Fallen - Chapter 10: End Game
Title: Fallen - Chapter 10: End Game
Length: 5209 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 daluci for being a top-notch beta, to non_canonical for her excellent advice and Brit picking, and to abundantlyqueer for her encouragement, support, and being inspirational!
Note: This chapter is only here due to the grace of non_canonical, who is not only an amazing beta, but a wonderful and generous friend. She's far too modest for her own good, so I'm just going to heap praises upon her until she finally accepts them. ;) Thanks to her this isn't nearly as late as I thought it was going to be - only a day! Thanks to everyone else for your patience. :)
Fallen - Chapter 10: End Game
So this is what it comes down to. Logic versus emotion? Sherlock cannot help but give the cabbie a condescending smirk. Logic always trumps emotion. On this playing field, it is Sherlock who has the advantage. The adrenaline in his system drops down to a manageable level as his gaze meets Hope’s with complete assurance. He might not be the master of his body at the moment, but Sherlock is always the master of his mind. All he has to do is play Hope a little longer, wait for the opportunity to make a countermove, and then it will be check and checkmate.
“So it’s all about power, is it? Finally being the big man for once? You think it’s a fair trade? All those lives just so you can maybe help your son, just so you can finally push other people around instead of being the one pushed?” Sherlock pushes, goads, his voice mocking and scornful. “Is it worth it, Hope? You do realize there’s no deal with the devil that doesn’t end with you getting burnt…”. It’s a calculated risk, making Hope angry. Could end up with the cabbie deciding to toss the ‘rules’ and just go for the kill. But if he’s angry, he might make a mistake. He might forget to pay attention. One finger strokes over the surface of the table, seemingly absently. “For every soul you manage to dispatch you get, what? More power I assume? Abilities beyond what normal Adepts are capable of?”
“I’ve already got abilities beyond normal Adepts. You’ve already felt it fer yourself, Mr. ‘olmes. I don’t need no runes or rituals, don’t need to cast no circles to make you walk around in one if I want to. And this is only the beginnin’. Pretty soon, wi’ enough souls under m’belt, I’ll be able to do any spell, any magic, just wi’ the will of m’mind.” Hope leans forward, adjusting his glasses fractionally as he faces Sherlock down, doing exactly what the consulting detective wanted him to. His anger is getting the better of him; he’s not paying attention.
Sherlock has to distract him, keep him talking or, better yet, just keep talking himself. Anything to delay Hope from making his next move, which no doubt will be, somehow, to convince Sherlock to kill himself. So long as he keeps Hope off his target, he has a chance of catching him unawares. Sherlock still has his mind and his magic, he just has to outsmart and outplay the madman before him. Already he’s trying an experiment, drawing out the runes and patterns on the table of a protection spell with his finger tip, concentrating all of his will into the invisible markings left there by sweat and natural oils. He’s never heard of it being done before, without chalk or charcoal, pen or ink, but it isn’t that the markings aren’t there, per se. Perhaps it might work, only lose some potency for its discernable presence? All that he needs is the smallest of barriers between him and Hope and the game will be his.
“You don’t ‘ave any idea what it’s like. Born into money, bloody silver spoon in your mouth I bet. You’ve never known what it’s like to struggle to get by. You’ve always been the big man, figuratively and literally. But I’ll be straight with you, Mr. ‘olmes. What I care about most is my son. ‘E’s what’s important. The power? All the rest? Just icin’ on the cake, that is.” The cabbie shifts forward, his eyes focusing with intent, mouth opening to change the tack of the conversation.
A new diversion. “So, how does it work, then? Come on, dazzle me with your genius. Just because you made those people commit suicide, doesn’t mean their souls were damned. There’s no Saint Peter sitting at the pearly gates with two rubber stamps, one marked Heaven and the other Hell, but there’s still arbitration, a chance to stand before the powers that be and repent in order to gain forgiveness and entry.”
