Fallen - Chapter 3: Manipulation
Title: Fallen - Chapter 3: Manipulation
Length: 3672 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and highly platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OC characters 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 daluci for being a top-notch beta, to non_canonical for her excellent advice and Brit picking, and to abundantlyqueer for her encouragement, support, and being inspirational!
Fallen - Chapter 3: Manipulation
Where he is is painfully obvious, even with his eyes closed. The beeping of monitoring equipment, the powerful scent of disinfectant, the bustle of nurses and doctors beyond a closed door, the subtle weight and pull of the tape from the IV in his wrist, the pathetically low thread-count sheets beneath his fingers and the positively anemic blanket covering his frame. A hospital. How dreadfully boring. Now if he can only remember why… that’s sure to be more interesting.
Flickering his eyes open, Sherlock breathes a small sigh of relief as someone has at least had the decency to turn off the florescent lights overhead so he doesn’t have to painfully squint in an overly bright room. He takes a moment to assess his transport, his body feeling weak and tired, his eyes fastening onto the IV feeding blood and plasma into his system before moving on. At least the room is quiet and dim and free of annoying doctors and nurses poking and prodding at him. The small amount of pleasure gained from those facts dissolves when his eyes alight upon the individual responsible.
“You,” he manages to rumble with a tone of disgust. “What are you doing here?”
Glancing down at the floor, as if studying the perfectly polished tip of his shoe, Mycroft chides mildly, “Really, Sherlock, I should think that would be painfully obvious, even in your…” and he takes a moment to find just the right word before lifting his head and smiling condescendingly at his younger brother. “ …diminished state.”
His umbrella lightly taps upon the linoleum floor as he crosses over from the wall to stand at his brother’s side, noting, “This is the second time in two years that I’ve had to come to see you at the hospital. If you will only allow one familial social visit per year, couldn’t you at least choose Christmas or some other holiday? And a more suitable location?” His head turns to take in their surroundings, nose wrinkling as he points out, “The food and the atmosphere are so much nicer at Mummy’s house, and she misses you so.”
Turning his head and closing his eyes, as if that would be enough to make Mycroft disappear, Sherlock intones archly, “Go away, Mycroft,” the fingers of his right hand lifting to make a small complicated gesture that is rather reminiscent of a shooing motion. With a small scoffing noise, Mycroft notes, “If you think a pathetic warding spell like that is going to work on the likes of me, you’re in even worse condition than I thought.”
There is a shrill scraping sound as he pulls a chair up to Sherlock’s bedside and sits down, taking a moment to make himself comfortable as possible before asking, “So why aren’t you? In worse condition, I mean.”
Sherlock turns back, scowling at his brother as he rumbles angrily, “What do you mean, not in worse condition? I was shot!“ His fingers lift to touch his left shoulder only to find… nothing. No bandages, no wound, only smooth, unmarred flesh.
“Yeeeeeeeeeeessss, exactly,” Mycroft concurs dryly as he takes in the look of surprise that crosses his brother’s features, quickly followed by disgruntled confusion. “You were brought in covered in blood and with a bullet hole in your clothing and yet… no bullet. Strange, no?” His gaze has wandered again, studying the tip of his umbrella now as he idly twirls it, as if by averting his gaze he might cajole his brother into being more open with him, or at least not fighting him for each and every sentence.
“Even though you are a respectably powerful Adept, even you do not have the capability of removing a bullet from your body and healing the damage, so the question becomes, what became of it? Additionally, with the rate and direction at which the Thames was flowing this evening, you should have been washed up on the opposite shore much further down than you were, if you were to land ashore at all. In fact, your body was found practically cross-current.” His head lifts to study Sherlock’s features to see what he might give away in this moment of weakness, but his brother’s eyes are staring straight up at the ceiling, his gaze turned inward and introspective as he tries to re-enact in his mind the events of the evening.
“What is most intriguing, however, is the rather irrefutable proof that you were, as you indicated, shot.” Sherlock offers up no reaction to the statement, so Mycroft indulges him with the unrequested facts. “Upon arrival at the hospital you were suffering from extremely low blood pressure and the effects of cold and shock. Perfectly normal for having taken a dip in the Thames in January. However, your heart rate was highly elevated and there was no improvement in your condition once your environment and body temperature were stabilized. A closer look revealed that your blood volume has somehow been… reduced. Somewhere, somehow, you lost nearly three pints of blood. No internal injuries, no obvious wounds. The blood was just…gone.” His gaze shifts down to the floor once more, hiding a slight frisson of worry as he remembers what it looked like, what he thought, when he first saw Sherlock surrounded by doctors, looking for all the world like one of the corpses his younger brother so loved to poke and prod. “That, coupled with the rather blatant damage to your clothes would indicate that you were, indeed, shot.”
