’s Soo Lin’s area of expertise. She should be the one going, not me.”
Shaking his head at the rank sentimentalism, Sherlock strives to get Andy back on track. “Look, we need more information, anything you might be able to remember. Can you think of anyone she might have gone to stay with? Anyone she might have spoken with? Did Soo Lin leave anything behind? Any personal effects, papers and the like?”
Dark eyes flicker upward, unhappiness spreading over the young man’s features. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve asked everyone I could think of. Friends, colleagues, I even called around to some of the other museums and private collectors that are currently hiring, on the off chance she took on a position somewhere else but didn’t want us to know that was why she was leaving. No one has heard from her. She didn’t tell anyone where she was going or why.” His brown eyes sidle over to the bare desk a few yards away, the shape of them softening with worry and unrequited affection. “There wasn’t anything in her desk that wasn’t related to work. I know I shouldn’t have, but I looked through it before Mrs. Leighton collected everything and redistributed her work amongst the remaining staff. No notes, letters, messages. Nothing.”
Gritting his teeth, Sherlock softly curses himself for not following up on that potential lead sooner. What Andy might have dismissed as inconsequential or irrelevant might have pinpointed her exact position instantaneously to Sherlock. But with the work taken and put Gods know where, there is little chance that he would be able to find anything now. Sighing softly, Sherlock rumbles, “Show us once more what she did on her final day.”
“Alright.” Leading them into the museum proper, they wind their way along till they reach a room dedicated to Ancient Chinese pottery.
“She did her demonstration there,” Andy repeats, pointing to an open space in the center of the room. “She would have performed the tea ceremony. It was something she did right before closing. Then, afterward she would have gathered all of her materials together and taken them down to the storage area…”
But Sherlock has already stopped listening to the young man’s words, his eyes affixed upon a display case to his left. “Mmmm, yes, thank you. Well, if we find her, we’ll be in touch.” He turns and without so much as a glance at Andy, wanders off toward the case, leaving John to offer the young man an awkward smile and shrug, adding, “Yes, thank you for your time,” before following after his flatmate.
He doesn’t even have to ask, Sherlock’s voice beckoning to him as he draws near.
“John, look.”
John stares at the display case, feeling the pressure of Sherlock’s intellect bearing down on him, demanding that John see what he does. Which, of course, he doesn’t.
“Right, okay. I’m looking. What am I supposed to see?”
“Look closely, John.”
He hates this. Coming up short. How is it that an ex-angel can come up short with a human? There’s probably only one man in ten million that could pull that off, and just his luck, he’s standing next to one of them. Releasing a rough breath, John turns his head to stare at Sherlock. “I see pots. Clay pots. Five of them. And cups. Very simple, no designs or details. So what? What is it that I’m supposed to see?”
“You’re right John, they are quite plain. Even their finish, for the most part, is dry and dull.” His eyes lift to John’s, a wicked smile of smug delight curling his lips as he points out, “The last time we were here, there was only one pot shining. Now there are two.”
*****
zhanglao = a senior Buddhist monk, also sometimes called an abbot
pusa = bodhisattva
shen zhu pai = wooden tablets made to house the souls of ones ancestors and recently deceased
gong de qiang = "karma wall", a place in a Buddhist temple where one can pay to place shen zhu pai
fu = a type of protection spell made from paper
èguǐ = "hungry ghost", a ghost whose death was violent or unhappy, or that suffered from neglect or desertion
kui = the demon part of the soul (the opposite being shen, the spirit part of the yin-yang balance)