“Ahhhh, see, that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. ‘olmes. But don’t feel too badly. It’s all about choice, supposedly, but that doesn’t mean that the powers that be don’t like to rig the game a bit. If people knew the truth, well, they probably wouldn’t make the right decisions. But in a nutshell, this is ‘ow it is. People get pretty much what they believe in. You believe in reincarnation? You get to come back. You believe in reincarnation, karma, and were a right bastard? You get to come back as a slug.” His shoulders shrug as he explains, “That’s why I ‘ad to go with Catholics. They believe that if you commit suicide, it’s a mortal sin and you go straight to Hell. They believe that if you die before you’ve ‘ad the chance to confess your sins and repent, that you’re damned. Because they believe, that is what they get. Most of ‘em never even realized what was goin’ to ‘appen. Most of ‘em didn’t realize that deep inside they ‘ad takin’ those teachin’s to ‘eart. And, of course, none of them realized wot it was that I was doin’. Too focused on the pain of the moment, the anguish and despair, to consider an eternity of it lyin’ a’ead of ‘em.”
“And who told you that?” challenges Sherlock with a steely gaze. “Your demonic sponsor?” His eyes roll ever so slightly. “Really, now. Like that isn’t a biased source…”
For a moment the cabbie looks thrown, but he recovers quickly and smirks, gazing up at Sherlock as he muses, “Y’know, ‘e told me to be on the look out fer you. Said you might try and interfere. Seems you’re rather famous down below, Mr. ‘olmes. But don’t worry. I’m enough of a match for you and…” his gaze drops to the table idly before his light blue gaze catches onto the movement of Sherlock’s hand. Eyes flashing with rage, Hope rises up so fast his chair tips over behind him, clattering to the floor. “I said, none of that Mr. ‘olmes! No more spells or counter spells or protective wards!”
Once more, Sherlock’s hand freezes, curling into itself and shaking as he struggles to resist the command, cursing softly under his breath.
It takes Hope a moment to regain his composure. Sherlock was close, so very close to turning the tables on him. Best to nip things in the bud now, rather than continuing to indulge both himself and his quarry. “I think this has gone on long enough. I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain. I gave you the answers. Now, Mr. ‘olmes, it’s time for you to get a taste of your own medicine, as it were.” Reaching into the pocket of his cardigan, the cabbie removes a small bottle; a few capsules filled with tiny red and white granules rattle inside. He slides the bottle over to Sherlock and nods in satisfaction, a cruel smile curling his lips.
Sherlock’s first inclination is to push back from the table and leave. But he already knows that isn’t an option. He can’t go back and he can’t move forward. All that’s left is to stand pat and face the challenge. His head lifts ever so slightly, determined not to let any of his uncertainty show. One brow and the corner of his mouth quirk upward. “Well. You can’t blame me for trying…”
The cabbie stands for a moment before offering Sherlock a wolfish smile in return, chuckling softly as he takes his seat. “Indeed, Mr. ‘olmes, indeed. My apologies for overreacting. I would ‘ave been disappointed if you hadn’t try to give me the slip.” His head tilts to one side as he asks almost cheerfully once more, “Shall we talk?”
Sherlock braces himself for Hope’s first volley. Quite frankly, he has no idea what to expect. He’s never had another Adept or supernatural being use his own mind and body against himself. The experience is utterly without precedent. So far Hope has proven that he can stop Sherlock from doing things physically, but does he really think he can deduce Sherlock and break him? Controlling his body is one thing, but he has to work with the truth, with facts and reality, if he is to convince Sherlock to so much as reach for those pills, let alone take one. Surely he will not be capable of such a task. Those other people were not smart enough, didn’t realize what they were up against. But forewarned is forearmed, and Sherlock is not going down without a fight. His chin lifts fractionally, eyes narrowing down to hostile slits as he stares across at the cabbie, wordlessly daring him to do his worst.
“I think, in many ways, we’re much alike, you and me, Mr. ‘olmes. I mean, there’s the obvious stuff, both of us bein’ proper geniuses and Adepts. Either one of those is rare enough, but to ‘ave both of ‘em together? Remarkable, really. And yet,” he muses, leaning closer, his arms sliding across the table between them, hands peacefully curled about one another. “I think we ‘ave much more in common. You already figured out parts of my story. I’m a loner. ‘ave been for most of m’life. Just like you. Never fit in, did we? Parents either too busy or too ‘ard to please. Too different fer other people to really understand us.”