He taps the tip of his umbrella upon the ground as his eyes lift to meet Sherlock’s. “Quite miraculous, don’t you think?”
For once his brother’s gaze is unusually vulnerable, hazy with confusion, his brow creased in concentration as he tries to remember what happened under the aegis of shock and pain. His fingers continue to rub over his shoulder, as he finally rumbles in vague annoyance, “You’re repeating yourself. I assure you, I am in full possession of all my faculties and can readily predict your story’s progression to its rather obvious conclusions.”
“Except for the part where we still don’t have any answers as to why you’re not drowned in the Thames with a bullet hole in your shoulder.”
Sherlock’s lips curl in a small wry smile as he mumbles to himself, “Solve a mystery only to gain a mystery. Must be my lucky day…”
With a sigh of frustration, Mycroft points out, “If you’re going to drag me out of emergency meetings in the middle of the night because you’re involved in something you can’t handle, the least you could do is tell me what you remember.”
Sherlock snorts softly as he retorts, “I didn’t drag you anywhere. If you came out of a sense of familial duty that is your problem, not mine. I didn’t ask you come and I don’t need you to be here. And for the record, I don’t remember anything after being shot.” His hand waves once more, this time in a dismissive sort of motion. He needs to think and Mycroft is like a gnat buzzing in his ear. A distraction. His eyes slowly close once more, but this time in self-reflection rather than active rebellion, his hands folding beneath his chin as he adopts his ‘thinking’ pose. The silence between them is ominously loud, as it seems that Sherlock is not inclined to say anything more.
Rising up to feet, Mycroft sniffs and replies, “Fine. The Detective Inspector is waiting outside and he’s most eager to speak with you. Do you feel well enough to see him?”
Sherlock’s eyes remain closed, but his chin dips once in silent assent.
Striding over to the door, Mycroft’s hand reaches for the knob and then stops, resting there for a moment. Turning back to study his brother, his face gentles, frustration giving way to concern as he gazes back at the fragile form lying on the hospital bed. “You know my offer still stands. You could come and work for me. We could use your talents, Sherlock. You’re wasting yourself with this whole silly consulting detective thing. You could be making a real difference, saving lives you know. We still haven’t been able to magically enhance the CCTV system into being able to record and reveal Otherkind. With your abilities we could revolutionize technology, bring the hidden to light.”
His eyes open, flicking to one side disdainfully as Sherlock snipes, “What, and be your trick dog so you can move further up the government ladder? It’s not enough that you’re a powerful Sensitive, is it, Mycroft? Oh, no, you want me as your puppet Adept so you can control the world. No thank you, Mycroft. Now go away.”
Frowning, as if dealing with an intractable teenager, Mycroft’s voice adopts an arch and condescending tone. “You really need to cease and desist with this childish feud. You are an Adept without the ability to sense Otherkind and I am a Sensitive. Face it, Sherlock, together we would be an unstoppable force.”
Glaring at the ceiling, the younger Holmes huffs angrily, petulantly retorting, “The answer has been, is now, and forever will be no! Now please kindly bugger off!” And with that, Sherlock rolls over, presenting the long line of his back to his brother. The message is clear: this conversation is over.
Lips drawing into a thin line, Mycroft opens the door and steps out into the hallway, closing it softly behind him. His eyes rest upon the floor for a moment as he composes himself, and once his expression is calm and controlled he steps over toward Lestrade and reports, “He’ll see you now,” before making his way down the hospital corridor, umbrella tapping against the ground with each step.
Rising up to his feet uncertainly, DI Geoffrey Lestrade stares at the retreating figure for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and knocking lightly on the door to Sherlock’s room before entering it. The figure on the bed turns his head to ensure that it is, in fact, the Detective Inspector standing there before shifting to face the door again, studying the bloodied and rumpled figure of the man.
“You look like hell.”
“That would be your fault,” the police officer points out dryly, but his hands do tug at his clothes, straightening them as best he can. Crossing over to the bed, Lestrade takes the seat that Mycroft abandoned and asks directly, “So, what happened tonight?”
Sherlock’s expression turns introspective for a moment before he shakes his head and counters, “Tell me what you saw.”
Blowing out a breath, Geoff rakes his hands through his silver hair and leans back in the chair. “All right, let's see. You were chasing the suspect that you encountered in the park because you couldn’t be bothered to wait for my team.”
Sherlock waves a hand dismissively, interrupting to point out, “He would have got away…”
“Right, and you could have got yourself killed. Hell, we all thought you did get yourself killed.”
“Mmmmm, and I’m sure Anderson and Sergeant Donovan were so disappointed to be wrong. Again.”
With an impatient snort, Lestrade wrests back control of the conversation. “Anywaaay, so we followed as soon as we got a bead on the pair of you. By the time we made it to Lambeth bridge you were stopped more than half way across I would guess.” He rubs his face at the recollection at what came next, all of it just a little too strange to be believed.
“And? And?!”
“Right, just hold your horses, I’m getting to it,” huffs the Inspector Detective, “Do you want me to tell you the rest or do you want to guess at the rest?”
“I never guess,” Sherlock corrects archly, his mouth opening to comment further before Lestrade cuts him off.
“Right, and since you weren’t there and you don’t guess then you can just bloody well shut up for once and let me finish.” He waits to see if Sherlock will interrupt him again, and for a moment it looks as if the younger man will, an irritated and petulant expression coming over his features before he waves a hand to indicate that Geoffrey may continue.
“Thank you. As I was saying, as far as I could see, the suspect pulled out a gun and shot you in the upper chest or shoulder region. You went over the railing. But you know that bit. Seconds after you went over the edge there was a massive flash of lightning and a fuck-all loud crash of thunder. By the time we had caught up to where you’d been, you were nowhere in sight and the ‘suspect’ was little more than a blackened husk.” His hand covers his mouth, rubbing at it slightly as he shakes his head. “It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I mean, I’ve seen people who have been struck by lightning. Burns at the strike point and exit point are not abnormal but this… going to have a devil of a time explaining it all in my report…”
His gaze flickers over towards Sherlock. He already suspects, but he asks anyways. “That wasn’t lightning that we saw, was it?”
Sniffing disdainfully, Sherlock notes archly, “I wasn’t there, remember? But no. Probably not.” His head turns to study Lestrade’s face as he adds, “It was a demon. He was responsible.”
Sputtering slightly, the detective snaps, “A demon? And just how, exactly, am I supposed to investigate and prosecute that?!”
“Well, seeing as it’s dead, the prosecuting part is rather null and void I should say…”
“Sherlock, seriously, how…”
His long fingers flick through the air as he replies, “The parks were his base of power. The place he had the most control over people. Perhaps he made a deal with some nature spirits or the dryads there. No telling now. That was his way of collecting souls. Finding relationships that were unstable, goading and convincing the men that their girlfriends or wives were unfaithful. Bringing them to the point where they couldn’t think straight, to where they turned on the ones they loved in a jealous rage. Then offered them a deal; make all the evidence disappear for their souls. Convinced them that they were damned either way, not a particularly hard task to pull off, before convincing them that it would be better to remain free than to be in prison for the rest of your life and your afterlife. If they even truly believed they were signing over their souls in the first place…”
“How could you possib… but that’s… that’s diabolical!”
One brow arches up superciliously as Sherlock gives Lestrade a look and replies drolly, “Well, it was a demon.” His gaze wanders, turning introspective again before he murmurs, “As for the investigative part, I recommend testing the evidence again. It’s entirely possible, now that the demon has been destroyed, that his influence has been nullified. Retesting DNA samples might yield you matches to the men in question. It would be easy enough to claim that the samples were all sent to the same lab initially and the first set of inaccurate results were due to diagnostic failures. Even if they were being manipulated, they still each made the ultimate choice and committed the acts. I think, faced with hard evidence, they’ll crack under the pressure.” He breathes out a sigh and turns his head to look at Lestrade. “So… what happened after that?”
The DI takes a moment to consider all that Sherlock has related to him before running his hands through his hair restlessly again and continuing on. “I wasn’t really sure what to do. Assumed you’d been shot and were probably drowned, if not dead before you hit the water. Called for backup and wetsuits, had the others start walking the Thames just in case you decided to wash up onto the bank somewhere.” His head tilts down for a moment as he recalls frantically yelling into his radio, eyes searching in vain to try and spot anything within the dark swirling water below. “Then I, well, I guess I just had this hunch. That’s what it felt like. Crossed the bridge and started walking the river’s edge and found you about 500 meters down, splayed out on the ground looking like death just barely warmed over. Course you know the rest, I imagine.” He glances away uncertainly and then back again, staring at Sherlock’s shoulder now, likely wondering the same thing that Sherlock has been this whole time.
“So, what do you remember? Anything?”
Closing his eyes to help himself concentrate, Sherlock allows himself to relive the experience, slowing it down frame by frame in his mind so that he might examine it thoroughly. “I tackled him. He kneed me in the diaphragm, pulled away, and pulled out a gun. I mocked him..”
“You mocked him? You mocked a demon that was holding a gun on you? Jesus, do you have a death wish??”
“As someone once said to me, do you want me to tell you the rest or do you want to guess at it?” At Lestrade’s frustrated, yet yielding, sigh, Sherlock carries on. “He didn’t waste any time gloating, which was honestly what I had been counting on. The ambitious ones are always so eager for an audience…”
“Not that I don’t know what that’s like,” Lestrade muttered under his breath, only to add when Sherlock shot him a nasty sideways glare, “So sorry, please do continue,” his words lacking any real contrition.
Huffing, Sherlock rumbles, “So like I said, he didn’t waste any time, just shot me. It felt like someone took a sledgehammer to my shoulder, lifted me partially off my feet. I suppose that’s why I went over the railing. I remember teetering there, clutching at my shoulder and then falling.” His nose wrinkles as he confesses, “I don’t recall blacking out on the way down, but I must have, because I don’t remember hitting the water. The next thing I can remember was that I was wet and cold and, I presume, in shock.” Brow creasing, he notes, “But I wasn’t coughing or gasping for breath. Odd, wouldn’t you say, for someone who fell into the Thames unconscious?”
“Bloody miracle, the whole thing, if you ask me.”
His steepled fingers lightly tap his pursed lips, eyes narrowed until Lestrade asks, “And?” At Sherlock’s questioning look, the detective shrugs and notes, “You’ve got the strangest look on your face, like you’re about to say something but aren’t sure that you should. And since we both know that you don’t have any sort of filter when it comes to saying what’s on your mind, you must be seriously doubting your sanity right about now.”
Sighing, Sherlock’s gaze rolls away from Lestrade’s dramatically before coming to rest on the ceiling again. “I wasn’t alone.”
“What, you mean someone pulled you out?”
“MmmMMmmm, someone. Or something. I could have sworn that when I came to there was someone there, holding me. I thought I saw his eyes. I felt,” and he hesitates for a moment before mumbling almost inaudibly, “…safe.” There’s a soft awkward clearing of his throat before Sherlock shrugs, noting, “But I could have just been hallucinating the whole thing. Because the very next second I was alone and freezing my arse off. Until you showed up a few minutes later.”
Lestrade folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair, silently whistling to himself. “Somebody up there must really like you, that’s all I can say.”
With a soft snort, Sherlock spears Lestrade with a sideways glance. “No one likes me down here. Why would anyone up there?”
With a soft huff of laughter, the detective shakes his head and confesses, “Damned if I know…”
Sighing in annoyance, Sherlock’s fingers return to his left shoulder, rubbing it curiously as he lets the inquiry drop and asks instead, “So, how long do I have to stay here?”
Straightening up, Lestrade eyes Sherlock uncertainly, drawling slowly, “Welllllllll, there’s the rub, isn’t it? Because your condition was so unusual, they want to hold you at least 24 hours, just in case you’re internally bleeding or have some other complicating factor that might explain for the blood loss and all.”
“24 hours?!” Sherlock surges upright only for the room to start spinning.
“Right, none of that,” Lestrade replies, a gentle but firm hand pushing Sherlock back down onto the bed. “It’s not so bad. Just the night and most of tomorrow. You’ll sleep through it and be back to your flat come the following morning.”
“I don’t sleep, and that’s only if they don’t decide to poke and prod at me some more in the hopes of writing some diagnostic paper on some hitherto unheard of blood disorder,” Sherlock grouses discontentedly.
“If you ask me, some enforced rest could do you a world of good.”
“You know what would do me a world of good? My laptop. Oh, and the stack of books I left sitting beside it. And, no, damn, I don’t think there’s enough room on the side table here for the lab equipment. I suppose the computer and books will just have to do. Be a good fellow and pop on over to my flat and pick those things up for me, won’t you Lestrade? Seeing as how I’m stuck here all night and I did just help you crack open a supposed serial murder case. Just think of all those people feeling safe going to the parks at night again for their illicit little affairs.”
Eyeing Sherlock dubiously, Lestrade lets free a highly put-upon sigh as he rises up to his feet, adding, “And if I don’t go, you’ll just bugger off home when no one’s looking, won’t you.”
Sherlock’s smile is far from kind as he smirks up into Lestrade’s face and purrs, “Why Detective Inspector, that was an unusually perceptive deduction on your part…"
Length: 3672 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and highly platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OC characters 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 daluci for being a top-notch beta, to non_canonical for her excellent advice and Brit picking, and to abundantlyqueer for her encouragement, support, and being inspirational!
Fallen - Chapter 3: Manipulation
Where he is is painfully obvious, even with his eyes closed. The beeping of monitoring equipment, the powerful scent of disinfectant, the bustle of nurses and doctors beyond a closed door, the subtle weight and pull of the tape from the IV in his wrist, the pathetically low thread-count sheets beneath his fingers and the positively anemic blanket covering his frame. A hospital. How dreadfully boring. Now if he can only remember why… that’s sure to be more interesting.
Flickering his eyes open, Sherlock breathes a small sigh of relief as someone has at least had the decency to turn off the florescent lights overhead so he doesn’t have to painfully squint in an overly bright room. He takes a moment to assess his transport, his body feeling weak and tired, his eyes fastening onto the IV feeding blood and plasma into his system before moving on. At least the room is quiet and dim and free of annoying doctors and nurses poking and prodding at him. The small amount of pleasure gained from those facts dissolves when his eyes alight upon the individual responsible.
“You,” he manages to rumble with a tone of disgust. “What are you doing here?”
Glancing down at the floor, as if studying the perfectly polished tip of his shoe, Mycroft chides mildly, “Really, Sherlock, I should think that would be painfully obvious, even in your…” and he takes a moment to find just the right word before lifting his head and smiling condescendingly at his younger brother. “ …diminished state.”
His umbrella lightly taps upon the linoleum floor as he crosses over from the wall to stand at his brother’s side, noting, “This is the second time in two years that I’ve had to come to see you at the hospital. If you will only allow one familial social visit per year, couldn’t you at least choose Christmas or some other holiday? And a more suitable location?” His head turns to take in their surroundings, nose wrinkling as he points out, “The food and the atmosphere are so much nicer at Mummy’s house, and she misses you so.”
Turning his head and closing his eyes, as if that would be enough to make Mycroft disappear, Sherlock intones archly, “Go away, Mycroft,” the fingers of his right hand lifting to make a small complicated gesture that is rather reminiscent of a shooing motion. With a small scoffing noise, Mycroft notes, “If you think a pathetic warding spell like that is going to work on the likes of me, you’re in even worse condition than I thought.”
There is a shrill scraping sound as he pulls a chair up to Sherlock’s bedside and sits down, taking a moment to make himself comfortable as possible before asking, “So why aren’t you? In worse condition, I mean.”
Sherlock turns back, scowling at his brother as he rumbles angrily, “What do you mean, not in worse condition? I was shot!“ His fingers lift to touch his left shoulder only to find… nothing. No bandages, no wound, only smooth, unmarred flesh.
“Yeeeeeeeeeeessss, exactly,” Mycroft concurs dryly as he takes in the look of surprise that crosses his brother’s features, quickly followed by disgruntled confusion. “You were brought in covered in blood and with a bullet hole in your clothing and yet… no bullet. Strange, no?” His gaze has wandered again, studying the tip of his umbrella now as he idly twirls it, as if by averting his gaze he might cajole his brother into being more open with him, or at least not fighting him for each and every sentence.
“Even though you are a respectably powerful Adept, even you do not have the capability of removing a bullet from your body and healing the damage, so the question becomes, what became of it? Additionally, with the rate and direction at which the Thames was flowing this evening, you should have been washed up on the opposite shore much further down than you were, if you were to land ashore at all. In fact, your body was found practically cross-current.” His head lifts to study Sherlock’s features to see what he might give away in this moment of weakness, but his brother’s eyes are staring straight up at the ceiling, his gaze turned inward and introspective as he tries to re-enact in his mind the events of the evening.
“What is most intriguing, however, is the rather irrefutable proof that you were, as you indicated, shot.” Sherlock offers up no reaction to the statement, so Mycroft indulges him with the unrequested facts. “Upon arrival at the hospital you were suffering from extremely low blood pressure and the effects of cold and shock. Perfectly normal for having taken a dip in the Thames in January. However, your heart rate was highly elevated and there was no improvement in your condition once your environment and body temperature were stabilized. A closer look revealed that your blood volume has somehow been… reduced. Somewhere, somehow, you lost nearly three pints of blood. No internal injuries, no obvious wounds. The blood was just…gone.” His gaze shifts down to the floor once more, hiding a slight frisson of worry as he remembers what it looked like, what he thought, when he first saw Sherlock surrounded by doctors, looking for all the world like one of the corpses his younger brother so loved to poke and prod. “That, coupled with the rather blatant damage to your clothes would indicate that you were, indeed, shot.”
He taps the tip of his umbrella upon the ground as his eyes lift to meet Sherlock’s. “Quite miraculous, don’t you think?”
For once his brother’s gaze is unusually vulnerable, hazy with confusion, his brow creased in concentration as he tries to remember what happened under the aegis of shock and pain. His fingers continue to rub over his shoulder, as he finally rumbles in vague annoyance, “You’re repeating yourself. I assure you, I am in full possession of all my faculties and can readily predict your story’s progression to its rather obvious conclusions.”
“Except for the part where we still don’t have any answers as to why you’re not drowned in the Thames with a bullet hole in your shoulder.”
Sherlock’s lips curl in a small wry smile as he mumbles to himself, “Solve a mystery only to gain a mystery. Must be my lucky day…”
With a sigh of frustration, Mycroft points out, “If you’re going to drag me out of emergency meetings in the middle of the night because you’re involved in something you can’t handle, the least you could do is tell me what you remember.”
Sherlock snorts softly as he retorts, “I didn’t drag you anywhere. If you came out of a sense of familial duty that is your problem, not mine. I didn’t ask you come and I don’t need you to be here. And for the record, I don’t remember anything after being shot.” His hand waves once more, this time in a dismissive sort of motion. He needs to think and Mycroft is like a gnat buzzing in his ear. A distraction. His eyes slowly close once more, but this time in self-reflection rather than active rebellion, his hands folding beneath his chin as he adopts his ‘thinking’ pose. The silence between them is ominously loud, as it seems that Sherlock is not inclined to say anything more.
Rising up to feet, Mycroft sniffs and replies, “Fine. The Detective Inspector is waiting outside and he’s most eager to speak with you. Do you feel well enough to see him?”
Sherlock’s eyes remain closed, but his chin dips once in silent assent.
Striding over to the door, Mycroft’s hand reaches for the knob and then stops, resting there for a moment. Turning back to study his brother, his face gentles, frustration giving way to concern as he gazes back at the fragile form lying on the hospital bed. “You know my offer still stands. You could come and work for me. We could use your talents, Sherlock. You’re wasting yourself with this whole silly consulting detective thing. You could be making a real difference, saving lives you know. We still haven’t been able to magically enhance the CCTV system into being able to record and reveal Otherkind. With your abilities we could revolutionize technology, bring the hidden to light.”
His eyes open, flicking to one side disdainfully as Sherlock snipes, “What, and be your trick dog so you can move further up the government ladder? It’s not enough that you’re a powerful Sensitive, is it, Mycroft? Oh, no, you want me as your puppet Adept so you can control the world. No thank you, Mycroft. Now go away.”
Frowning, as if dealing with an intractable teenager, Mycroft’s voice adopts an arch and condescending tone. “You really need to cease and desist with this childish feud. You are an Adept without the ability to sense Otherkind and I am a Sensitive. Face it, Sherlock, together we would be an unstoppable force.”
Glaring at the ceiling, the younger Holmes huffs angrily, petulantly retorting, “The answer has been, is now, and forever will be no! Now please kindly bugger off!” And with that, Sherlock rolls over, presenting the long line of his back to his brother. The message is clear: this conversation is over.
Lips drawing into a thin line, Mycroft opens the door and steps out into the hallway, closing it softly behind him. His eyes rest upon the floor for a moment as he composes himself, and once his expression is calm and controlled he steps over toward Lestrade and reports, “He’ll see you now,” before making his way down the hospital corridor, umbrella tapping against the ground with each step.
Rising up to his feet uncertainly, DI Geoffrey Lestrade stares at the retreating figure for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and knocking lightly on the door to Sherlock’s room before entering it. The figure on the bed turns his head to ensure that it is, in fact, the Detective Inspector standing there before shifting to face the door again, studying the bloodied and rumpled figure of the man.
“You look like hell.”
“That would be your fault,” the police officer points out dryly, but his hands do tug at his clothes, straightening them as best he can. Crossing over to the bed, Lestrade takes the seat that Mycroft abandoned and asks directly, “So, what happened tonight?”
Sherlock’s expression turns introspective for a moment before he shakes his head and counters, “Tell me what you saw.”
Blowing out a breath, Geoff rakes his hands through his silver hair and leans back in the chair. “All right, let's see. You were chasing the suspect that you encountered in the park because you couldn’t be bothered to wait for my team.”
Sherlock waves a hand dismissively, interrupting to point out, “He would have got away…”
“Right, and you could have got yourself killed. Hell, we all thought you did get yourself killed.”
“Mmmmm, and I’m sure Anderson and Sergeant Donovan were so disappointed to be wrong. Again.”
With an impatient snort, Lestrade wrests back control of the conversation. “Anywaaay, so we followed as soon as we got a bead on the pair of you. By the time we made it to Lambeth bridge you were stopped more than half way across I would guess.” He rubs his face at the recollection at what came next, all of it just a little too strange to be believed.
“And? And?!”
“Right, just hold your horses, I’m getting to it,” huffs the Inspector Detective, “Do you want me to tell you the rest or do you want to guess at the rest?”
“I never guess,” Sherlock corrects archly, his mouth opening to comment further before Lestrade cuts him off.
“Right, and since you weren’t there and you don’t guess then you can just bloody well shut up for once and let me finish.” He waits to see if Sherlock will interrupt him again, and for a moment it looks as if the younger man will, an irritated and petulant expression coming over his features before he waves a hand to indicate that Geoffrey may continue.
“Thank you. As I was saying, as far as I could see, the suspect pulled out a gun and shot you in the upper chest or shoulder region. You went over the railing. But you know that bit. Seconds after you went over the edge there was a massive flash of lightning and a fuck-all loud crash of thunder. By the time we had caught up to where you’d been, you were nowhere in sight and the ‘suspect’ was little more than a blackened husk.” His hand covers his mouth, rubbing at it slightly as he shakes his head. “It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I mean, I’ve seen people who have been struck by lightning. Burns at the strike point and exit point are not abnormal but this… going to have a devil of a time explaining it all in my report…”
His gaze flickers over towards Sherlock. He already suspects, but he asks anyways. “That wasn’t lightning that we saw, was it?”
Sniffing disdainfully, Sherlock notes archly, “I wasn’t there, remember? But no. Probably not.” His head turns to study Lestrade’s face as he adds, “It was a demon. He was responsible.”
Sputtering slightly, the detective snaps, “A demon? And just how, exactly, am I supposed to investigate and prosecute that?!”
“Well, seeing as it’s dead, the prosecuting part is rather null and void I should say…”
“Sherlock, seriously, how…”
His long fingers flick through the air as he replies, “The parks were his base of power. The place he had the most control over people. Perhaps he made a deal with some nature spirits or the dryads there. No telling now. That was his way of collecting souls. Finding relationships that were unstable, goading and convincing the men that their girlfriends or wives were unfaithful. Bringing them to the point where they couldn’t think straight, to where they turned on the ones they loved in a jealous rage. Then offered them a deal; make all the evidence disappear for their souls. Convinced them that they were damned either way, not a particularly hard task to pull off, before convincing them that it would be better to remain free than to be in prison for the rest of your life and your afterlife. If they even truly believed they were signing over their souls in the first place…”
“How could you possib… but that’s… that’s diabolical!”
One brow arches up superciliously as Sherlock gives Lestrade a look and replies drolly, “Well, it was a demon.” His gaze wanders, turning introspective again before he murmurs, “As for the investigative part, I recommend testing the evidence again. It’s entirely possible, now that the demon has been destroyed, that his influence has been nullified. Retesting DNA samples might yield you matches to the men in question. It would be easy enough to claim that the samples were all sent to the same lab initially and the first set of inaccurate results were due to diagnostic failures. Even if they were being manipulated, they still each made the ultimate choice and committed the acts. I think, faced with hard evidence, they’ll crack under the pressure.” He breathes out a sigh and turns his head to look at Lestrade. “So… what happened after that?”
The DI takes a moment to consider all that Sherlock has related to him before running his hands through his hair restlessly again and continuing on. “I wasn’t really sure what to do. Assumed you’d been shot and were probably drowned, if not dead before you hit the water. Called for backup and wetsuits, had the others start walking the Thames just in case you decided to wash up onto the bank somewhere.” His head tilts down for a moment as he recalls frantically yelling into his radio, eyes searching in vain to try and spot anything within the dark swirling water below. “Then I, well, I guess I just had this hunch. That’s what it felt like. Crossed the bridge and started walking the river’s edge and found you about 500 meters down, splayed out on the ground looking like death just barely warmed over. Course you know the rest, I imagine.” He glances away uncertainly and then back again, staring at Sherlock’s shoulder now, likely wondering the same thing that Sherlock has been this whole time.
“So, what do you remember? Anything?”
Closing his eyes to help himself concentrate, Sherlock allows himself to relive the experience, slowing it down frame by frame in his mind so that he might examine it thoroughly. “I tackled him. He kneed me in the diaphragm, pulled away, and pulled out a gun. I mocked him..”
“You mocked him? You mocked a demon that was holding a gun on you? Jesus, do you have a death wish??”
“As someone once said to me, do you want me to tell you the rest or do you want to guess at it?” At Lestrade’s frustrated, yet yielding, sigh, Sherlock carries on. “He didn’t waste any time gloating, which was honestly what I had been counting on. The ambitious ones are always so eager for an audience…”
“Not that I don’t know what that’s like,” Lestrade muttered under his breath, only to add when Sherlock shot him a nasty sideways glare, “So sorry, please do continue,” his words lacking any real contrition.
Huffing, Sherlock rumbles, “So like I said, he didn’t waste any time, just shot me. It felt like someone took a sledgehammer to my shoulder, lifted me partially off my feet. I suppose that’s why I went over the railing. I remember teetering there, clutching at my shoulder and then falling.” His nose wrinkles as he confesses, “I don’t recall blacking out on the way down, but I must have, because I don’t remember hitting the water. The next thing I can remember was that I was wet and cold and, I presume, in shock.” Brow creasing, he notes, “But I wasn’t coughing or gasping for breath. Odd, wouldn’t you say, for someone who fell into the Thames unconscious?”
“Bloody miracle, the whole thing, if you ask me.”
His steepled fingers lightly tap his pursed lips, eyes narrowed until Lestrade asks, “And?” At Sherlock’s questioning look, the detective shrugs and notes, “You’ve got the strangest look on your face, like you’re about to say something but aren’t sure that you should. And since we both know that you don’t have any sort of filter when it comes to saying what’s on your mind, you must be seriously doubting your sanity right about now.”
Sighing, Sherlock’s gaze rolls away from Lestrade’s dramatically before coming to rest on the ceiling again. “I wasn’t alone.”
“What, you mean someone pulled you out?”
“MmmMMmmm, someone. Or something. I could have sworn that when I came to there was someone there, holding me. I thought I saw his eyes. I felt,” and he hesitates for a moment before mumbling almost inaudibly, “…safe.” There’s a soft awkward clearing of his throat before Sherlock shrugs, noting, “But I could have just been hallucinating the whole thing. Because the very next second I was alone and freezing my arse off. Until you showed up a few minutes later.”
Lestrade folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair, silently whistling to himself. “Somebody up there must really like you, that’s all I can say.”
With a soft snort, Sherlock spears Lestrade with a sideways glance. “No one likes me down here. Why would anyone up there?”
With a soft huff of laughter, the detective shakes his head and confesses, “Damned if I know…”
Sighing in annoyance, Sherlock’s fingers return to his left shoulder, rubbing it curiously as he lets the inquiry drop and asks instead, “So, how long do I have to stay here?”
Straightening up, Lestrade eyes Sherlock uncertainly, drawling slowly, “Welllllllll, there’s the rub, isn’t it? Because your condition was so unusual, they want to hold you at least 24 hours, just in case you’re internally bleeding or have some other complicating factor that might explain for the blood loss and all.”
“24 hours?!” Sherlock surges upright only for the room to start spinning.
“Right, none of that,” Lestrade replies, a gentle but firm hand pushing Sherlock back down onto the bed. “It’s not so bad. Just the night and most of tomorrow. You’ll sleep through it and be back to your flat come the following morning.”
“I don’t sleep, and that’s only if they don’t decide to poke and prod at me some more in the hopes of writing some diagnostic paper on some hitherto unheard of blood disorder,” Sherlock grouses discontentedly.
“If you ask me, some enforced rest could do you a world of good.”
“You know what would do me a world of good? My laptop. Oh, and the stack of books I left sitting beside it. And, no, damn, I don’t think there’s enough room on the side table here for the lab equipment. I suppose the computer and books will just have to do. Be a good fellow and pop on over to my flat and pick those things up for me, won’t you Lestrade? Seeing as how I’m stuck here all night and I did just help you crack open a supposed serial murder case. Just think of all those people feeling safe going to the parks at night again for their illicit little affairs.”
Eyeing Sherlock dubiously, Lestrade lets free a highly put-upon sigh as he rises up to his feet, adding, “And if I don’t go, you’ll just bugger off home when no one’s looking, won’t you.”
Sherlock’s smile is far from kind as he smirks up into Lestrade’s face and purrs, “Why Detective Inspector, that was an unusually perceptive deduction on your part…"