Invisible Bonds - Chapter 13
Title: Invisible Bonds - Chapter 13
Length: 5,682 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, and Brit picking! :D I'm feeling too impatient, so I'm jumping my betas on this chapter. So beware, there will be mistakes I'm sure! I'll go back and fix later once I hear back. (such a bad author...)
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! 63,960 words posted, 71,000+ words written so far!
Invisible Bonds: Chapter 13
He didn’t sleep much last night. Hours of darkness were spent tossing and turning, tearing his bed apart as he fitfully dozed only to wake up abruptly from nightmares where this time it was Sherlock’s soul being destroyed by Sǐwáng, John helpless to do anything but watch in horror.
Shuffling down the stairs in his robe, John passes by where Sherlock is sitting dressed and looking remarkably well rested, practically brimming over with energy and impatience. In comparison, John looks exhausted and worn out, rumpled and untidy, with shadows under his eyes.
When John walks by and ignores him, Sherlock frowns and calls out, “John.”
“What?”
“Why aren’t you dressed?”
“Because I had a crap night and, with any luck, I’m going to sleep all day today.”
“You slept poorly? Was it something you ate? I warned you that the curry was off.”
Walking back into the living room, John just stares at Sherlock. Sherlock in turn stares back at John with a look of impatience and an utter lack of comprehension.
Shaking his head, John counters pointedly, “Sherlock… a woman died last night!”
“Well, technically she was already dead and had been for some time, so I really don’t see that the problem is…”
“You don’t see what the…?” John’s words taper off because the shock and outrage in him have surged up such that they are apparently blocking off his larynx. He rolls his head to loosen the knots in his shoulders and coughs to clear his throat. “You mean to say, if she had been alive and murdered, like the others, you would feel differently? But because she was ghost, she doesn’t matter?”
Frowning, as if John were speaking in tongues, Sherlock backpedals slightly. “John. I realize that as a Sensitive what you saw, what you experienced, must have been a bit of a shock to you. But it’s not like she was still alive. She wasn’t a human any more; she was a ghost. She should have dissipated centuries ago.”
John’s hands have begun to flex and curl into fists. He has to physically restrain himself from not hauling off and punching Sherlock in the face. His voice comes out sharp and terse, his words bitten off.
“So, what? You think that’s it? A person dies and that’s it? You don’t believe in souls continuing on? What is a ghost then? Just a collection of memories wrapped up in some kind of energy field?”
“That is one theory,” Sherlock returns mildly. “Others include that some minor supernatural creature, often a demon, will take up that energy for strength and, in doing so, gains the appearance and the memories of the one who had died. But it’s just energy, John. Nothing more.”
A tic flares up in John’s cheek, his jaw tightly clenched as he glares at Sherlock, who blithely continues on.
“It seems highly unlikely that we continue on after this mortal life. It’s far more likely that such fantasies are merely the comforting trappings of religion which promises that if you are ‘good’ you go to heaven or get reborn into a better situation, but if you are ‘bad’ you go to hell or come back as a cockroach.” Sherlock sniffs disparagingly. “Emotional claptrap to control the masses.” His silvery gaze comes to rest upon John, taking in his apparent disapproval, one brow arching superciliously. “I’m honestly surprised you believe in such sentimental nonsense.”
The anger within John is monumental and all he wants to do is yell at Sherlock and tell him how wrong he is. About everything. But what would be the point? It wouldn’t change his opinion. John cannot offer any sort of proof without revealing what he is, or was. It would be the wistful beliefs of a man fooled by the manipulations of religion and the Church in Sherlock’s eyes. Nothing more. So John bites his tongue and continues into the kitchen. Tea and toast. Perhaps delving into the simple ritual will help disperse some of the rage that is coursing through his body.
“It is unusual though,” Sherlock adds after a thoughtful moment, “to find two ghosts who believed so completely that they were brother and sister. It would have been interesting to determine how that came to be. Perhaps they were demons or spirits that were related and that was where the bond originated from? Or perhaps Soo Lin’s story was the truth, two siblings who died, their energy and memories continuing on or taken over.” There’s a thoughtful hum as Sherlock adds, “More likely taken over, considering Sǐwáng’s strength. It’s a pity that the trap didn’t work. And now, with Soo Lin gone, there’s nothing to bait another with.”
John drops his spoon with a clink, turning around to stare at Sherlock in shock. “Wait. What? You knew? You knew Sǐwáng would follow us? You deliberately used Soo Lin as bait so you could trap him?”
“Of course. There was a high probability that he was shadowing us, either on his own recognizance or per orders, just as it was obvious that Soo Lin was somehow involved in all of this and he was connected to her.” His shoulders shrug negligently as he points out, “Of course it was still just a gamble. But it seemed as good an opportunity as any to draw him out and capture him.”
He can feel Sherlock’s gaze, his honestly puzzled regard and tone as John’s hands grip the countertop before him so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. “It was obviously the logical thing to do. We need answers and Sǐwáng needs to be stopped before he kills anyone else.” There’s a gusty sigh as his hands wave through the air in frustration. “No telling where he is now or how we might be able to find him. With his bond to the Black Lotus, I cannot summon him. Their mark will supersede any pull of mine…”
The tension is broken as the bread pops out of the toaster with a soft clang. John lets out a breath and releases his grip on the counter to pick up a knife. He considers, for a brief moment, using it on Sherlock. After another deep breath, he automatically butters the toast and indulgently spreads a generous amount of strawberry jam on top before carrying both it and his tea to the couch. Since his change, John has discovered that he enjoys sensory experiences more than most of his human counterparts. The sense of touch, smell, sound, and taste are heady experiences to one who has lived for centuries with limited access to such sensations. Hence the indulgence in jam and the small bit of pudge that has begun to form about his middle. The pleasure, however, will tragically not be enough to improve his current mood. John puts his breakfast down carefully before dropping onto the cushions with a whump, hand reaching for the remote to flick the telly on, his gaze decidedly not looking at Sherlock.
There’s a moment where nothing is heard but the inane chatter of some morning talk show before Sherlock announces in bemusement, “You’re angry with me.”
Glancing up, John snipes, “Oh, did you deduce that all on your own? Bully for you then.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Why?” John flicks the channels a few times before dropping his hand and glaring up at Sherlock once more. “Because you’re wrong, that’s why.”
“Wrong?”
“Yes, wrong.”
Sherlock frowns, stating clearly, “I’m never wrong.”
“Well, see, now you’re wrong again.” John’s chin juts out as he turns the volume up on Some Show, folding his arms over his chest.
“Are you going to explain why?”
“No, no I am not, because you never listen and there’s a good chance that if you say anything more I’m going to punch you in the face.”
There’s a moment of silence before Sherlock points out, “Violence is not the answer.”
“No, no it’s not, but right now it will feel damn good.”
Sherlock stands for a moment, at a loss before bustling about the flat once more, deciding, apparently, to leave John to his little strop. A few minutes later he has emerged from his room and reaches for his coat, pulling it on before asking, “I’m going down to the morgue, are you coming?”
“No.”
Sherlock stops in his tracks, almost shocked, turning around and actually asking John, “No?”
“No, Sherlock. No, I am not coming. No, I am not going to the morgue with you. I’m tired and cross and I’m staying here. You don’t need me and I don’t want to do anything but put up my feet, eat my breakfast, and watch the telly.”
The very idea is clearly beyond comprehension. Go to the morgue to examine dead bodies for telltale signs of magical coercion, or stay home watching some inane programme? There’s no competition! “There’s nothing but crap on the telly.”
John doesn’t so much as glance back at Sherlock, his gaze rock hard and determined as his head bobs up and down. “Mmmmm, yes, that’s why I’m watching it.” Because for the first time since he found Sherlock again, the last place John wants to be is at his side.
*****
Humans. Strange, bizarre, inexplicable creatures they are. Full of noise and nonsense and strange ideas about how the world should work. Sometimes their shenanigans and upsets are entertaining, but other times they prove to be more annoying and disruptive compared to the blissful, simple pleasures of a Brownie. Because life really is dreadfully simple. Leave it to humans to have to muck up the works and make it so complicated. Why, for example, do they worry so much when they have food in their bellies, a warm bed to sleep in, and a roof over their heads? What more does a body need? Feh! Some might scoff at Brownies, call them stupid, simple creatures, but as far as Tup can see, there isn’t a creature in the world more happy than his kind.
When Wingless and Sherlock returned rough and disheveled, Tuppence saw the value of spending the night elsewhere for a change. Neither man would be sleeping, that much was clear, and Tup had no desire to get caught in the middle of their mutual and yet exclusive frustrations. He’d much rather be up all night with Teaspoon and Twaddle if it came down to that.
Come morning Tuppence returns to the upstairs room, opening the window and sliding in. The bed, blanket and sheets pulled free and wildly twisted about, confirms his suspicions. Creeping down the stairs, one ear lifts and cocks as he listens in on the conversation of his two humans, the back and forth of sharp tones and sharper words. He flattens against the railing as the tall one comes out, feet thundering down the stairs in a mix of temper and impatience. He ponders for a moment going back up and slipping into Wingless’ bed or laundry basket, but an disgruntled growl from his belly makes the tiny Fae descend the stairs and slip into the living room.
The cheerful noise from the big box makes him grin and hop in excitement. Ooooh! Telly! Scurrying over, he climbs up the arm of the sofa and plops himself down next to John without so much as a hello or a by your leave. He can tell that the ex-angel is not in the mood for conversation, which is just as well. Neither is Tup. He watches with bright shining eyes, his gaze flickering back and forth between the magic box and the plate and teacup sitting on the table, barely touched. Finally, he can stand it no longer.
“Yeh gonna eat that?”
John glances over at the cold toast, shaking his head and offering disinterestedly, “Have at it.”
Tup squeaks softly in his excitement, scampering over on all fours before sitting himself upon the table, picking up the massive piece of toast awkwardly before taking a bite out of one corner, licking at his muzzle so as not to lose a drop of the sweet, sweet strawberry jam. Bliss!
Standing up, Tup peers at the tea and sighs. Milk and sugar, just how he likes it. Now if he only had a straw, everything would be perfect. In the end, he has to dunk a piece of toast in, letting it soak up the sweet liquidy goodness, before gulping it down.
He continues to munch contentedly until out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Wingless. The angel is angry. His lips are a thin, disgruntled line, his forehead creased. His arms are folded over his chest defensively and it’s clear that the bright box, which rarely fails to entertain Tuppence, holds no allure for the man next to him. After studying him a bit longer, Tup can see the other emotions lying beneath the anger. Guilt. Unhappiness. Frustration.
Thing is? It’s hard to be happy and content when someone else isn’t. No matter how determined one might be to remain cheerful, a person who decidedly isn’t tends to poison the stream and ruin the banquet. At least, that’s how it is for this Brownie. Already Tup can feel his good mood starting to curdle about the edges and that simply will not do.
It’s not so much a great desire to help others that brings Tuppence to play counselor so much as it is the great desire to have a good time. He crams in another tasty handful of dripping jam, speaking with his mouth full.
“So, wot ‘e do this time?”
The man sits quietly for a moment, resisting the question before answering. For a moment Tup thinks his words will simply be ignored, but like a tired, old balloon, the ex-angel deflates slightly and replies. “A woman lost her immortal soul last night, and Sherlock… he acted like it was nothing.”
Tup waits a beat before realizing that that’s it. Scratching his head absently, his mouth opens and closes a few times as he nearly says one thing before thinking better of it. It takes a bit before he carefully offers, “At the risk of pissin’ yeh off even more, I dinnae see what the problem is?”
“What the…” Turning, John glares down at the tiny Fae, his temper reignited as he hisses, “You don’t see the problem with losing your soul?”
Taking another bite of tea-soaked toast, Tuppence meets that angry gaze steadily, his own hard and unyielding in turn. “Frankly? No, I don’t.” A tiny long-fingered hand is lifted, cutting John off before he can begin his rant. “T’aint really fair, is it? The ‘ole ‘souls’ thing. I mean, only ‘umans get to ‘ave ‘em. There ain’t no soul fer me is there? Ain’t no souls fer all sorts of creatures, but yeh don’t see us whinin’ fer ‘em.” He glares back at man in turn, waiting for him to explain the fairness of that.
It does seem to catch the human off guard. He blinks and considers that point before offering his counter argument slowly and cautiously. “No, but you have long lives, endlessly longer than human ones.”
“True, but we don’t last ferever. At some point even a Fae will pass, by means natural or other, while yer precious souls carry on and on, apparently.” His hands drop to his hips, nose jerking emphatically. “My point is, not ‘avin’ a soul ain’t the end all, be all. And, well, makes it a bit ‘ard to value one if you ain’t got one, no? So I guess wot I’m sayin’ is, per’aps you should cut ‘im a little slack. It’s ‘ard to value somethin’ yeh don’t believe in in the first place. ‘E’s not meanin’ to be disrespectful or callous. It jest dinnae mean anythin’ to ‘im. And, t’be fair, it means a great deal more t’you than t’most. After all, bein’ a Guardian Angel and all, yer ‘ole life was dedicated to the pertection and carin’ of souls. The ’uman understandin’ of a soul can’t compare to yer perspective on ‘em.”
As the angel’s body language shifts, Tup can’t help but feel a tiny glow of satisfaction. Ain’t many that will bother to listen to what a Brownie has to say about much of anything, but for some reason, this man, this ex-angel not only listens, he learns. Already Wingless has softened, his body leaning into the soft cushions, accepting their support, his eyes losing their hard edge. His mouth isn’t smiling, but it’s no longer a thin line of anger but an uncertain one of contemplation.
The telly rattles on cheerfully but silence holds between the two supernatural beings. But it’s a good silence. A peaceful silence. And Tup is more than content to allow the angel some time to think over what he’s said. After all, there are crazy shenanigans to be watched on the magic box!
*****
As his anger and frustration begins to dissipate in the wake of Tup’s input, John starts to genuinely enjoy his quiet morning to himself. He heads back into the kitchen, fixing himself a second order of tea and toast, rejoining Tup on the couch for some quality lazing about. It isn’t long, however, before his mobile starts buzzing.
John glances at it briefly, scowling at it without any real heat before he deliberately ignores the device. He doesn’t have to look at the screen to know it’s Sherlock texting him. No one else ever calls or contacts him and in a moment of distraction John realizes that it’s just another symptom of his condition - of how not human he still is. Lord, he’s nearly as friendless and anti-social as Sherlock.
The small Fae’s belly is rounded with John’s first breakfast, eyes shut as he rubs it soothingly. But his eyelids pop open at the sound of the mobile, gaze sharpening with interest as he asks, “Ain’t you gonna answer it?”
“Nope.”
John’s eyes flicker over to Tuppence, whose fingers are now twitching eagerly with interest. He can’t help but wonder just how many lives these creatures have. Over the centuries, curiosity has killed far more brownies than cats. That’s part of why they’re drawn to live with humans in the first place. Humans live such short little desperate lives, everything always moving, happening, and changing. It’s a bit irresistible really, to a creature made up of almost pure curiosity.
Tup doesn’t ask for permission, just snatches up the phone and lugs it over to where he was sitting, prying the thing open and using his tiny hands to push the buttons until he can see the texts. It’s ironic really how he is more skilled with using John’s phone than John is. The tiny head tilts this way and that curiously as he reads before glancing up at John.
“SH? ‘'Oo is SH?”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Ohhhhh.”
Tup’s mouth curls into a smile. “Does ‘e do that every time ‘e sends one of these?”
“Does what?”
“Puts ‘is initials like that?”
“Oh. Yes.”
Both human and fae rolls their eyes a little. “Like yer mobile dinnae already tell you ‘oo it is, right?”
“Exactly.” John glances over before he apparently reminds himself that he’s not interested. Turning back to the telly he asks instead, “What’s he going on about?”
“Some lass called Molly is givin’ ‘im an ‘ard time?”
John’s lips curl into a smile that is a bit not nice. “Bout time.”
But eventually, curiosity gets the better of John as well, his hand reaching over to pluck the mobile away from the giggling Fae, thumb toggling through the various messages waiting there.
Molly is being unreasonable. SH
Am forced to bribe Molly to see bodies. What is the world coming to? SH
When did Molly become so intractable? Normally she’s so much more pliable. SH
Finally! We’re off to see the bodies. More later. SH
John? SH
Are you still angry about the Soo Lin thing? SH
Really, John, she was already dead. SH
John? SH
Fine. Never mind. Going to talk to Lestrade. SH
Anger rises up again at the mention of Soo Lin, causing John to toss the phone back down and this time Tup leaves it alone as it goes quiet once more.
But it’s only a question of time. So when the phone starts actively ringing, it comes as no real surprise. Clearly Sherlock is tired of waiting for John to reply or, better yet, show up.
With an annoyed sigh John snatches up the mobile without so much as looking at it, flicking it on and lifting it to his ear, pinching the device against his shoulder as he reaches for his cup of tea. He starts talking immediately, cutting off any greeting, complaint or observation his flatmate might wish to share. “Look, Sherlock, stop texting me. Stop pestering me. I’m having a very nice cuppa after a very long night and I’m perfectly comfortable sitting here in my dressing gown and pants and nothing else. So no, I’m not going to get dressed and no I’m not going to meet you down at the station to watch you preen and strut in front of Lestrade with whatever you managed to discover at the morgue.”
A familiar and decidedly female voice answers. “My, my, Johnnie, I had no idea it was like that between you two. How about you show up at the police station in your dressing gown and give him a strip tease?”
John chokes on the mouthful of tea he was drinking and sits up, his hand scrabbling for the remote to hit the mute button. His voice shifts from irritation to embarrassment. “Harry? Sorry ‘bout that, I thought you were Sherlock. He’s been hassling me all day.”
“And all night it would seem.”
Rolling his eyes, John counters firmly, “Not in the way that you mean.”
“Pity. Look, I was calling because I’m free tonight and I thought that maybe we could do something? See a movie, maybe catch a show or just have dinner?”
The familiar sensations of dismay and uncertainty rise up as John hedges, “I don’t know, Harry. I have no idea where this case is going next. Sherlock might need me….” But his voice trails off quietly as he reconsiders, his mind reviewing the events of the previous night and this morning, a sense of guilt resolving into a plan of action. Belatedly, he realizes that Harry is talking to him, though he missed most of what she said.
“… his mother or his lover?”
“What? No, Harry, neither. Look, the answer is yes. Sherlock can fend for himself for one night so yes, lets do this.”
“Really?” The change in her tone alone confirms to John that he made the right choice. She sounds surprised and pleased, almost excited. His lips curl as a burst of affection that is wholly Watson spreads through his chest.
“Yeah, really. But Harry, there are rules…”
“Jooooooohn!”
“No, I’m serious. No drinking okay? I’ll line up something fun for us, but you have to promise me that you won’t drink tonight, alright?”
There’s a long pause before Harry replies, a bit too earnestly. “Alright, fine. No drinking while we’re out tonight. Anything else?”
John shakes his head. “Nope, that’s it. I’ll ring you later to give you the details, okay?”
“Okay. And Johnnie? Thanks. I’m looking forward to spending some time with you, baby brother.”
For a moment, all John can see is Soo Lin and Sǐwáng, her eyes filled with such love for her brother before he destroyed her. He manages to swallow past the lump in his throat, his voice a bit rough as he replies, “Yeah. Me too.”
*****
Which is it going to be? The pasta or the pork? Pasta or pork? Molly’s eyes are slightly glazed and her feet feel like they’ve been nailed to the ground. She came in yesterday to cover the night shift after a colleague called in sick and now she has a whole day stretching out ahead of her as well. Dear God it’s going to be a long one if she can’t even make as simple a choice as this.
“Molly.”
She can’t help it. She actively squeaks and startles when Sherlock’s deep rumbling baritone murmurs her name right next to her ear. Cheeks instantly flushed, Molly Hooper turns her dark brown eyes up to stare into his cool silver ones, mouth slightly agape, both flustered and caught off-guard by his sudden presence at her side. And that voice! Dear God that voice should be illegal. Does he realize what he can do with that voice? No, wait, of course he does. He’s Sherlock bloody Holmes. When it comes to manipulation, the man is a master. He probably spends hours practicing, recording his voice and then listening to figure out the exact pitch and tone required to cause someone’s toes to curl.
“I’d go with the pasta.”
“What?” she asks, a little dazed. Sherlock smiles slightly and inclines his head first to her empty plate and then to the pasta before her. “The pasta. The meat looks a little tired.” He kindly doesn’t offer the same assessment about her. He must want something.
“Mmmmm, I see your point.” She doesn’t really care, honestly, but his suggestion at least breaks her out of the stalemate she had found herself in, her hand reaching out for the large ladle and scooping out a portion of chicken fettuccine alfredo onto her plate. Her gaze sidles over to his lanky frame, most definitely not admiring the way his shirt clings to his chest or the fine, slender line of his neck. Bugger her overactive libido!
“So you remember those two bodies you were working on?”
Ahhh, here it comes. “Sherlock, I work on a lot of bodies,” she points out irritably. “Could you be a little more specific?”
The smooth seductiveness of his tone shifts to something more practical as he elaborates, “Van Coon and Lukis.”
Ahh. Those bodies. Yes, how could she forget them? Her final autopsy report is still without reasonable explanation for what happened to them, though at least with Van Coon she can keep it simple and process him through. Lukis is going to take a bit longer. “Yes, of course. Why?”
“Could you wheel them out for me? There’s something I need to check on.”
She turns to look at him coolly. Damn, he’s tall. Why couldn’t she have been born tall and leggy? What she wouldn’t give to make Sherlock have to look up at her for a change. “Is this for the police?”
He hedges with ease. “In a manner of speaking.”
She’s sharper than he gives her credit for, her eyes narrowing as Molly counters, “So, in other words, you have a theory, they think it’s bunk, and you want to show them up? Again?”
A hint of a genuine smile touches his lips and eyes for a moment before Sherlock shrugs and makes a disgusted face. “I can’t help it if they’re idiots who can’t see what’s right in front of their face.”
Look at him, so self-assured, so certain of himself. Time to pop that little bubble. “Well, the answer is no. They’ve already been processed, bagged and tagged. They’re due to be picked up by the crematoriums later this evening.” And then she waits for it, availing herself to some broccoli in the meanwhile.
“Your hair. You parted it on the right.”
Right on schedule. “So?”
“So, it looks better that way. More… feminine.”
Molly just barely resists the urge to roll her eyes, even if a tiny part of her is squealing in delight that he said she looked pretty.
He said no such thing. More feminine? So what, I don’t look sufficiently feminine? What sort of backhanded compliment is that? But you’re totally going to cave into him, aren’t you? Yes, I can feel it. It’s his voice again, isn’t it? God damn hormones…
With a hefty gust of breath, Molly reaches up to tuck a bit of her side-parted hair behind one ear and asks bluntly, “Sherlock, cut the crap. I’ve been on my feet for 10 hours, catching up on a backlog of autopsies and lab work. I’m tired, I’m cranky, and I got several more hours ahead of me. What do you want?”
A small moue of feigned hurt touches Sherlock’s lips. Yeah, right, like he feels guilty about any of the things that he cajoles her into doing.
“I’m hurt, Molly. After all the years we’ve been friends…”
Her eyes grow hard as Molly pushes the tray into Sherlock’s belly, stepping into his space. “Friends? Don’t make me laugh. We’re only friends when you want something. Friends don’t show up only when they want favors and body parts. Friends don’t flirt for eyeballs and spleens and then bugger off without so much as a thank you or an offer of dinner.”
He’s at a loss, confusion flickering over his gaze as she stands up to him before frustration and acceptance slide into place. “Fine, fine, I’ll pay for your meal,” Sherlock concedes, gesturing carelessly at the tray in her hands.
Wow. He really doesn’t get it. Molly shakes her head firmly. “No. If you want to see Lukis and Van Coon you’re going to have to make it worth my while. You’re going to have to take me out…”
Go on! Do it! Say it!
Molly closes her eyes for a moment and conjures up the courage before finishing bluntly, “…on a date.” She manages not to wince and congratulates herself when her hand is steady as she reaches out for the Caesar salad and places it firmly on her tray before turning her head to stare up at him determinedly. He owes her this. She’s not fooling herself that it’s going to make a jot of difference. Well, not entirely. Maybe, if they’re not in a situation where he needs something from her he might see her differently. And if not, well then at least she’ll know for sure, right? If nothing else, he owes her a nice dinner.
By the look on Sherlock’s face, she apparently just asked him to step in front of a firing squad. “A date?” At least this time the moue of distaste is for the idea of a date, rather than specifically a date with Molly. She’s not really sure how she can tell. Perhaps it is because he isn’t looking at her in horror and dismay, but at some unseen point of memory and mind. “I don’t… date.”
Molly straightens her back and turns away from Sherlock once more, reaching out for a piece of bread and putting it on her plate as she coolly informs him, “Well, if you want to see Van Coon and Lukis, you do now.”
*****
Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock is nearly twitching with impatience as Molly wheels the bodies of Van Coon and Lukis out, settling the two men side by side. It was actually rather pleasant, watching Sherlock squirm for a change, even if the reasons were impatience and a desire to study the dead men’s bodies, rather than excitement and a desire to study her body.
‘Baby steps,’ she tells herself silently. After all, she got herself the promise of a date before the week was out, didn’t she? That’s more than all the flirting and makeup has managed to gain her. Why on earth did she never think of this sooner? With all the favors Sherlock is constantly asking her for, she could have been wined and dined for weeks on end!
“I really don’t know why it was necessary for you to eat so slowly.”
“I wanted to enjoy my meal, and the body digests food better if you eat it slowly, rather than gulping it down.”
“And the research paper you just had to read while you were eating?”
“Research, obviously.” Reaching up to the top of the bags to start and unzip them, Molly’s hands fall still as Sherlock grumbles in a huff, “The feet! I just need to see the feet!”
Her head tilts and lifts, staring at him quizzically as she repeats, “The feet?” only to see that familiar flicker of annoyance and impatience flutter over his features. “Alright, alright, fine, the feet it is. Keep your shirt on…”
Or better yet, take it off…
Hush you.
Unzippering the bag, Molly pulls the material out of the way so that Sherlock can crouch down, one hand reaching out to press Van Coon’s toes upward, staring at his heel, a small smile curling his lips. “And now Lukis?”
The pattern is repeated, and the expression on Sherlock’s face more than makes up for all the sullen looks and pointed stares he gave her and the clock on the wall of the cafeteria. Pulling out his phone, he directs her hand to hold the feet upright so he can take a clear picture of the tattoos that both men seem to have there. Huh. Interesting. Same tattoos. Well, it looks like he got the proof he was looking for…
Molly startles again when she feels the softness of a pair of lips brushing against her cheek in a casual kiss, her face flaring up bright red as she turns to look at Sherlock. But the consulting detective is already striding out of the morgue, calling over his shoulder, “Molly, you’re a star! I recommend you keep both of those bodies available, I’m sure the police will be by this shortly, wanting to take a look.” And just like that, he’s gone again, vanishing with a dramatic flare of his coat.
She leans against one of the tables, insisting to herself that it’s the long hours that are making her feel slightly faint and unsteady on her feet. Yes. Most definitely a combination of working all night and the fact that all of her blood has gone to her stomach to digest the meal she just ate. Nothing at all to do with Sherlock and his lips.
Length: 5,682 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, and Brit picking! :D I'm feeling too impatient, so I'm jumping my betas on this chapter. So beware, there will be mistakes I'm sure! I'll go back and fix later once I hear back. (such a bad author...)
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! 63,960 words posted, 71,000+ words written so far!
Invisible Bonds: Chapter 13
He didn’t sleep much last night. Hours of darkness were spent tossing and turning, tearing his bed apart as he fitfully dozed only to wake up abruptly from nightmares where this time it was Sherlock’s soul being destroyed by Sǐwáng, John helpless to do anything but watch in horror.
Shuffling down the stairs in his robe, John passes by where Sherlock is sitting dressed and looking remarkably well rested, practically brimming over with energy and impatience. In comparison, John looks exhausted and worn out, rumpled and untidy, with shadows under his eyes.
When John walks by and ignores him, Sherlock frowns and calls out, “John.”
“What?”
“Why aren’t you dressed?”
“Because I had a crap night and, with any luck, I’m going to sleep all day today.”
“You slept poorly? Was it something you ate? I warned you that the curry was off.”
Walking back into the living room, John just stares at Sherlock. Sherlock in turn stares back at John with a look of impatience and an utter lack of comprehension.
Shaking his head, John counters pointedly, “Sherlock… a woman died last night!”
“Well, technically she was already dead and had been for some time, so I really don’t see that the problem is…”
“You don’t see what the…?” John’s words taper off because the shock and outrage in him have surged up such that they are apparently blocking off his larynx. He rolls his head to loosen the knots in his shoulders and coughs to clear his throat. “You mean to say, if she had been alive and murdered, like the others, you would feel differently? But because she was ghost, she doesn’t matter?”
Frowning, as if John were speaking in tongues, Sherlock backpedals slightly. “John. I realize that as a Sensitive what you saw, what you experienced, must have been a bit of a shock to you. But it’s not like she was still alive. She wasn’t a human any more; she was a ghost. She should have dissipated centuries ago.”
John’s hands have begun to flex and curl into fists. He has to physically restrain himself from not hauling off and punching Sherlock in the face. His voice comes out sharp and terse, his words bitten off.
“So, what? You think that’s it? A person dies and that’s it? You don’t believe in souls continuing on? What is a ghost then? Just a collection of memories wrapped up in some kind of energy field?”
“That is one theory,” Sherlock returns mildly. “Others include that some minor supernatural creature, often a demon, will take up that energy for strength and, in doing so, gains the appearance and the memories of the one who had died. But it’s just energy, John. Nothing more.”
A tic flares up in John’s cheek, his jaw tightly clenched as he glares at Sherlock, who blithely continues on.
“It seems highly unlikely that we continue on after this mortal life. It’s far more likely that such fantasies are merely the comforting trappings of religion which promises that if you are ‘good’ you go to heaven or get reborn into a better situation, but if you are ‘bad’ you go to hell or come back as a cockroach.” Sherlock sniffs disparagingly. “Emotional claptrap to control the masses.” His silvery gaze comes to rest upon John, taking in his apparent disapproval, one brow arching superciliously. “I’m honestly surprised you believe in such sentimental nonsense.”
The anger within John is monumental and all he wants to do is yell at Sherlock and tell him how wrong he is. About everything. But what would be the point? It wouldn’t change his opinion. John cannot offer any sort of proof without revealing what he is, or was. It would be the wistful beliefs of a man fooled by the manipulations of religion and the Church in Sherlock’s eyes. Nothing more. So John bites his tongue and continues into the kitchen. Tea and toast. Perhaps delving into the simple ritual will help disperse some of the rage that is coursing through his body.
“It is unusual though,” Sherlock adds after a thoughtful moment, “to find two ghosts who believed so completely that they were brother and sister. It would have been interesting to determine how that came to be. Perhaps they were demons or spirits that were related and that was where the bond originated from? Or perhaps Soo Lin’s story was the truth, two siblings who died, their energy and memories continuing on or taken over.” There’s a thoughtful hum as Sherlock adds, “More likely taken over, considering Sǐwáng’s strength. It’s a pity that the trap didn’t work. And now, with Soo Lin gone, there’s nothing to bait another with.”
John drops his spoon with a clink, turning around to stare at Sherlock in shock. “Wait. What? You knew? You knew Sǐwáng would follow us? You deliberately used Soo Lin as bait so you could trap him?”
“Of course. There was a high probability that he was shadowing us, either on his own recognizance or per orders, just as it was obvious that Soo Lin was somehow involved in all of this and he was connected to her.” His shoulders shrug negligently as he points out, “Of course it was still just a gamble. But it seemed as good an opportunity as any to draw him out and capture him.”
He can feel Sherlock’s gaze, his honestly puzzled regard and tone as John’s hands grip the countertop before him so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. “It was obviously the logical thing to do. We need answers and Sǐwáng needs to be stopped before he kills anyone else.” There’s a gusty sigh as his hands wave through the air in frustration. “No telling where he is now or how we might be able to find him. With his bond to the Black Lotus, I cannot summon him. Their mark will supersede any pull of mine…”
The tension is broken as the bread pops out of the toaster with a soft clang. John lets out a breath and releases his grip on the counter to pick up a knife. He considers, for a brief moment, using it on Sherlock. After another deep breath, he automatically butters the toast and indulgently spreads a generous amount of strawberry jam on top before carrying both it and his tea to the couch. Since his change, John has discovered that he enjoys sensory experiences more than most of his human counterparts. The sense of touch, smell, sound, and taste are heady experiences to one who has lived for centuries with limited access to such sensations. Hence the indulgence in jam and the small bit of pudge that has begun to form about his middle. The pleasure, however, will tragically not be enough to improve his current mood. John puts his breakfast down carefully before dropping onto the cushions with a whump, hand reaching for the remote to flick the telly on, his gaze decidedly not looking at Sherlock.
There’s a moment where nothing is heard but the inane chatter of some morning talk show before Sherlock announces in bemusement, “You’re angry with me.”
Glancing up, John snipes, “Oh, did you deduce that all on your own? Bully for you then.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Why?” John flicks the channels a few times before dropping his hand and glaring up at Sherlock once more. “Because you’re wrong, that’s why.”
“Wrong?”
“Yes, wrong.”
Sherlock frowns, stating clearly, “I’m never wrong.”
“Well, see, now you’re wrong again.” John’s chin juts out as he turns the volume up on Some Show, folding his arms over his chest.
“Are you going to explain why?”
“No, no I am not, because you never listen and there’s a good chance that if you say anything more I’m going to punch you in the face.”
There’s a moment of silence before Sherlock points out, “Violence is not the answer.”
“No, no it’s not, but right now it will feel damn good.”
Sherlock stands for a moment, at a loss before bustling about the flat once more, deciding, apparently, to leave John to his little strop. A few minutes later he has emerged from his room and reaches for his coat, pulling it on before asking, “I’m going down to the morgue, are you coming?”
“No.”
Sherlock stops in his tracks, almost shocked, turning around and actually asking John, “No?”
“No, Sherlock. No, I am not coming. No, I am not going to the morgue with you. I’m tired and cross and I’m staying here. You don’t need me and I don’t want to do anything but put up my feet, eat my breakfast, and watch the telly.”
The very idea is clearly beyond comprehension. Go to the morgue to examine dead bodies for telltale signs of magical coercion, or stay home watching some inane programme? There’s no competition! “There’s nothing but crap on the telly.”
John doesn’t so much as glance back at Sherlock, his gaze rock hard and determined as his head bobs up and down. “Mmmmm, yes, that’s why I’m watching it.” Because for the first time since he found Sherlock again, the last place John wants to be is at his side.
*****
Humans. Strange, bizarre, inexplicable creatures they are. Full of noise and nonsense and strange ideas about how the world should work. Sometimes their shenanigans and upsets are entertaining, but other times they prove to be more annoying and disruptive compared to the blissful, simple pleasures of a Brownie. Because life really is dreadfully simple. Leave it to humans to have to muck up the works and make it so complicated. Why, for example, do they worry so much when they have food in their bellies, a warm bed to sleep in, and a roof over their heads? What more does a body need? Feh! Some might scoff at Brownies, call them stupid, simple creatures, but as far as Tup can see, there isn’t a creature in the world more happy than his kind.
When Wingless and Sherlock returned rough and disheveled, Tuppence saw the value of spending the night elsewhere for a change. Neither man would be sleeping, that much was clear, and Tup had no desire to get caught in the middle of their mutual and yet exclusive frustrations. He’d much rather be up all night with Teaspoon and Twaddle if it came down to that.
Come morning Tuppence returns to the upstairs room, opening the window and sliding in. The bed, blanket and sheets pulled free and wildly twisted about, confirms his suspicions. Creeping down the stairs, one ear lifts and cocks as he listens in on the conversation of his two humans, the back and forth of sharp tones and sharper words. He flattens against the railing as the tall one comes out, feet thundering down the stairs in a mix of temper and impatience. He ponders for a moment going back up and slipping into Wingless’ bed or laundry basket, but an disgruntled growl from his belly makes the tiny Fae descend the stairs and slip into the living room.
The cheerful noise from the big box makes him grin and hop in excitement. Ooooh! Telly! Scurrying over, he climbs up the arm of the sofa and plops himself down next to John without so much as a hello or a by your leave. He can tell that the ex-angel is not in the mood for conversation, which is just as well. Neither is Tup. He watches with bright shining eyes, his gaze flickering back and forth between the magic box and the plate and teacup sitting on the table, barely touched. Finally, he can stand it no longer.
“Yeh gonna eat that?”
John glances over at the cold toast, shaking his head and offering disinterestedly, “Have at it.”
Tup squeaks softly in his excitement, scampering over on all fours before sitting himself upon the table, picking up the massive piece of toast awkwardly before taking a bite out of one corner, licking at his muzzle so as not to lose a drop of the sweet, sweet strawberry jam. Bliss!
Standing up, Tup peers at the tea and sighs. Milk and sugar, just how he likes it. Now if he only had a straw, everything would be perfect. In the end, he has to dunk a piece of toast in, letting it soak up the sweet liquidy goodness, before gulping it down.
He continues to munch contentedly until out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Wingless. The angel is angry. His lips are a thin, disgruntled line, his forehead creased. His arms are folded over his chest defensively and it’s clear that the bright box, which rarely fails to entertain Tuppence, holds no allure for the man next to him. After studying him a bit longer, Tup can see the other emotions lying beneath the anger. Guilt. Unhappiness. Frustration.
Thing is? It’s hard to be happy and content when someone else isn’t. No matter how determined one might be to remain cheerful, a person who decidedly isn’t tends to poison the stream and ruin the banquet. At least, that’s how it is for this Brownie. Already Tup can feel his good mood starting to curdle about the edges and that simply will not do.
It’s not so much a great desire to help others that brings Tuppence to play counselor so much as it is the great desire to have a good time. He crams in another tasty handful of dripping jam, speaking with his mouth full.
“So, wot ‘e do this time?”
The man sits quietly for a moment, resisting the question before answering. For a moment Tup thinks his words will simply be ignored, but like a tired, old balloon, the ex-angel deflates slightly and replies. “A woman lost her immortal soul last night, and Sherlock… he acted like it was nothing.”
Tup waits a beat before realizing that that’s it. Scratching his head absently, his mouth opens and closes a few times as he nearly says one thing before thinking better of it. It takes a bit before he carefully offers, “At the risk of pissin’ yeh off even more, I dinnae see what the problem is?”
“What the…” Turning, John glares down at the tiny Fae, his temper reignited as he hisses, “You don’t see the problem with losing your soul?”
Taking another bite of tea-soaked toast, Tuppence meets that angry gaze steadily, his own hard and unyielding in turn. “Frankly? No, I don’t.” A tiny long-fingered hand is lifted, cutting John off before he can begin his rant. “T’aint really fair, is it? The ‘ole ‘souls’ thing. I mean, only ‘umans get to ‘ave ‘em. There ain’t no soul fer me is there? Ain’t no souls fer all sorts of creatures, but yeh don’t see us whinin’ fer ‘em.” He glares back at man in turn, waiting for him to explain the fairness of that.
It does seem to catch the human off guard. He blinks and considers that point before offering his counter argument slowly and cautiously. “No, but you have long lives, endlessly longer than human ones.”
“True, but we don’t last ferever. At some point even a Fae will pass, by means natural or other, while yer precious souls carry on and on, apparently.” His hands drop to his hips, nose jerking emphatically. “My point is, not ‘avin’ a soul ain’t the end all, be all. And, well, makes it a bit ‘ard to value one if you ain’t got one, no? So I guess wot I’m sayin’ is, per’aps you should cut ‘im a little slack. It’s ‘ard to value somethin’ yeh don’t believe in in the first place. ‘E’s not meanin’ to be disrespectful or callous. It jest dinnae mean anythin’ to ‘im. And, t’be fair, it means a great deal more t’you than t’most. After all, bein’ a Guardian Angel and all, yer ‘ole life was dedicated to the pertection and carin’ of souls. The ’uman understandin’ of a soul can’t compare to yer perspective on ‘em.”
As the angel’s body language shifts, Tup can’t help but feel a tiny glow of satisfaction. Ain’t many that will bother to listen to what a Brownie has to say about much of anything, but for some reason, this man, this ex-angel not only listens, he learns. Already Wingless has softened, his body leaning into the soft cushions, accepting their support, his eyes losing their hard edge. His mouth isn’t smiling, but it’s no longer a thin line of anger but an uncertain one of contemplation.
The telly rattles on cheerfully but silence holds between the two supernatural beings. But it’s a good silence. A peaceful silence. And Tup is more than content to allow the angel some time to think over what he’s said. After all, there are crazy shenanigans to be watched on the magic box!
*****
As his anger and frustration begins to dissipate in the wake of Tup’s input, John starts to genuinely enjoy his quiet morning to himself. He heads back into the kitchen, fixing himself a second order of tea and toast, rejoining Tup on the couch for some quality lazing about. It isn’t long, however, before his mobile starts buzzing.
John glances at it briefly, scowling at it without any real heat before he deliberately ignores the device. He doesn’t have to look at the screen to know it’s Sherlock texting him. No one else ever calls or contacts him and in a moment of distraction John realizes that it’s just another symptom of his condition - of how not human he still is. Lord, he’s nearly as friendless and anti-social as Sherlock.
The small Fae’s belly is rounded with John’s first breakfast, eyes shut as he rubs it soothingly. But his eyelids pop open at the sound of the mobile, gaze sharpening with interest as he asks, “Ain’t you gonna answer it?”
“Nope.”
John’s eyes flicker over to Tuppence, whose fingers are now twitching eagerly with interest. He can’t help but wonder just how many lives these creatures have. Over the centuries, curiosity has killed far more brownies than cats. That’s part of why they’re drawn to live with humans in the first place. Humans live such short little desperate lives, everything always moving, happening, and changing. It’s a bit irresistible really, to a creature made up of almost pure curiosity.
Tup doesn’t ask for permission, just snatches up the phone and lugs it over to where he was sitting, prying the thing open and using his tiny hands to push the buttons until he can see the texts. It’s ironic really how he is more skilled with using John’s phone than John is. The tiny head tilts this way and that curiously as he reads before glancing up at John.
“SH? ‘'Oo is SH?”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Ohhhhh.”
Tup’s mouth curls into a smile. “Does ‘e do that every time ‘e sends one of these?”
“Does what?”
“Puts ‘is initials like that?”
“Oh. Yes.”
Both human and fae rolls their eyes a little. “Like yer mobile dinnae already tell you ‘oo it is, right?”
“Exactly.” John glances over before he apparently reminds himself that he’s not interested. Turning back to the telly he asks instead, “What’s he going on about?”
“Some lass called Molly is givin’ ‘im an ‘ard time?”
John’s lips curl into a smile that is a bit not nice. “Bout time.”
But eventually, curiosity gets the better of John as well, his hand reaching over to pluck the mobile away from the giggling Fae, thumb toggling through the various messages waiting there.
Molly is being unreasonable. SH
Am forced to bribe Molly to see bodies. What is the world coming to? SH
When did Molly become so intractable? Normally she’s so much more pliable. SH
Finally! We’re off to see the bodies. More later. SH
John? SH
Are you still angry about the Soo Lin thing? SH
Really, John, she was already dead. SH
John? SH
Fine. Never mind. Going to talk to Lestrade. SH
Anger rises up again at the mention of Soo Lin, causing John to toss the phone back down and this time Tup leaves it alone as it goes quiet once more.
But it’s only a question of time. So when the phone starts actively ringing, it comes as no real surprise. Clearly Sherlock is tired of waiting for John to reply or, better yet, show up.
With an annoyed sigh John snatches up the mobile without so much as looking at it, flicking it on and lifting it to his ear, pinching the device against his shoulder as he reaches for his cup of tea. He starts talking immediately, cutting off any greeting, complaint or observation his flatmate might wish to share. “Look, Sherlock, stop texting me. Stop pestering me. I’m having a very nice cuppa after a very long night and I’m perfectly comfortable sitting here in my dressing gown and pants and nothing else. So no, I’m not going to get dressed and no I’m not going to meet you down at the station to watch you preen and strut in front of Lestrade with whatever you managed to discover at the morgue.”
A familiar and decidedly female voice answers. “My, my, Johnnie, I had no idea it was like that between you two. How about you show up at the police station in your dressing gown and give him a strip tease?”
John chokes on the mouthful of tea he was drinking and sits up, his hand scrabbling for the remote to hit the mute button. His voice shifts from irritation to embarrassment. “Harry? Sorry ‘bout that, I thought you were Sherlock. He’s been hassling me all day.”
“And all night it would seem.”
Rolling his eyes, John counters firmly, “Not in the way that you mean.”
“Pity. Look, I was calling because I’m free tonight and I thought that maybe we could do something? See a movie, maybe catch a show or just have dinner?”
The familiar sensations of dismay and uncertainty rise up as John hedges, “I don’t know, Harry. I have no idea where this case is going next. Sherlock might need me….” But his voice trails off quietly as he reconsiders, his mind reviewing the events of the previous night and this morning, a sense of guilt resolving into a plan of action. Belatedly, he realizes that Harry is talking to him, though he missed most of what she said.
“… his mother or his lover?”
“What? No, Harry, neither. Look, the answer is yes. Sherlock can fend for himself for one night so yes, lets do this.”
“Really?” The change in her tone alone confirms to John that he made the right choice. She sounds surprised and pleased, almost excited. His lips curl as a burst of affection that is wholly Watson spreads through his chest.
“Yeah, really. But Harry, there are rules…”
“Jooooooohn!”
“No, I’m serious. No drinking okay? I’ll line up something fun for us, but you have to promise me that you won’t drink tonight, alright?”
There’s a long pause before Harry replies, a bit too earnestly. “Alright, fine. No drinking while we’re out tonight. Anything else?”
John shakes his head. “Nope, that’s it. I’ll ring you later to give you the details, okay?”
“Okay. And Johnnie? Thanks. I’m looking forward to spending some time with you, baby brother.”
For a moment, all John can see is Soo Lin and Sǐwáng, her eyes filled with such love for her brother before he destroyed her. He manages to swallow past the lump in his throat, his voice a bit rough as he replies, “Yeah. Me too.”
*****
Which is it going to be? The pasta or the pork? Pasta or pork? Molly’s eyes are slightly glazed and her feet feel like they’ve been nailed to the ground. She came in yesterday to cover the night shift after a colleague called in sick and now she has a whole day stretching out ahead of her as well. Dear God it’s going to be a long one if she can’t even make as simple a choice as this.
“Molly.”
She can’t help it. She actively squeaks and startles when Sherlock’s deep rumbling baritone murmurs her name right next to her ear. Cheeks instantly flushed, Molly Hooper turns her dark brown eyes up to stare into his cool silver ones, mouth slightly agape, both flustered and caught off-guard by his sudden presence at her side. And that voice! Dear God that voice should be illegal. Does he realize what he can do with that voice? No, wait, of course he does. He’s Sherlock bloody Holmes. When it comes to manipulation, the man is a master. He probably spends hours practicing, recording his voice and then listening to figure out the exact pitch and tone required to cause someone’s toes to curl.
“I’d go with the pasta.”
“What?” she asks, a little dazed. Sherlock smiles slightly and inclines his head first to her empty plate and then to the pasta before her. “The pasta. The meat looks a little tired.” He kindly doesn’t offer the same assessment about her. He must want something.
“Mmmmm, I see your point.” She doesn’t really care, honestly, but his suggestion at least breaks her out of the stalemate she had found herself in, her hand reaching out for the large ladle and scooping out a portion of chicken fettuccine alfredo onto her plate. Her gaze sidles over to his lanky frame, most definitely not admiring the way his shirt clings to his chest or the fine, slender line of his neck. Bugger her overactive libido!
“So you remember those two bodies you were working on?”
Ahhh, here it comes. “Sherlock, I work on a lot of bodies,” she points out irritably. “Could you be a little more specific?”
The smooth seductiveness of his tone shifts to something more practical as he elaborates, “Van Coon and Lukis.”
Ahh. Those bodies. Yes, how could she forget them? Her final autopsy report is still without reasonable explanation for what happened to them, though at least with Van Coon she can keep it simple and process him through. Lukis is going to take a bit longer. “Yes, of course. Why?”
“Could you wheel them out for me? There’s something I need to check on.”
She turns to look at him coolly. Damn, he’s tall. Why couldn’t she have been born tall and leggy? What she wouldn’t give to make Sherlock have to look up at her for a change. “Is this for the police?”
He hedges with ease. “In a manner of speaking.”
She’s sharper than he gives her credit for, her eyes narrowing as Molly counters, “So, in other words, you have a theory, they think it’s bunk, and you want to show them up? Again?”
A hint of a genuine smile touches his lips and eyes for a moment before Sherlock shrugs and makes a disgusted face. “I can’t help it if they’re idiots who can’t see what’s right in front of their face.”
Look at him, so self-assured, so certain of himself. Time to pop that little bubble. “Well, the answer is no. They’ve already been processed, bagged and tagged. They’re due to be picked up by the crematoriums later this evening.” And then she waits for it, availing herself to some broccoli in the meanwhile.
“Your hair. You parted it on the right.”
Right on schedule. “So?”
“So, it looks better that way. More… feminine.”
Molly just barely resists the urge to roll her eyes, even if a tiny part of her is squealing in delight that he said she looked pretty.
He said no such thing. More feminine? So what, I don’t look sufficiently feminine? What sort of backhanded compliment is that? But you’re totally going to cave into him, aren’t you? Yes, I can feel it. It’s his voice again, isn’t it? God damn hormones…
With a hefty gust of breath, Molly reaches up to tuck a bit of her side-parted hair behind one ear and asks bluntly, “Sherlock, cut the crap. I’ve been on my feet for 10 hours, catching up on a backlog of autopsies and lab work. I’m tired, I’m cranky, and I got several more hours ahead of me. What do you want?”
A small moue of feigned hurt touches Sherlock’s lips. Yeah, right, like he feels guilty about any of the things that he cajoles her into doing.
“I’m hurt, Molly. After all the years we’ve been friends…”
Her eyes grow hard as Molly pushes the tray into Sherlock’s belly, stepping into his space. “Friends? Don’t make me laugh. We’re only friends when you want something. Friends don’t show up only when they want favors and body parts. Friends don’t flirt for eyeballs and spleens and then bugger off without so much as a thank you or an offer of dinner.”
He’s at a loss, confusion flickering over his gaze as she stands up to him before frustration and acceptance slide into place. “Fine, fine, I’ll pay for your meal,” Sherlock concedes, gesturing carelessly at the tray in her hands.
Wow. He really doesn’t get it. Molly shakes her head firmly. “No. If you want to see Lukis and Van Coon you’re going to have to make it worth my while. You’re going to have to take me out…”
Go on! Do it! Say it!
Molly closes her eyes for a moment and conjures up the courage before finishing bluntly, “…on a date.” She manages not to wince and congratulates herself when her hand is steady as she reaches out for the Caesar salad and places it firmly on her tray before turning her head to stare up at him determinedly. He owes her this. She’s not fooling herself that it’s going to make a jot of difference. Well, not entirely. Maybe, if they’re not in a situation where he needs something from her he might see her differently. And if not, well then at least she’ll know for sure, right? If nothing else, he owes her a nice dinner.
By the look on Sherlock’s face, she apparently just asked him to step in front of a firing squad. “A date?” At least this time the moue of distaste is for the idea of a date, rather than specifically a date with Molly. She’s not really sure how she can tell. Perhaps it is because he isn’t looking at her in horror and dismay, but at some unseen point of memory and mind. “I don’t… date.”
Molly straightens her back and turns away from Sherlock once more, reaching out for a piece of bread and putting it on her plate as she coolly informs him, “Well, if you want to see Van Coon and Lukis, you do now.”
*****
Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock is nearly twitching with impatience as Molly wheels the bodies of Van Coon and Lukis out, settling the two men side by side. It was actually rather pleasant, watching Sherlock squirm for a change, even if the reasons were impatience and a desire to study the dead men’s bodies, rather than excitement and a desire to study her body.
‘Baby steps,’ she tells herself silently. After all, she got herself the promise of a date before the week was out, didn’t she? That’s more than all the flirting and makeup has managed to gain her. Why on earth did she never think of this sooner? With all the favors Sherlock is constantly asking her for, she could have been wined and dined for weeks on end!
“I really don’t know why it was necessary for you to eat so slowly.”
“I wanted to enjoy my meal, and the body digests food better if you eat it slowly, rather than gulping it down.”
“And the research paper you just had to read while you were eating?”
“Research, obviously.” Reaching up to the top of the bags to start and unzip them, Molly’s hands fall still as Sherlock grumbles in a huff, “The feet! I just need to see the feet!”
Her head tilts and lifts, staring at him quizzically as she repeats, “The feet?” only to see that familiar flicker of annoyance and impatience flutter over his features. “Alright, alright, fine, the feet it is. Keep your shirt on…”
Or better yet, take it off…
Hush you.
Unzippering the bag, Molly pulls the material out of the way so that Sherlock can crouch down, one hand reaching out to press Van Coon’s toes upward, staring at his heel, a small smile curling his lips. “And now Lukis?”
The pattern is repeated, and the expression on Sherlock’s face more than makes up for all the sullen looks and pointed stares he gave her and the clock on the wall of the cafeteria. Pulling out his phone, he directs her hand to hold the feet upright so he can take a clear picture of the tattoos that both men seem to have there. Huh. Interesting. Same tattoos. Well, it looks like he got the proof he was looking for…
Molly startles again when she feels the softness of a pair of lips brushing against her cheek in a casual kiss, her face flaring up bright red as she turns to look at Sherlock. But the consulting detective is already striding out of the morgue, calling over his shoulder, “Molly, you’re a star! I recommend you keep both of those bodies available, I’m sure the police will be by this shortly, wanting to take a look.” And just like that, he’s gone again, vanishing with a dramatic flare of his coat.
She leans against one of the tables, insisting to herself that it’s the long hours that are making her feel slightly faint and unsteady on her feet. Yes. Most definitely a combination of working all night and the fact that all of her blood has gone to her stomach to digest the meal she just ate. Nothing at all to do with Sherlock and his lips.