“Course we diverged along the way. As we’ve both said, I was the small man, you were the big one. I decided to become invisible. Seemed easier some’ow. I already was naturally overlooked. You though? You choose to make it worse. You wore your strangeness, your solitude, like you wear that coat. Proudly and with style. But it didn’t make you any friends, did it? If anything, made it worse. And your parents? Didn’t know wot to do with you. Sent you to shrinks ‘oo gave you labels like autistic and Aspergers at first, sociopath and psychopath later. Bad enough to be invisible, but at least my family didn’t expect nothin’ of me. But you? Bein’ as ‘igh profiled as you are? Bet everyone expected more from you. Better. Couldn’t see ‘ow brilliant you was, made that more of a detriment than an ‘elp. And of course there you are, makin’ it worse, not better. Pointin’ out to everyone around you just ‘ow much better you are than them? Makes you vilified. Despised. People don’t like bein’ made the fool. Your pride, your arrogance, it’s your two-edged sword, ain’t it Mr. ‘olmes? Keeps the others at bay, but all the while it’s cuttin’ you, cuttin’ away at your ‘eart and soul…”
An actual snort of derision escapes Sherlock at the cabbie’s boastful claims. Alike? Pfft! Sherlock is nothing like this little man, or, rather, Hope is nothing like Sherlock. For one, he hasn’t proven himself to be nearly as masterful at divining the truth about people and situations that Sherlock has. Where is Hope’s website? Where is Hope’s proof?
A tiny voice murmurs softly inside his mind, Well, yes, but then again he has managed to kill four people so far. People who had no apparent guilt or compunction about what they were doing, people whom everyone around them reported as being happy, content, fulfilled. You don’t change your mind at the drop of a hat and decide to kill yourself just because someone talks to you for five minutes. Whether you like it or not, Sherlock, Hope has power.
Yes, but it’s not his power. Not like mine. I was always brilliant, always a powerful Adept…
But also flawed. Smart about facts, things, but not people. Never could understand other people, why they were angry with you, why they were mean. Decided it was because you were smarter than them, that they were jealous. But the truth is, you were broken. Mum and Dad saw it. That’s why they took you all those psychiatrists when you were young. And then, of course, there’s your magic. When you were little you could see things, just like Mycroft did. You were an Adept and a Sensitive, just like you were supposed to be. But then you lost it. That’s when it all started to fall apart. Mycroft was always so nice in the beginning. Teaching us, caring for us, but when you lost the ability to see, you were so hurt, so upset. Mycroft said he would be your eyes, but that wasn’t good enough. So what did you do? You pushed him away. Just like you pushed everyone else away. You thought they were jealous, but it was you who was jealous. You wanted to fit in, you wanted to be cared for, you wanted people to like you…
No, no, that wasn’t how it was at all! Mycroft was jealous of me! What is the use of being a Sensitive? So you can see things. A convenience, nothing more! Doesn’t allow you to affect or change anything. More of a curse, really, to be able to see but not do. I pitied Mycroft! Mycroft knew I was better than him, and once I started to stand up for myself, when I didn’t need him any more, that’s when he drew away. He resented my power, resented the fact that I was the Adept and not him!
Still lying to yourself? Listen to Hope, Sherlock. Everything he’s saying is the truth and you know it. You’ve hidden it, forgotten it, deleted it, twisted the facts to support your theory. And who can blame you? You were a child after all. You needed someone to understand you, to love and cherish you, but you were so afraid to let people in. When you let people in, that’s when they can hurt you, isn’t it? And since you couldn’t see the cues, couldn’t understand the clues then, you got hurt. It was safer, easier, just to close yourself off, wasn’t it? It’s not your fault. You did the best that you could with the tools that you had. Problem is, you never grew up, did you? You never grew out of those behaviors. Oh, yes, you can see the cues now, you can clinically dissect the emotional reactions and actions of people now, disparaging them as weaknesses and foibles. You could change your ways now that you understand, but you won’t. Because you’ve convinced yourself that your way is better. That having a heart of stone will save you from heartbreak. That’s why you still don’t have any friends, why you still are alone, why you’re still pointlessly fighting with Mycroft. You’re never going to change. It’s too late now. You probably don’t even know how to love, how to care for someone other than yourself. It’s like you said, all you care about is the work, but it isn’t enough. I know it, and you know it…
Abruptly Sherlock comes back to himself to find his gaze has dropped down to the table, his eyes staring at nothing. Somehow, at some point, he lost focus, lost what it was that the cabbie was saying to him, Hope’s voice droning on, unheard, forgotten. Except for the fact that it isn’t. Jerking his head up with a gasp, Sherlock struggles to concentrate on what Hope is saying, blinking dazedly.
This is like nothing he has ever experienced before. Everything that Hope has thrown at him since he first stepped into the killer’s cab was so subtle that he never even realized what was happening. Never even felt the Adept’s influence tugging his actions this way or that. But now it’s even more insidious and irresistible. The words aren’t being heard so much as they are being absorbed. Hope isn’t speaking to Sherlock; he’s speaking to Sherlock’s subconscious, rousing the normally dormant beast, awakening it like some primeval, nocturnal creature, hungry after its long rest, teeth and claws sharpened by Sherlock’s own intellect and spurred on by Hope’s dark, whispering words.
Normally it is the streets of London that serve as his battlefield, his intelligence his weapon of choice. But now it is Sherlock’s mind that is under siege, his intellect and cunning turning against him.
Blinking again, Sherlock tries at once to both listen to what the cabbie is saying while at the same time fervently resist the poison slowly being dripped into his ears. Like Claudius to the King. He thought he would be fighting emotion with logic, an easy battle. He never suspected that emotion would be wearing logic as both its shield and its sword…
Hope doesn’t even pause for a moment in his assault, his gaze focused on Sherlock, watching as the genius Adept’s gaze drops away and turns inward, grinning as he resurfaces, floundering like a drowning man. He’ll be a greater challenge compared to the others, a challenge that Hope thoroughly intends to enjoy. He’s spent so many years looking up to the younger man, impressed by him and, yes, naturally, jealous of him. If he manages to defeat Sherlock Holmes? Hell, it’s almost worth it just in and of itself. The fact that his sponsor will give him enough power to save his son? Icing on the cake. His lips curl into a sadistic smile, eyes glittering with an unholy sort of pleasure.
*****
Dashing down the hall, running full tilt, John abruptly jerks to a full stop, arms wheeling as the heart string linking him to Sherlock suddenly tugs him to the right and through an open classroom doorway. He runs through the room, winding about desks in his path until his hands are plastered against the window, staring in horror at the scene across from him. Sherlock sitting at a long table, motionless, and before him the cab driver, his lips moving, and between them power, magic, the words like a poisonous vapor, dark and twisted, seeping into Sherlock’s ears, shadowing his mind with loneliness, despair, weariness.
John slams his hands against the glass, screaming Sherlock’s name helplessly, trying in vain to draw his attention away from the cabbie, from those words. Oh God. Oh dear God…
*****
“…and then, of course, there’s the boredom. Mind like yours, impossible to keep it sufficiently occupied. Too much redundancy in the world. Society is going to ‘ell in an ‘andbasket. Everything is just a waste of time, really. Nothing really challenging left to do, is there? It’s why you’ve got the work, isn’t it? You don’t catch killer’s cause it’s a noble cause. It’s just somethin’ to ‘elp keep your mind busy. But it’s not enough is it?” The cabbie’s head tilts to one side as he notes, pulling at his collar, “Lordy, but it’s ‘ot in ‘ere, dontcha think? Why don’t you take your coat off, Mr. ‘olmes, roll up your sleeves and relax?”
Trembling, Sherlock’s hands lift, shoulder shrugging his coat off and pushing it back over the chair behind him. The motions are slow and jerky, Sherlock’s mind resisting the pressure of Hope’s as best as he can, but hobbled as he is, he has no leverage against this kind of magic. His voice comes out tight, rough, as if the effort of speaking his mind were almost too difficult. “This is hardly what one would call a fair fight,” he points out coldly, fingers now shaking violently as he unwillingly undoes the cuffs of his shirt and begins to roll up the sleeves. “I thought you wanted a true challenge. Your skills against mine…” It’s a reprieve, a moment for Sherlock to try and gather his wits once more, for Hope to gloat over his perceived success.
“Oh, you ‘ad your chance, Mr. ‘olmes. If you’d done wot you should ‘ave, realized that you were up against a real adversary, you’d ‘ave taken precautions. Been prepared with talismans and spells. But you failed. You failed to see ‘oo I really was, you failed to protect yourself. You ‘ave no one to blame for this situation but yourself. Ahhh, that’s better isn’t it?” he asks as Sherlock’s hands fall away from his clothes. Reaching across the table, Hope grasps Sherlock’s forearm just as he tries to pull it away. The struggle is brief, but long enough for the cabbie to glean what he was looking for.
“Just as I thought. You ‘ad to find a little ‘elp just to be able to cope with it all, didn’t you? A little injection of something to take the edge off? Calm the mind, or sharpen it, no doubt. But it’s not enough is it? Noooo, not nearly enough. You can’t escape it, can you? All the noise in your head, between your deductions, your magic, your cases and websites and work. Clear indicators that you’re the sort of man that can’t find the off switch. Doesn’t know ‘ow to relax, ‘ow to just sit back and enjoy life. No, that would be the mouth of madness fer you, wouldn’t it? Doin’ nothing? Drive you right up the walls. So when it gets bad, you give into the temptation, don’t you? Been awhile I see. Easy to guess why. But I bet you long for it, don’t you? Something to help you forget the work, forget the boredom, even forget the loneliness. Cause when it gets right down to it, what you ‘ate, more than the boredom, more than all the noise in your ‘ead, all the cheap shots and bitter remarks, is that you’re all alone and friendless. No one understands you. No one likes you. No one will ever love you. You scoff at love, at emotions, because you think it makes you strong. But you know that’s a lie, Mr. ‘olmes. Cause deep down? You want to be loved. We all do, no matter ‘ow much we deny it…”
No, no, don’t listen to his words. No! Wait, listen to them, concentrate on them, their shapes, their syllables, their meaning. Dissect his words, render them useless. They’re just words, nothing but words. How does that children’s rhyme go? Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me? God, how utterly inane and obvious. How is it I haven’t deleted this yet?
Because you know it’s not true. You thought you could close yourself off, but words do hurt, don’t they Sherlock? Of course they do. They hurt then and they hurt now. You’ve got better at pretending that they don’t, but we both know that they do. John was right, wasn’t he? You try to beat everyone to the punch now, draw your own blood first rather than have someone else draw it. But whether you cut yourself or something else cuts you, it still hurts. Cutting yourself just allows you the comfort of control. Same with the drugs. You choose. You’re in control of when and how much and what drug for what effect. You hurt yourself, not someone else. And what a lovely little hurt, isn’t it? It takes the pain away, makes it easier to forget, easier to be distracted by the work, makes the mind quieter on those days when all the noise is just too much. When all you want is to curl up into a small ball like you did when you were little, have a kind hand stroke gently through your hair, tell you that it’s alright, that you’re safe, that you’re home and protected and loved. When did that stop, Sherlock? When your mother died? When your father turned to his work to stop the pain? Is that where you learned how to do that?
Emotions that Sherlock hasn’t felt since childhood rise up like a tsunami wave, the sound of the cabbie’s voice the initial shockwave stirring everything up, his own voice, words, memories surging through him like a massive body of water tainted with the bitter sediment of the past. It’s staggering, beyond logic, beyond comprehension. So much that Sherlock though dead and buried, so many things he ‘deleted’ are rising up from the bottom of his mind under the strength of this tidal wave of emotion. For the first time in what seems like such a long time, his foundations crack and shudder, his logic falters and flails.
God stop, just stop… please, please stop…
Shhhh-hhhh, it’s alright Sherlock. You’re not alone any more. I’m here. Even if everyone else thinks you’re horrible and heartless, even if everyone else shuns you and hates you, I’ll still be here. After all, I’m you and you’re me. It’ll be alright. Hope knows what to do. He was right all along. It’s so obvious now. You’ve already thought about it, you know you have. That last time, with the morphine. You’re too intelligent not to know what the correct dosage is. You’ve done it dozens upon dozens of times. And yet you took too much. If Lestrade hadn’t shown up in the nick of time, that would have been it. It would have been good. Peaceful. Finally at ease. Finally able to rest. And then it will just be you and me forever. And no matter how ugly or awful you are, I’ll always love you. I’m the only one who ever will…
Sherlock’s whole body is shaking violently, his hands clutching the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles stand out white. Eyes snap open, his gaze wild and frantic as he shouts, “NO! Just STOP! For God’s sake, STOP IT!!” Hands lift to dig through his hair, his head falling forward as his voice breaks a little, gasping, “Please, please… just… no more….”
But Hope’s voice doesn’t stop, his words prattling on, tossing salt into the wounds already cut into Sherlock’s soul, his expression supercilious as he watches Sherlock fall apart right before his eyes.
“…so ‘ere you are, alone and friendless, unable to love or be loved because you been pushing everyone away fer so long you’ve forgotten ‘ow to care for someone, ‘ow to let someone care fer you. And that’s ‘ow it’s goin’ to end, ain’t it? You’ll die on some case, tryin’ to ‘elp someone ‘oo doesn’t even know ‘oo you are, let alone care. And for wot? ‘Thank God, the freak is finally dead.’ That’s what they’ll say. Good riddance. ‘Bout time.”
Clucking sadly, Hope reaches over, his hand gently stroking over Sherlock’s hair, his pale blue gaze waiting until Sherlock releases a soft sob and lifts his head to stare back, his silvery eyes shell-shocked and dazed. Hope smiles sweetly and gently, patting Sherlock’s hands as they drop to the table before him. “It’s all for naught, Mr. ‘olmes. You know it. I know it. All you know is a life of pain and misery. You’re so un’appy, so desperately alone and starved for affection, for mental stimulation. And it’s just gonna go on and on and on, isn’t it? But it doesn’t ‘ave to, now does it?”
Releasing Sherlock’s hands with a gentle pat, the cab driver unscrews the cap of the bottle before pushing it over toward Sherlock, his voice gentle, soothing, the voice of someone who understands, who cares.
“Aren’t you tired? Tired of it all? Tired of being unloved, unappreciated? Tired of all the insults, the nasty looks? Tired of dealing with all those stupid, petty, people? They don’t understand you. They can’t understand you. Really, what ‘ave you got left that’s worth livin’ for? Nothin’, that’s what. No one to love, no one to love you, and a mind that won’t give you a moment’s peace. But you ‘ave a choice. You always ‘ave a choice…”
Staring down at the open bottle, Sherlock slowly reaches forward with a trembling hand, fingers gingerly encircling the glass before he pushes back his chair slowly and rises to his feet, eyes transfixed by the red and white pills within. Hope rises as well, watching Sherlock, studying him to see if the trap is truly sprung or if the consulting detective requires a little more ‘convincing’. Once the younger man’s back is turned, the tender smile turns cruel once more, even if his voice remains sweet and soothing. “It would be so simple, wouldn’t it? It could just be over…”
Sherlock’s hand grows steadier as he reaches into the bottle and draws out a single pill, staring at it, rolling it back and forth between his fingertips.
*****
John screams Sherlock’s name again as he watches in horror, watches as Sherlock, the most calm, poised, and controlled human he has ever met starts to literally break down. Watches as the poison invades Sherlock’s mind, twisting logic into an endless Moebius strip, turning everything inside out and upside-down. His hands dig at the window, muscles straining uselessly against the painted-shut wood and glass. He’s utterly helpless to do the one thing that he must. His heart is pounding, his shoulder is burning, his breath hitching with exertion and panic as he watches Sherlock, holding the pill, the poison pill, up in the air, staring at it as if it held all the secrets of the universe in its tiny gelatin casement. And all John can do is stare at Sherlock as if he held all the secrets of the universe in his frail, mortal frame.
“SHERLOCK!”
Agony rushes over John like a flash fire, as unexpected as it is excruciating. Screaming in shock, he curls forward, doubling over, his right hand grasping desperately at his left shoulder, as if somehow he could pull out the hot poker burning there so intensely while his back feels like something is about to burst out of it… and then it does.
Behind him wings of gold and brown explode outward, unfurling in a flare of power, beating powerfully, instinctively.
The fingers of his right hand curl against something bulging out from his scarred shoulder. Still screaming, John pulls and pulls and pulls… until a sword, his sword, has been wrested free, burning with every color imaginable, blazing with power.
He has only a second to be awestruck before he can feel the level of danger reaching a piercing pitch, Sherlock’s hand starting to lower the pill inch by inch, lips open, tongue reaching, ready for the taste of death and release.
There’s no time to reach him. Even with his wings and magic. No knowing even if the spell that barred him before will hold or yield against his attack. The sword in his hand is useless. He needs a different weapon, he needs….
John Watson knows exactly what he needs.
The man within the angel steps in abruptly, as much as if the man himself were there, pushing John out of the way to do what needs to be done. His arm raises without thought, body shifting position even as the sword flickers and ripples with his will, changing shape and form, writhing as if in pain until it rests steady in his hand, the grip of the Browning solid against his palm, finger resting easily on the trigger. Eyes narrow, focusing down the barrel of the gun as he sights his target, wings flaring as he adjusts his aim fractionally… and fires.
Length: 5209 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 daluci for being a top-notch beta, to non_canonical for her excellent advice and Brit picking, and to abundantlyqueer for her encouragement, support, and being inspirational!
Note: This chapter is only here due to the grace of non_canonical, who is not only an amazing beta, but a wonderful and generous friend. She's far too modest for her own good, so I'm just going to heap praises upon her until she finally accepts them. ;) Thanks to her this isn't nearly as late as I thought it was going to be - only a day! Thanks to everyone else for your patience. :)
Fallen - Chapter 10: End Game
So this is what it comes down to. Logic versus emotion? Sherlock cannot help but give the cabbie a condescending smirk. Logic always trumps emotion. On this playing field, it is Sherlock who has the advantage. The adrenaline in his system drops down to a manageable level as his gaze meets Hope’s with complete assurance. He might not be the master of his body at the moment, but Sherlock is always the master of his mind. All he has to do is play Hope a little longer, wait for the opportunity to make a countermove, and then it will be check and checkmate.
“So it’s all about power, is it? Finally being the big man for once? You think it’s a fair trade? All those lives just so you can maybe help your son, just so you can finally push other people around instead of being the one pushed?” Sherlock pushes, goads, his voice mocking and scornful. “Is it worth it, Hope? You do realize there’s no deal with the devil that doesn’t end with you getting burnt…”. It’s a calculated risk, making Hope angry. Could end up with the cabbie deciding to toss the ‘rules’ and just go for the kill. But if he’s angry, he might make a mistake. He might forget to pay attention. One finger strokes over the surface of the table, seemingly absently. “For every soul you manage to dispatch you get, what? More power I assume? Abilities beyond what normal Adepts are capable of?”
“I’ve already got abilities beyond normal Adepts. You’ve already felt it fer yourself, Mr. ‘olmes. I don’t need no runes or rituals, don’t need to cast no circles to make you walk around in one if I want to. And this is only the beginnin’. Pretty soon, wi’ enough souls under m’belt, I’ll be able to do any spell, any magic, just wi’ the will of m’mind.” Hope leans forward, adjusting his glasses fractionally as he faces Sherlock down, doing exactly what the consulting detective wanted him to. His anger is getting the better of him; he’s not paying attention.
Sherlock has to distract him, keep him talking or, better yet, just keep talking himself. Anything to delay Hope from making his next move, which no doubt will be, somehow, to convince Sherlock to kill himself. So long as he keeps Hope off his target, he has a chance of catching him unawares. Sherlock still has his mind and his magic, he just has to outsmart and outplay the madman before him. Already he’s trying an experiment, drawing out the runes and patterns on the table of a protection spell with his finger tip, concentrating all of his will into the invisible markings left there by sweat and natural oils. He’s never heard of it being done before, without chalk or charcoal, pen or ink, but it isn’t that the markings aren’t there, per se. Perhaps it might work, only lose some potency for its discernable presence? All that he needs is the smallest of barriers between him and Hope and the game will be his.
“You don’t ‘ave any idea what it’s like. Born into money, bloody silver spoon in your mouth I bet. You’ve never known what it’s like to struggle to get by. You’ve always been the big man, figuratively and literally. But I’ll be straight with you, Mr. ‘olmes. What I care about most is my son. ‘E’s what’s important. The power? All the rest? Just icin’ on the cake, that is.” The cabbie shifts forward, his eyes focusing with intent, mouth opening to change the tack of the conversation.
A new diversion. “So, how does it work, then? Come on, dazzle me with your genius. Just because you made those people commit suicide, doesn’t mean their souls were damned. There’s no Saint Peter sitting at the pearly gates with two rubber stamps, one marked Heaven and the other Hell, but there’s still arbitration, a chance to stand before the powers that be and repent in order to gain forgiveness and entry.”
“Ahhhh, see, that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. ‘olmes. But don’t feel too badly. It’s all about choice, supposedly, but that doesn’t mean that the powers that be don’t like to rig the game a bit. If people knew the truth, well, they probably wouldn’t make the right decisions. But in a nutshell, this is ‘ow it is. People get pretty much what they believe in. You believe in reincarnation? You get to come back. You believe in reincarnation, karma, and were a right bastard? You get to come back as a slug.” His shoulders shrug as he explains, “That’s why I ‘ad to go with Catholics. They believe that if you commit suicide, it’s a mortal sin and you go straight to Hell. They believe that if you die before you’ve ‘ad the chance to confess your sins and repent, that you’re damned. Because they believe, that is what they get. Most of ‘em never even realized what was goin’ to ‘appen. Most of ‘em didn’t realize that deep inside they ‘ad takin’ those teachin’s to ‘eart. And, of course, none of them realized wot it was that I was doin’. Too focused on the pain of the moment, the anguish and despair, to consider an eternity of it lyin’ a’ead of ‘em.”
“And who told you that?” challenges Sherlock with a steely gaze. “Your demonic sponsor?” His eyes roll ever so slightly. “Really, now. Like that isn’t a biased source…”
For a moment the cabbie looks thrown, but he recovers quickly and smirks, gazing up at Sherlock as he muses, “Y’know, ‘e told me to be on the look out fer you. Said you might try and interfere. Seems you’re rather famous down below, Mr. ‘olmes. But don’t worry. I’m enough of a match for you and…” his gaze drops to the table idly before his light blue gaze catches onto the movement of Sherlock’s hand. Eyes flashing with rage, Hope rises up so fast his chair tips over behind him, clattering to the floor. “I said, none of that Mr. ‘olmes! No more spells or counter spells or protective wards!”
Once more, Sherlock’s hand freezes, curling into itself and shaking as he struggles to resist the command, cursing softly under his breath.
It takes Hope a moment to regain his composure. Sherlock was close, so very close to turning the tables on him. Best to nip things in the bud now, rather than continuing to indulge both himself and his quarry. “I think this has gone on long enough. I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain. I gave you the answers. Now, Mr. ‘olmes, it’s time for you to get a taste of your own medicine, as it were.” Reaching into the pocket of his cardigan, the cabbie removes a small bottle; a few capsules filled with tiny red and white granules rattle inside. He slides the bottle over to Sherlock and nods in satisfaction, a cruel smile curling his lips.
Sherlock’s first inclination is to push back from the table and leave. But he already knows that isn’t an option. He can’t go back and he can’t move forward. All that’s left is to stand pat and face the challenge. His head lifts ever so slightly, determined not to let any of his uncertainty show. One brow and the corner of his mouth quirk upward. “Well. You can’t blame me for trying…”
The cabbie stands for a moment before offering Sherlock a wolfish smile in return, chuckling softly as he takes his seat. “Indeed, Mr. ‘olmes, indeed. My apologies for overreacting. I would ‘ave been disappointed if you hadn’t try to give me the slip.” His head tilts to one side as he asks almost cheerfully once more, “Shall we talk?”
Sherlock braces himself for Hope’s first volley. Quite frankly, he has no idea what to expect. He’s never had another Adept or supernatural being use his own mind and body against himself. The experience is utterly without precedent. So far Hope has proven that he can stop Sherlock from doing things physically, but does he really think he can deduce Sherlock and break him? Controlling his body is one thing, but he has to work with the truth, with facts and reality, if he is to convince Sherlock to so much as reach for those pills, let alone take one. Surely he will not be capable of such a task. Those other people were not smart enough, didn’t realize what they were up against. But forewarned is forearmed, and Sherlock is not going down without a fight. His chin lifts fractionally, eyes narrowing down to hostile slits as he stares across at the cabbie, wordlessly daring him to do his worst.
“I think, in many ways, we’re much alike, you and me, Mr. ‘olmes. I mean, there’s the obvious stuff, both of us bein’ proper geniuses and Adepts. Either one of those is rare enough, but to ‘ave both of ‘em together? Remarkable, really. And yet,” he muses, leaning closer, his arms sliding across the table between them, hands peacefully curled about one another. “I think we ‘ave much more in common. You already figured out parts of my story. I’m a loner. ