Invisible Bonds - Chapter 15
Title: Invisible Bonds - Chapter 15
Length: 5,331 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and purely platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OCs are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to non_canonical for her friendship, brilliant advice, beta and Brit picking and to numberthescars for her amazing beta work.
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! 71,151 words posted, 80,000+ words written so far!
Invisible Bonds: Chapter 15
John considers whether he should go after Sherlock. Despite everything he said earlier, it’s not a terribly unreasonable thought.
First, he told Sherlock that he was taking the night off. He deserves a night off. But who is he kidding? He still lives for Sherlock - to guide him, support him, protect him. It’s his whole purpose and meaning of existence. Over the months his devotion to his ward has shifted into something more personal - his choice rather than his duty. But the affection and love he feels for Sherlock is as strong as ever if not more so. Agape - pure love, the kind of love that only God and his Angels can express and experience has expanded to include Philos - the love born of friendship.
Second, he came here with Harriet and for Harriet - to help heal the rift between her and John Watson. To make peace and perhaps to assuage some of the guilt he still feels for failing to protect Soo Lin. But Harriet seems to have decided that trying to seduce Molly is the more entertaining prospect of the evening. Whenever it seems like Molly might wander off in search of Sherlock herself, Harry catches her hand or her arm, murmurs something in her ear or coos in delight at the performance, forestalling any chance of escape.
So really, why shouldn’t he just cut to the chase before there actually is one? But, then again, why shouldn’t he take some time for himself for a change? Despite everything, he is, in fact, enjoying the music, the performance, the strange atmosphere and even the antics of Watson’s sister to an extent. The urge to just stay and experience a social, theatrical event the way an ordinary human would - that’s not something he’s allowed himself to enjoy before.
His eyes lift to the talented silks acrobat, who uses the flowing red fabric to fly through the air with surprising grace and beauty for a human. For a brief moment, John feels a flash of regret, of loss. His wings. He… misses them. Misses flight. It was a given for centuries, a simple means of transport, of convenience. But now? He feels the weight of gravity and humanity heavy on his shoulders, a soft wistful sigh feathering past his lips.
His shoulder twinges, as if sympathizing with his loss, and John raises his hand to gently massage and rotate the injured joint. His gaze catches on the curtain beyond for a moment, eyeing it curiously as it shifts and shimmies slightly. Someone preparing the next act perhaps?
“Hey.”
He turns, surprised to find Harry standing next to him again, her eyes surprisingly sober and concerned as they flicker to his shoulder and then back again. “You alright?”
“What? Oh, yes,” he murmurs softly, distracted and confused for a moment before shaking his head and dropping his hand away as so not to worry Watson’s sister. “It just aches sometimes. It’s nothing.” He gives her a warm smile meant to soothe any worries away.
But Harry’s expression doesn’t lighten at his reassuring words, her hand lifting instead to lightly rest against the back of his left shoulder, palm warm against the entry point of the wound. She slowly circles her hand there. A gesture of comfort. Of tenderness. She knows what happened, of course. She was sent a letter and a report. But knowing and understanding are two very different things. He can see by her eyes that she’s imagining it now, how the bullet struck him, piercing flesh and shattering bone, entering from behind and exploding out the front. She bites her lip and blinks. Then, with a soft sigh, her hand trails down his arm before wrapping around it, her cheek pressing into his shoulder as her gaze shifts back to the performance.
John glances past her to where Molly stands, quietly enraptured by the flying figure before them, before returning his gaze to the spectacle.
It’s easy to get lost in the beauty of the human form, the flowing lines of blood red silk, the graceful battle against gravity. But after a few minutes, his shoulder is starting to throb. John briefly ponders the value of asking Harriet to stop hanging on his arm versus the concern his request will engender before deciding he can live with a little discomfort.
Her head tilts as she straightens up a little. “Did you hear that?”
Blinking, John glances over at Harriet. “Hear what?”
A frown has creased her brow, but her tone is light and wry. “Well, I know that Chinese music can be a bit… discordant at times, but that clanging going on? See? There!” Her hand points, even though there is no obvious source for the odd metallic crack. “I mean, it isn’t even following along with the rest of the music…”
The pieces fall into place. His aching shoulder, the rippling curtain, and now the strange sounds…
Shit. Sherlock!
At that very moment, as if he sensed his name being thought so fervently, John’s ward falls through the curtain and onto his back, the air in his lungs exploding out of him in a violent whoosh, leaving him gasping like a trout on a riverbank. The audience gasps and looks up, thinking this is part of the show, not noticing the obvious surprise of the musicians who trail off playing uncertainly.
The curtain parts dramatically as the masked suit of armor steps out and raises its sword high. Sherlock just barely manages to roll off the stage before the hefty blade takes a bite into the floor where he just was.
“Stay here.” John starts to push his way past the patrons who seem determined to stand in his way leaving a wide mouthed Molly and a frowning Harriet in his wake. Now that the figure has drawn closer, he can sense the power of it, the magic. Not a being. No, it’s not alive nor a spirit. A spell? A protection spell. Like a guard, triggered by motion or intention or word. And now it’s attacking Sherlock.
“Excuse me, excuse me!” He struggles to get through the crowd that has turned to watch the new ‘act’, hemming him in. He needs to get to Sherlock before this gets completely out of hand. Can he disarm it as just John Watson? Stop it? Perhaps he won’t have to. Perhaps the creator will realize the risk they are putting everyone in and have it stand down before it actually kills anyone. Because if it doesn’t stop, if it tries to kill Sherlock? Dear Lord. He can’t transform here. Not in front of all of these people. Not in front of Sherlock.
The audience is now murmuring and shifting in confusion as Sherlock feebly flails on ground. The illusion of an act is falling away. The suit of armor, unable to wrench the sword free, gives up on the weapon and drops down to the floor, closing in on Sherlock. John’s left hand falls upon the shoulder of the armor and jerks back, spinning it around before curling his right hand into a fist and throwing a roundhouse straight into the nose of the mask with a mighty cracking sound that might be the mask breaking, but feels more like John’s hand.
He had no idea. No idea at all just how much throwing a punch hurts.
John yelps, clutching his hand and circling the suit, which apparently has decided that he is its new target rather than Sherlock. His eyes rove over the form, searching for a literal chink in the armor - some kind of weak spot that he can take advantage of. Which of course is exactly when the delicate looking Erhu player takes her stringed instrument and whacks him across the back of the head, causing John to stumble and fall.
Gasps of awe and pleasure have been replaced with cries of fear and confusion as the theater floor devolves into chaos, patrons fleeing the violence. Most of the performers are running as well, but a few, members of the Triad no doubt, have chosen to close in on Sherlock and John.
“Back off, bitch, that’s my brother you’re messing with!”
Down on one knee, shaking his head, John glances up to catch a glimpse of Harriet as she grabs and twists the young Chinese woman’s arm, delivering a brutal punch to the solar plexus that robs the woman of breath and then stepping in, forcing the woman backward and off balance she delivers another blow to the throat. The takedown takes only seconds.
Memories shift and shuffle themselves to provide an answer. Oh! Right. Harry studies Shotokan karate.
Meanwhile Molly, it seems, has taken position over Sherlock who has managed to get to his hands and knees but is still struggling for breath. She holds a shoe in each hand and as one of the performers heads towards her, she chucks it right at his head, clocking him just over the eye.
Spinning around, John just barely manages to get in another punch straight into the face of one of the demon-masked assistants. This one, at least, goes down. He hears Harry’s laugh as she takes down another attacker, calling out, “Aim for the soft spots, baby brother!” Good advice. John shakes his hand and seriously wonders if he’s broken it. Give him a sword and he’ll fight off a hundred demons. Give Watson a gun and he’ll take out an army. This hand-to-hand stuff doesn’t seem to be their forte.
The ensorcelled armor seems to gravitate toward the greatest threat, which, in this case is clearly Harriet. She’s already managed to take down two of the performers herself and is currently sizing up the suit of armor. It rushes her, but she slips to the side elegantly, catching one arm and using the figure’s momentum against it to spin it around, twisting the limb to the point where she would dislocate or break a human’s arm. She doesn’t realize of course, has no idea that she isn’t fighting a person but a magically created machine that won’t stop until someone turns it off.
Wait. Turns it off? Focusing on the figure intently, it only takes John a few seconds to pinpoint the central point of the spell - a gem centered upon the chest plate of the armor. Glancing about, John reaches for one of the chairs recently vacated by the musicians and picks it up, calling out, “Harry!” Glancing at him, Harriet just barely dodges another swing from the armored figure, dropping to one side and sweeping its legs with one of hers, felling it once more.
Stepping in quickly, before the automaton can rise up once more, John brings the chair down onto the chest plate as hard as he can. The crystal cracks under the impact and the spell abruptly releases, dispelling, the body falling limp. For a second brother and sister look at one another, sharing a crazy grin of adrenaline and pleasure before John remembers that Harriet is not his sister. The grin remains. Bumping his shoulder with a fist, Harry compliments, “Not bad, little brother.”
“Well, I did invade Afghanistan.”
“Yeah, yeah, but you weren’t alone.”
John quirks a brow and points out, “Not alone now.”
Harry grins, baring her teeth.
A soft clearing of a throat turns their attention back to Sherlock who is casually dusting himself off as if nothing had happened. He seems oblivious to poor Molly, who is retrieving her shoes and awkwardly putting them back on, looking flustered and disheveled. He crouches down next to one of the unconscious attackers that Harriet dispatched, slipping off a shoe to confirm the now familiar tattoo inked on the heel. One dark brow lifts, superciliously.
“I suggest we leave before they return with reinforcements.”
Unsurprisingly, everyone is good with that plan.
*****
Entering into the flat, John wearily hangs up his coat and flexes his hand before heading into the kitchen to run some cold water over it and ponder the events of the evening, leaving Harriet and Sherlock to sort themselves out.
Their report of the incident and subsequent sojourn to the police station was less than satisfying. Lestrade was off for the night, which meant they had to deal with Dimmock who was less than pleased with the prospect of paying overtime for a raid that was, in his humble opinion, not going to find anything. He listened to Sherlock’s explanation of Triads and smuggling rings and murder with barely restrained disbelief. He seemed especially unimpressed by the fact that they didn’t bring any evidence with them and had no idea what the smuggled object in question might be.
Sherlock left the station even more disgruntled than when he arrived. Molly decided she’d had enough excitement for one night after Sherlock asked her tetchily if she still expected him to take her to dinner as well, and found her own way home. The rude slight earned Sherlock another pronouncement of ‘git’ from Harriet and served as a catalyst for a final attempt to get Molly’s number. The disappointed and flustered woman merely fluttered her hands and made some excuse before hopping into the nearest cab.
Harriet, however, was unfazed by the failure - still riding the high of the fight. She paid no heed whatsoever to Sherlock’s pointed looks at both her and John as they grabbed the next cab. Instead, all throughout the ride to Baker St. she indulged herself in good old-fashioned ribbing on how she could ‘take’ her brother in a fight and how he clearly needed to come to class with her and get himself ‘back in shape’, poking at the softness of his belly.
Once back at the flat, she stares around in a mixture of curiosity and wry amusement. Hands on her hips, she prowls the floor, what little of it is available, looking at the various piles of books in askance. “Planning to start your own library?”
Huffing in annoyance, his eyes rolling back in his head, Sherlock retorts, “Yes. And as such I’m sure you remember the rule that there’s no talking allowed.”
“I see your lips flapping.”
Sherlock dismisses her, his eyes flashing with aggravation as they seek out his flatmate instead. “John, make her go away.”
Arms fold over her chest. “You make me.”
Cool silver eyes narrow at the challenge. “I will if I must.”
Harriet’s chin lifts defiantly, her gaze turning dangerous. “I’d like to see you try…”
Walking out of the kitchen, carefully drying off sore hand, John snaps at them both. “Christ, can you two just stop for two minutes?”
Harriet points at Sherlock in manner both imperious and childish. “He started it.”
Rolling his eyes now, John grumbles, “I don’t care which of you started it, I’ll crack both your heads together.”
For a brief moment Sherlock and Harry both turn their heads toward him and stand united against John, glaring at him as if daring him to.
Flinging his hands into the air, John retorts, “Fine. Have at it. Kill each other if that’s what you have to do. In the meanwhile, I’m starving. I’m going to order takeaway.”
Sitting down at the desk, Sherlock calls over his shoulder, “Indian, please,” just as Harriet asks, “Oooh, can we have Chinese?” Sherlock gives her a withering look.
“What? It’s thematic!”
Now the two are glaring at each other again.
Eyes lift to heaven. “Lord, give me strength…” John murmurs as he heads off to the kitchen to look for menus.
Sherlock turns around dramatically and picks up the photographs of the graffiti once more, staring at them in frustration. He found nothing of use at the circus. Nothing that brings them any closer to translating the cipher. He glares at the symbols, as if he could make them morph into English just by focusing his anger at them.
He can hear the sound of John’s sister wandering about the apartment, looking at this, picking up that. At the creak of one particularly squeaky floorboard he grumbles without even looking up, “Don’t touch that, it’s perfectly calibrated!” An annoyed huff is all the response he gets, but she moves away without touching the delicate piece of equipment. A few seconds later he calls out, “Put the skull down.”
“Jesus, you got eyes in the back of your head?”
“No, just a keen sense of observation and razor sharp senses. Now stop fussing about and be quiet.”
Harriet does neither. “So, now that you and the police are onto them, won’t these Triad criminals just go back to China?”
Sherlock sorts through the photos pointlessly, hoping that this time he’ll notice something he’s missed before. Some sort of clue.
“No, they won’t leave until they’ve found what they’re looking for. If they’re willing to kill two people for it, it is likely quite valuable. The only solution now is for us to find them first.”
“Hmmm, and just how do you think you’ll be able to do that?”
Sherlock lifts up the photo of the blackboard with John’s writing on it, waving it over his shoulder. “Somewhere in this message, they must note a contact point. A rendezvous or hideout of some kind.”
The photo is plucked from his fingers, the insufferable woman at his shoulder now. “So, this is what you do for a living then is it? Solving puzzles? John’s a doctor. How did you get him mixed up in all of this?”
Sherlock’s irritation evaporates for a brief moment, a smile touching his lips. “He’s surprisingly useful. Doctor. Soldier. Less idiotic than most people I have to deal with. But in the end? I told him it might be dangerous, and there he was.”
She wiggles the paper in her hands, asking, “So what’s this?”
Sherlock just barely bites back the retort on his lips. How does any one put up with such prattling? Clearly it’s not genetic. John doesn’t seem to find the need to ramble on and on, distracting and interrupting him when he’s trying to work. It must be part of Harriet’s personality. A flaw. A defect. The woman seemed to be designed for the sole purpose of being annoying.
“They’re numbers. An ancient Chinese dialect.”
Her voice takes on an annoyed, faux-posh veneer as she sneers back, “Oh, right. Of course. I should have known that, what with my degree in ancient Chinese dialects and all…”
She shifts closer, her body pressing against Sherlock’s arm, impeding his freedom of movement as she leans over his shoulder to bring the photo in her hands into better light. “So these numbers, they’re a cipher.”
“Exactly.” God, why does she have to touch everything? Doesn’t she have eyes?
“And each pair of numbers is a word.”
Sherlock’s body goes still as a reluctant flash of respect trickles through him, his eyes flicking up to Harriet’s openly interested expression. His voice is soft and low as he asks, “How did you know that?”
“Because two words have already been translated? Here.”
She leans over him again, her body soft against his. Most men would find such a gesture provocative. Sherlock is quite certain in this case it’s completely incidental. For one, she’s a lesbian. For another, she seems to take a certain delight in trying to wind him up. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Sherlock isn’t most men.
“And look, this one’s been translated as well…” Harriet tugs on the photograph from Van Coon’s office, Soo Lin’s neat handwriting floating above the yellow markings: “Dead Man”.
“John? John!”
“What?”
Phone tucked between his chin and shoulder, menu in his hands, John pops out of the kitchen, peering at the unexpectedly cozy tableau before him.
“Look.” Sherlock thrusts out a hand, waving the photograph that Harriet had been holding at him. “Soo Lin. She started to translate the cipher!”
John takes the photograph, peering at it. “Nine mill. As in million?”
“Nine million quid. That’s the value of whatever was stolen. And dead man,” he adds, picking up the second photo. “See, I was right. It was a threat.” He pushes back from the desk and jumps up, plucking his coat from the couch and pulling it on hastily. “The book, it must have been on Soo Lin’s desk and we didn’t see it. I have to get to the museum.”
“Sherlock, I don’t think… it wasn’t her desk any more. I don’t think there was anything on it other than the pots she was working on.”
“Nonsense, John,” Sherlock counters, snatching the two photos from John’s hand. “Otherwise how did she do this?”
“Well, they’re not going to let us into the museum at this hour. Especially after the mess we made.”
Sherlock doesn’t so much as hesitate, grabbing his phone from his pocket and quickly texting. “I’ll get Lestrade to let me in.”
The expression on John’s face says clearly without words just how incredibly unlikely that will be.
Dashing out the door, Sherlock pauses and stares at John with a mixture of bemusement and impatience. “Why aren’t you putting on your coat? We have to go!”
“Are you kidding? You want me to come and get yelled at with you by Lestrade for something that can wait until morning? You said so yourself, they’re not going anywhere.”
Sherlock almost bounces with impatience, “Yes, but that doesn’t mean that someone won’t show up with the item in the meanwhile.”
John stands resolute. “Tonight I’m spending time with my sister. You’re on your own on this one.”
Flinging his scarf about his throat, Sherlock pockets the photographs. “Fine. Stay here and eat your Chinese. I’ll be back later. I suspect I’ll have cracked the case by then. Don’t wait up!” He doesn’t understand why he feels disappointed. He should be filled with adrenaline and determination. This is it! The break he’s been looking for! Once he gets the book from Soo Lin’s desk and translates the cipher, they’ll have their quarry. His feet drum down the stairs as he practically flings himself out of the door and flags down the nearest cab. He’s so close to solving this case, he can taste it.
So why does he feel so empty?
*****
“That was nice.”
John turns about, confused. “What was nice?”
“You. Choosing to stay here with me rather than dashing off with him.”
“Yeah, well, I said I would do something with you tonight.”
“Yeah, but you’d rather be running all over London with him.”
John opens his mouth to deny it, but Harriet chuckles and holds up a hand. “Better to tell nothing than tell a lie.” Something their mother used to always say to them. Well, Watson’s mother. John shuts his mouth.
Harriet leans in, one hand brushing the nape of John’s neck. “How’s your head?”
“Hard as ever.”
Harry smiles at the quip, fingers reaching up until they brush against the bump there, John hissing softly as he ducks forward to escape her probing fingers. “Lay off.”
“Don’t be such a baby. You’re not bleeding. It’s barely swollen.” She slips away and heads into the kitchen as she asks, “Is there anything in the freezer that I should know about before I open it?”
“Lord, I hope not…”
The freezer door opens and there’s an uncertain moment before Harry calls out, “All clear!” She closes it again and returns with a bag of frozen peas in her hand. “Here.” She pushes the bag against the back of John’s head, waiting until he reaches back to hold it in place before letting go.
She takes his hand up and examines the swelling and bruising there. “Did a number on your hand too, I see. Quick tip, little brother. When fighting someone wearing armor and a mask, do not punch them. Because they’re wearing armor. It’s meant to stop things a lot harder than your dainty little hand.”
John shakes off her grip good-naturedly and retorts, “Oi, who you calling little?”
“You, little brother. Cause you’re younger than me and shorter than me.”
“Half a fucking inch.”
“Still shorter.” She grins at him impishly before her expression sobers thoughtfully. “I still can’t figure out how he was able to come at me again. That move, it should have broken his arm, but he just twisted out of it and counterattacked...”
Think fast. “Well, they were also circus performers,” John bluffs. “Perhaps he was a contortionist?”
Harriet mulls that possibility over, nodding thoughtfully as she concurs uncertainly, “Maaaaaaybe.”
Picking up the phone, John passes Harriet the menu. When in doubt, distract. “Pick out what you want.” A short call later and the two of them are seated on the couch comfortably, waiting for their dinner to arrive.
“Soooo,” she starts, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What’s the real deal with you and Sherlock? You shacking up?” John nearly spits up some of the tea he fixed for himself. “What? No. Sherlock’s my…” Human? Ward? Charge? Reason for living? “… my flatmate. And my friend.”
Harriet rolls her eyes. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. I might be an alcoholic, but that doesn’t make me stupid y’know. You’re totally into him, aren’t you?”
Blinking owlishly, John tries to wrap his mind around the idea, around his feelings for Sherlock. Shaking his head, he murmurs, “It’s not like that. It’s not about… sex, or sexual attraction. I mean, yes, I guess in a way you could say I’m ‘totally into him’, but it’s not in the way that you mean. But yes, Sherlock’s important to me.” Essential to me. “I want to be with him and I can’t imagine not being with him.”
Clearly this sort of relationship is not one that Harriet has a lot of experience with, her brow twisted with bemusement. Her voice interrupts his reverie, taking his silence as confirmation. “What’s the appeal?”
How does he explain it? Look, Harry, I’m not your brother but a centuries old angel who stole his body and the reason I’m glued to Sherlock’s side is because I’m his Guardian Angel and I cannot do anything but love him and care for him, even when he pisses the ever living snot out of me because I would die for him in a heartbeat and give everything I have to keep him safe and alive and will do so until death do us part and can only pray that I’ll die before him, because I don’t know how I will survive if the only reason I’m living dies before me.
Hmmmm. No, better not. John’s shoulders shrug as he turns the question over to Watson instead. There’s a moment of contemplation before he hears himself say, “He’s a good man. For all his flaws and rudeness, and God knows he’s full of them, he fights the good fight. Being with him makes me feel alive. The cases, the excitement, the unknown. Sherlock Holmes is an adventure, and every adventure has its fair share of bumps and bruises. Wouldn’t be an adventure without them. You wear them with pride. They’re the marks of your journey. Sherlock is… unique. I respect and admire him and can’t think of anyone I would rather spend my time with.”
“Wow, that’s deep.” Her voice has a mocking edge to it. Some bitterness there; jealousy perhaps? Watson nearly rises to the bait, but John pushes the instinctive reaction down. Until… “So have you fucked him yet?”
“Harry!”
“What? I mean, I’m a lesbian and even I think he’s gorgeous. A complete and utter prat, but still gorgeous. Give him a pair of tits and high heels? I’d do ‘im.”
“Christ. You know? Not everything about life is booze and sex.”
“Should be. And speaking of booze, you got anything to drink in this place?” Harriet pushes off the couch and wanders into the kitchen, haphazardly opening up cupboards and cabinets.
“No!”
“Bloody hell. What are you two, teetotalers? How about the bathroom? Any isopropyl alcohol? Tastes like shit, but any port in a storm, eh?”
“Harrrrrrr-ry.”
Her head pops out of the kitchen, giving her brother an evil smirk. “Fuck, John, I’m just kidding. What happened to your sense of humor?”
“It got shot in Afghanistan.”
She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and taps it against her wrist idly before sliding one out and pulling out a lighter. “So, why aren’t you and Sherlock doing it yet?”
“You can’t smoke in the apartment and, wait, what?”
“You heard me.” But apparently Harriet didn’t hear him because she blithely lights up and takes a deep draw, tilting her head back to blow out the smoke.
“Damnit, Harriet, I said no smoking. Sherlock is trying to stay off of them and coming back to a flat reeking of cigarettes is just going to set him off.” He rises up and tries to snatch the offending article from her hand.
“Piss off. If I can’t have a drink, the least you can do is let me have a smoke.” She crosses over to one of the windows and props it open, letting the smoke drift outside. “There. Better? And stop avoiding the topic. You didn’t answer my question.”
With a soft sigh of defeat, John lets the cigarette go this time. There really isn’t a lesser evil between smoking and drinking, not with the quantities of each that Harriet indulges in. But this is a battle he’s not equipped to win.
“I told you, we’re just friends. Besides, what makes you think I fancy him? Or, for that matter, that he has the slightest interest in me?”
Harriet’s head cocks to one side. “Well for one, he’s definitely not interested in women. I leaned on him, pushed my boobs right against his arm and he looked practically disgusted.”
“Which has nothing to do with the fact that you were annoying the crap out of him…”
Harriet smirks and shrugs. “It’s the way you look at him. The way he looks at you when you’re not looking at him.”
Blinking, John swallows hard before asking uncertainly, “How do I look at him?”
“Like he’s your whole world. Like you would do anything for him. Anything at all.” She takes a long draw from her cigarette and tilts her head to slowly blow it out the window.
“And how does he look at me?”
“Hmmmmm. That varies. Sometimes like you’re an idiot. Other times like you’re his man slave. But every once in awhile, like he can’t believe you’re standing next to him willingly.” The conversation is blessedly interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. “Buggery fuck, that was fast.” A negligent hand is waved in John’s direction as Harry reminds, “Your treat. Go fetch.”
Wincing, John mutters, “You have the mouth of a lorry driver, and I’m not your damn dog…” but he’s too grateful for the interruption to make much of a stink about paying. He heads down the stairs of the flat and opens the door as he fishes his wallet out of his back pocket, catching a glimpse of a young Chinese man before he looks down to peer inside the leather pockets, asking, “How much?”
“Do you have it?”
“What?” The question throws him off and John looks up, half expecting the person at the door to be someone mistaking him for Sherlock or something. The deliveryman standing there simply asks again, “Do you have it?”
Comprehension dawns and without a second of hesitation, John starts to push the door closed. The man catches him off guard by pulling the door toward himself only to then slam it violently inward. Falling forward as his weight and momentum are overwhelmed, the door crashes right into John’s forehead.
Dazed and stunned he falls backward into the vestibule, the man pushing his way in and crouching over John. “Do you have the treasure?”
John struggles to get up, his hand reaching over for his long-forgotten cane, the only readily available weapon.
He never gets the chance to use it.
Length: 5,331 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and purely platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OCs are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to non_canonical for her friendship, brilliant advice, beta and Brit picking and to numberthescars for her amazing beta work.
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! 71,151 words posted, 80,000+ words written so far!
Invisible Bonds: Chapter 15
John considers whether he should go after Sherlock. Despite everything he said earlier, it’s not a terribly unreasonable thought.
First, he told Sherlock that he was taking the night off. He deserves a night off. But who is he kidding? He still lives for Sherlock - to guide him, support him, protect him. It’s his whole purpose and meaning of existence. Over the months his devotion to his ward has shifted into something more personal - his choice rather than his duty. But the affection and love he feels for Sherlock is as strong as ever if not more so. Agape - pure love, the kind of love that only God and his Angels can express and experience has expanded to include Philos - the love born of friendship.
Second, he came here with Harriet and for Harriet - to help heal the rift between her and John Watson. To make peace and perhaps to assuage some of the guilt he still feels for failing to protect Soo Lin. But Harriet seems to have decided that trying to seduce Molly is the more entertaining prospect of the evening. Whenever it seems like Molly might wander off in search of Sherlock herself, Harry catches her hand or her arm, murmurs something in her ear or coos in delight at the performance, forestalling any chance of escape.
So really, why shouldn’t he just cut to the chase before there actually is one? But, then again, why shouldn’t he take some time for himself for a change? Despite everything, he is, in fact, enjoying the music, the performance, the strange atmosphere and even the antics of Watson’s sister to an extent. The urge to just stay and experience a social, theatrical event the way an ordinary human would - that’s not something he’s allowed himself to enjoy before.
His eyes lift to the talented silks acrobat, who uses the flowing red fabric to fly through the air with surprising grace and beauty for a human. For a brief moment, John feels a flash of regret, of loss. His wings. He… misses them. Misses flight. It was a given for centuries, a simple means of transport, of convenience. But now? He feels the weight of gravity and humanity heavy on his shoulders, a soft wistful sigh feathering past his lips.
His shoulder twinges, as if sympathizing with his loss, and John raises his hand to gently massage and rotate the injured joint. His gaze catches on the curtain beyond for a moment, eyeing it curiously as it shifts and shimmies slightly. Someone preparing the next act perhaps?
“Hey.”
He turns, surprised to find Harry standing next to him again, her eyes surprisingly sober and concerned as they flicker to his shoulder and then back again. “You alright?”
“What? Oh, yes,” he murmurs softly, distracted and confused for a moment before shaking his head and dropping his hand away as so not to worry Watson’s sister. “It just aches sometimes. It’s nothing.” He gives her a warm smile meant to soothe any worries away.
But Harry’s expression doesn’t lighten at his reassuring words, her hand lifting instead to lightly rest against the back of his left shoulder, palm warm against the entry point of the wound. She slowly circles her hand there. A gesture of comfort. Of tenderness. She knows what happened, of course. She was sent a letter and a report. But knowing and understanding are two very different things. He can see by her eyes that she’s imagining it now, how the bullet struck him, piercing flesh and shattering bone, entering from behind and exploding out the front. She bites her lip and blinks. Then, with a soft sigh, her hand trails down his arm before wrapping around it, her cheek pressing into his shoulder as her gaze shifts back to the performance.
John glances past her to where Molly stands, quietly enraptured by the flying figure before them, before returning his gaze to the spectacle.
It’s easy to get lost in the beauty of the human form, the flowing lines of blood red silk, the graceful battle against gravity. But after a few minutes, his shoulder is starting to throb. John briefly ponders the value of asking Harriet to stop hanging on his arm versus the concern his request will engender before deciding he can live with a little discomfort.
Her head tilts as she straightens up a little. “Did you hear that?”
Blinking, John glances over at Harriet. “Hear what?”
A frown has creased her brow, but her tone is light and wry. “Well, I know that Chinese music can be a bit… discordant at times, but that clanging going on? See? There!” Her hand points, even though there is no obvious source for the odd metallic crack. “I mean, it isn’t even following along with the rest of the music…”
The pieces fall into place. His aching shoulder, the rippling curtain, and now the strange sounds…
Shit. Sherlock!
At that very moment, as if he sensed his name being thought so fervently, John’s ward falls through the curtain and onto his back, the air in his lungs exploding out of him in a violent whoosh, leaving him gasping like a trout on a riverbank. The audience gasps and looks up, thinking this is part of the show, not noticing the obvious surprise of the musicians who trail off playing uncertainly.
The curtain parts dramatically as the masked suit of armor steps out and raises its sword high. Sherlock just barely manages to roll off the stage before the hefty blade takes a bite into the floor where he just was.
“Stay here.” John starts to push his way past the patrons who seem determined to stand in his way leaving a wide mouthed Molly and a frowning Harriet in his wake. Now that the figure has drawn closer, he can sense the power of it, the magic. Not a being. No, it’s not alive nor a spirit. A spell? A protection spell. Like a guard, triggered by motion or intention or word. And now it’s attacking Sherlock.
“Excuse me, excuse me!” He struggles to get through the crowd that has turned to watch the new ‘act’, hemming him in. He needs to get to Sherlock before this gets completely out of hand. Can he disarm it as just John Watson? Stop it? Perhaps he won’t have to. Perhaps the creator will realize the risk they are putting everyone in and have it stand down before it actually kills anyone. Because if it doesn’t stop, if it tries to kill Sherlock? Dear Lord. He can’t transform here. Not in front of all of these people. Not in front of Sherlock.
The audience is now murmuring and shifting in confusion as Sherlock feebly flails on ground. The illusion of an act is falling away. The suit of armor, unable to wrench the sword free, gives up on the weapon and drops down to the floor, closing in on Sherlock. John’s left hand falls upon the shoulder of the armor and jerks back, spinning it around before curling his right hand into a fist and throwing a roundhouse straight into the nose of the mask with a mighty cracking sound that might be the mask breaking, but feels more like John’s hand.
He had no idea. No idea at all just how much throwing a punch hurts.
John yelps, clutching his hand and circling the suit, which apparently has decided that he is its new target rather than Sherlock. His eyes rove over the form, searching for a literal chink in the armor - some kind of weak spot that he can take advantage of. Which of course is exactly when the delicate looking Erhu player takes her stringed instrument and whacks him across the back of the head, causing John to stumble and fall.
Gasps of awe and pleasure have been replaced with cries of fear and confusion as the theater floor devolves into chaos, patrons fleeing the violence. Most of the performers are running as well, but a few, members of the Triad no doubt, have chosen to close in on Sherlock and John.
“Back off, bitch, that’s my brother you’re messing with!”
Down on one knee, shaking his head, John glances up to catch a glimpse of Harriet as she grabs and twists the young Chinese woman’s arm, delivering a brutal punch to the solar plexus that robs the woman of breath and then stepping in, forcing the woman backward and off balance she delivers another blow to the throat. The takedown takes only seconds.
Memories shift and shuffle themselves to provide an answer. Oh! Right. Harry studies Shotokan karate.
Meanwhile Molly, it seems, has taken position over Sherlock who has managed to get to his hands and knees but is still struggling for breath. She holds a shoe in each hand and as one of the performers heads towards her, she chucks it right at his head, clocking him just over the eye.
Spinning around, John just barely manages to get in another punch straight into the face of one of the demon-masked assistants. This one, at least, goes down. He hears Harry’s laugh as she takes down another attacker, calling out, “Aim for the soft spots, baby brother!” Good advice. John shakes his hand and seriously wonders if he’s broken it. Give him a sword and he’ll fight off a hundred demons. Give Watson a gun and he’ll take out an army. This hand-to-hand stuff doesn’t seem to be their forte.
The ensorcelled armor seems to gravitate toward the greatest threat, which, in this case is clearly Harriet. She’s already managed to take down two of the performers herself and is currently sizing up the suit of armor. It rushes her, but she slips to the side elegantly, catching one arm and using the figure’s momentum against it to spin it around, twisting the limb to the point where she would dislocate or break a human’s arm. She doesn’t realize of course, has no idea that she isn’t fighting a person but a magically created machine that won’t stop until someone turns it off.
Wait. Turns it off? Focusing on the figure intently, it only takes John a few seconds to pinpoint the central point of the spell - a gem centered upon the chest plate of the armor. Glancing about, John reaches for one of the chairs recently vacated by the musicians and picks it up, calling out, “Harry!” Glancing at him, Harriet just barely dodges another swing from the armored figure, dropping to one side and sweeping its legs with one of hers, felling it once more.
Stepping in quickly, before the automaton can rise up once more, John brings the chair down onto the chest plate as hard as he can. The crystal cracks under the impact and the spell abruptly releases, dispelling, the body falling limp. For a second brother and sister look at one another, sharing a crazy grin of adrenaline and pleasure before John remembers that Harriet is not his sister. The grin remains. Bumping his shoulder with a fist, Harry compliments, “Not bad, little brother.”
“Well, I did invade Afghanistan.”
“Yeah, yeah, but you weren’t alone.”
John quirks a brow and points out, “Not alone now.”
Harry grins, baring her teeth.
A soft clearing of a throat turns their attention back to Sherlock who is casually dusting himself off as if nothing had happened. He seems oblivious to poor Molly, who is retrieving her shoes and awkwardly putting them back on, looking flustered and disheveled. He crouches down next to one of the unconscious attackers that Harriet dispatched, slipping off a shoe to confirm the now familiar tattoo inked on the heel. One dark brow lifts, superciliously.
“I suggest we leave before they return with reinforcements.”
Unsurprisingly, everyone is good with that plan.
*****
Entering into the flat, John wearily hangs up his coat and flexes his hand before heading into the kitchen to run some cold water over it and ponder the events of the evening, leaving Harriet and Sherlock to sort themselves out.
Their report of the incident and subsequent sojourn to the police station was less than satisfying. Lestrade was off for the night, which meant they had to deal with Dimmock who was less than pleased with the prospect of paying overtime for a raid that was, in his humble opinion, not going to find anything. He listened to Sherlock’s explanation of Triads and smuggling rings and murder with barely restrained disbelief. He seemed especially unimpressed by the fact that they didn’t bring any evidence with them and had no idea what the smuggled object in question might be.
Sherlock left the station even more disgruntled than when he arrived. Molly decided she’d had enough excitement for one night after Sherlock asked her tetchily if she still expected him to take her to dinner as well, and found her own way home. The rude slight earned Sherlock another pronouncement of ‘git’ from Harriet and served as a catalyst for a final attempt to get Molly’s number. The disappointed and flustered woman merely fluttered her hands and made some excuse before hopping into the nearest cab.
Harriet, however, was unfazed by the failure - still riding the high of the fight. She paid no heed whatsoever to Sherlock’s pointed looks at both her and John as they grabbed the next cab. Instead, all throughout the ride to Baker St. she indulged herself in good old-fashioned ribbing on how she could ‘take’ her brother in a fight and how he clearly needed to come to class with her and get himself ‘back in shape’, poking at the softness of his belly.
Once back at the flat, she stares around in a mixture of curiosity and wry amusement. Hands on her hips, she prowls the floor, what little of it is available, looking at the various piles of books in askance. “Planning to start your own library?”
Huffing in annoyance, his eyes rolling back in his head, Sherlock retorts, “Yes. And as such I’m sure you remember the rule that there’s no talking allowed.”
“I see your lips flapping.”
Sherlock dismisses her, his eyes flashing with aggravation as they seek out his flatmate instead. “John, make her go away.”
Arms fold over her chest. “You make me.”
Cool silver eyes narrow at the challenge. “I will if I must.”
Harriet’s chin lifts defiantly, her gaze turning dangerous. “I’d like to see you try…”
Walking out of the kitchen, carefully drying off sore hand, John snaps at them both. “Christ, can you two just stop for two minutes?”
Harriet points at Sherlock in manner both imperious and childish. “He started it.”
Rolling his eyes now, John grumbles, “I don’t care which of you started it, I’ll crack both your heads together.”
For a brief moment Sherlock and Harry both turn their heads toward him and stand united against John, glaring at him as if daring him to.
Flinging his hands into the air, John retorts, “Fine. Have at it. Kill each other if that’s what you have to do. In the meanwhile, I’m starving. I’m going to order takeaway.”
Sitting down at the desk, Sherlock calls over his shoulder, “Indian, please,” just as Harriet asks, “Oooh, can we have Chinese?” Sherlock gives her a withering look.
“What? It’s thematic!”
Now the two are glaring at each other again.
Eyes lift to heaven. “Lord, give me strength…” John murmurs as he heads off to the kitchen to look for menus.
Sherlock turns around dramatically and picks up the photographs of the graffiti once more, staring at them in frustration. He found nothing of use at the circus. Nothing that brings them any closer to translating the cipher. He glares at the symbols, as if he could make them morph into English just by focusing his anger at them.
He can hear the sound of John’s sister wandering about the apartment, looking at this, picking up that. At the creak of one particularly squeaky floorboard he grumbles without even looking up, “Don’t touch that, it’s perfectly calibrated!” An annoyed huff is all the response he gets, but she moves away without touching the delicate piece of equipment. A few seconds later he calls out, “Put the skull down.”
“Jesus, you got eyes in the back of your head?”
“No, just a keen sense of observation and razor sharp senses. Now stop fussing about and be quiet.”
Harriet does neither. “So, now that you and the police are onto them, won’t these Triad criminals just go back to China?”
Sherlock sorts through the photos pointlessly, hoping that this time he’ll notice something he’s missed before. Some sort of clue.
“No, they won’t leave until they’ve found what they’re looking for. If they’re willing to kill two people for it, it is likely quite valuable. The only solution now is for us to find them first.”
“Hmmm, and just how do you think you’ll be able to do that?”
Sherlock lifts up the photo of the blackboard with John’s writing on it, waving it over his shoulder. “Somewhere in this message, they must note a contact point. A rendezvous or hideout of some kind.”
The photo is plucked from his fingers, the insufferable woman at his shoulder now. “So, this is what you do for a living then is it? Solving puzzles? John’s a doctor. How did you get him mixed up in all of this?”
Sherlock’s irritation evaporates for a brief moment, a smile touching his lips. “He’s surprisingly useful. Doctor. Soldier. Less idiotic than most people I have to deal with. But in the end? I told him it might be dangerous, and there he was.”
She wiggles the paper in her hands, asking, “So what’s this?”
Sherlock just barely bites back the retort on his lips. How does any one put up with such prattling? Clearly it’s not genetic. John doesn’t seem to find the need to ramble on and on, distracting and interrupting him when he’s trying to work. It must be part of Harriet’s personality. A flaw. A defect. The woman seemed to be designed for the sole purpose of being annoying.
“They’re numbers. An ancient Chinese dialect.”
Her voice takes on an annoyed, faux-posh veneer as she sneers back, “Oh, right. Of course. I should have known that, what with my degree in ancient Chinese dialects and all…”
She shifts closer, her body pressing against Sherlock’s arm, impeding his freedom of movement as she leans over his shoulder to bring the photo in her hands into better light. “So these numbers, they’re a cipher.”
“Exactly.” God, why does she have to touch everything? Doesn’t she have eyes?
“And each pair of numbers is a word.”
Sherlock’s body goes still as a reluctant flash of respect trickles through him, his eyes flicking up to Harriet’s openly interested expression. His voice is soft and low as he asks, “How did you know that?”
“Because two words have already been translated? Here.”
She leans over him again, her body soft against his. Most men would find such a gesture provocative. Sherlock is quite certain in this case it’s completely incidental. For one, she’s a lesbian. For another, she seems to take a certain delight in trying to wind him up. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Sherlock isn’t most men.
“And look, this one’s been translated as well…” Harriet tugs on the photograph from Van Coon’s office, Soo Lin’s neat handwriting floating above the yellow markings: “Dead Man”.
“John? John!”
“What?”
Phone tucked between his chin and shoulder, menu in his hands, John pops out of the kitchen, peering at the unexpectedly cozy tableau before him.
“Look.” Sherlock thrusts out a hand, waving the photograph that Harriet had been holding at him. “Soo Lin. She started to translate the cipher!”
John takes the photograph, peering at it. “Nine mill. As in million?”
“Nine million quid. That’s the value of whatever was stolen. And dead man,” he adds, picking up the second photo. “See, I was right. It was a threat.” He pushes back from the desk and jumps up, plucking his coat from the couch and pulling it on hastily. “The book, it must have been on Soo Lin’s desk and we didn’t see it. I have to get to the museum.”
“Sherlock, I don’t think… it wasn’t her desk any more. I don’t think there was anything on it other than the pots she was working on.”
“Nonsense, John,” Sherlock counters, snatching the two photos from John’s hand. “Otherwise how did she do this?”
“Well, they’re not going to let us into the museum at this hour. Especially after the mess we made.”
Sherlock doesn’t so much as hesitate, grabbing his phone from his pocket and quickly texting. “I’ll get Lestrade to let me in.”
The expression on John’s face says clearly without words just how incredibly unlikely that will be.
Dashing out the door, Sherlock pauses and stares at John with a mixture of bemusement and impatience. “Why aren’t you putting on your coat? We have to go!”
“Are you kidding? You want me to come and get yelled at with you by Lestrade for something that can wait until morning? You said so yourself, they’re not going anywhere.”
Sherlock almost bounces with impatience, “Yes, but that doesn’t mean that someone won’t show up with the item in the meanwhile.”
John stands resolute. “Tonight I’m spending time with my sister. You’re on your own on this one.”
Flinging his scarf about his throat, Sherlock pockets the photographs. “Fine. Stay here and eat your Chinese. I’ll be back later. I suspect I’ll have cracked the case by then. Don’t wait up!” He doesn’t understand why he feels disappointed. He should be filled with adrenaline and determination. This is it! The break he’s been looking for! Once he gets the book from Soo Lin’s desk and translates the cipher, they’ll have their quarry. His feet drum down the stairs as he practically flings himself out of the door and flags down the nearest cab. He’s so close to solving this case, he can taste it.
So why does he feel so empty?
*****
“That was nice.”
John turns about, confused. “What was nice?”
“You. Choosing to stay here with me rather than dashing off with him.”
“Yeah, well, I said I would do something with you tonight.”
“Yeah, but you’d rather be running all over London with him.”
John opens his mouth to deny it, but Harriet chuckles and holds up a hand. “Better to tell nothing than tell a lie.” Something their mother used to always say to them. Well, Watson’s mother. John shuts his mouth.
Harriet leans in, one hand brushing the nape of John’s neck. “How’s your head?”
“Hard as ever.”
Harry smiles at the quip, fingers reaching up until they brush against the bump there, John hissing softly as he ducks forward to escape her probing fingers. “Lay off.”
“Don’t be such a baby. You’re not bleeding. It’s barely swollen.” She slips away and heads into the kitchen as she asks, “Is there anything in the freezer that I should know about before I open it?”
“Lord, I hope not…”
The freezer door opens and there’s an uncertain moment before Harry calls out, “All clear!” She closes it again and returns with a bag of frozen peas in her hand. “Here.” She pushes the bag against the back of John’s head, waiting until he reaches back to hold it in place before letting go.
She takes his hand up and examines the swelling and bruising there. “Did a number on your hand too, I see. Quick tip, little brother. When fighting someone wearing armor and a mask, do not punch them. Because they’re wearing armor. It’s meant to stop things a lot harder than your dainty little hand.”
John shakes off her grip good-naturedly and retorts, “Oi, who you calling little?”
“You, little brother. Cause you’re younger than me and shorter than me.”
“Half a fucking inch.”
“Still shorter.” She grins at him impishly before her expression sobers thoughtfully. “I still can’t figure out how he was able to come at me again. That move, it should have broken his arm, but he just twisted out of it and counterattacked...”
Think fast. “Well, they were also circus performers,” John bluffs. “Perhaps he was a contortionist?”
Harriet mulls that possibility over, nodding thoughtfully as she concurs uncertainly, “Maaaaaaybe.”
Picking up the phone, John passes Harriet the menu. When in doubt, distract. “Pick out what you want.” A short call later and the two of them are seated on the couch comfortably, waiting for their dinner to arrive.
“Soooo,” she starts, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What’s the real deal with you and Sherlock? You shacking up?” John nearly spits up some of the tea he fixed for himself. “What? No. Sherlock’s my…” Human? Ward? Charge? Reason for living? “… my flatmate. And my friend.”
Harriet rolls her eyes. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. I might be an alcoholic, but that doesn’t make me stupid y’know. You’re totally into him, aren’t you?”
Blinking owlishly, John tries to wrap his mind around the idea, around his feelings for Sherlock. Shaking his head, he murmurs, “It’s not like that. It’s not about… sex, or sexual attraction. I mean, yes, I guess in a way you could say I’m ‘totally into him’, but it’s not in the way that you mean. But yes, Sherlock’s important to me.” Essential to me. “I want to be with him and I can’t imagine not being with him.”
Clearly this sort of relationship is not one that Harriet has a lot of experience with, her brow twisted with bemusement. Her voice interrupts his reverie, taking his silence as confirmation. “What’s the appeal?”
How does he explain it? Look, Harry, I’m not your brother but a centuries old angel who stole his body and the reason I’m glued to Sherlock’s side is because I’m his Guardian Angel and I cannot do anything but love him and care for him, even when he pisses the ever living snot out of me because I would die for him in a heartbeat and give everything I have to keep him safe and alive and will do so until death do us part and can only pray that I’ll die before him, because I don’t know how I will survive if the only reason I’m living dies before me.
Hmmmm. No, better not. John’s shoulders shrug as he turns the question over to Watson instead. There’s a moment of contemplation before he hears himself say, “He’s a good man. For all his flaws and rudeness, and God knows he’s full of them, he fights the good fight. Being with him makes me feel alive. The cases, the excitement, the unknown. Sherlock Holmes is an adventure, and every adventure has its fair share of bumps and bruises. Wouldn’t be an adventure without them. You wear them with pride. They’re the marks of your journey. Sherlock is… unique. I respect and admire him and can’t think of anyone I would rather spend my time with.”
“Wow, that’s deep.” Her voice has a mocking edge to it. Some bitterness there; jealousy perhaps? Watson nearly rises to the bait, but John pushes the instinctive reaction down. Until… “So have you fucked him yet?”
“Harry!”
“What? I mean, I’m a lesbian and even I think he’s gorgeous. A complete and utter prat, but still gorgeous. Give him a pair of tits and high heels? I’d do ‘im.”
“Christ. You know? Not everything about life is booze and sex.”
“Should be. And speaking of booze, you got anything to drink in this place?” Harriet pushes off the couch and wanders into the kitchen, haphazardly opening up cupboards and cabinets.
“No!”
“Bloody hell. What are you two, teetotalers? How about the bathroom? Any isopropyl alcohol? Tastes like shit, but any port in a storm, eh?”
“Harrrrrrr-ry.”
Her head pops out of the kitchen, giving her brother an evil smirk. “Fuck, John, I’m just kidding. What happened to your sense of humor?”
“It got shot in Afghanistan.”
She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and taps it against her wrist idly before sliding one out and pulling out a lighter. “So, why aren’t you and Sherlock doing it yet?”
“You can’t smoke in the apartment and, wait, what?”
“You heard me.” But apparently Harriet didn’t hear him because she blithely lights up and takes a deep draw, tilting her head back to blow out the smoke.
“Damnit, Harriet, I said no smoking. Sherlock is trying to stay off of them and coming back to a flat reeking of cigarettes is just going to set him off.” He rises up and tries to snatch the offending article from her hand.
“Piss off. If I can’t have a drink, the least you can do is let me have a smoke.” She crosses over to one of the windows and props it open, letting the smoke drift outside. “There. Better? And stop avoiding the topic. You didn’t answer my question.”
With a soft sigh of defeat, John lets the cigarette go this time. There really isn’t a lesser evil between smoking and drinking, not with the quantities of each that Harriet indulges in. But this is a battle he’s not equipped to win.
“I told you, we’re just friends. Besides, what makes you think I fancy him? Or, for that matter, that he has the slightest interest in me?”
Harriet’s head cocks to one side. “Well for one, he’s definitely not interested in women. I leaned on him, pushed my boobs right against his arm and he looked practically disgusted.”
“Which has nothing to do with the fact that you were annoying the crap out of him…”
Harriet smirks and shrugs. “It’s the way you look at him. The way he looks at you when you’re not looking at him.”
Blinking, John swallows hard before asking uncertainly, “How do I look at him?”
“Like he’s your whole world. Like you would do anything for him. Anything at all.” She takes a long draw from her cigarette and tilts her head to slowly blow it out the window.
“And how does he look at me?”
“Hmmmmm. That varies. Sometimes like you’re an idiot. Other times like you’re his man slave. But every once in awhile, like he can’t believe you’re standing next to him willingly.” The conversation is blessedly interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. “Buggery fuck, that was fast.” A negligent hand is waved in John’s direction as Harry reminds, “Your treat. Go fetch.”
Wincing, John mutters, “You have the mouth of a lorry driver, and I’m not your damn dog…” but he’s too grateful for the interruption to make much of a stink about paying. He heads down the stairs of the flat and opens the door as he fishes his wallet out of his back pocket, catching a glimpse of a young Chinese man before he looks down to peer inside the leather pockets, asking, “How much?”
“Do you have it?”
“What?” The question throws him off and John looks up, half expecting the person at the door to be someone mistaking him for Sherlock or something. The deliveryman standing there simply asks again, “Do you have it?”
Comprehension dawns and without a second of hesitation, John starts to push the door closed. The man catches him off guard by pulling the door toward himself only to then slam it violently inward. Falling forward as his weight and momentum are overwhelmed, the door crashes right into John’s forehead.
Dazed and stunned he falls backward into the vestibule, the man pushing his way in and crouching over John. “Do you have the treasure?”
John struggles to get up, his hand reaching over for his long-forgotten cane, the only readily available weapon.
He never gets the chance to use it.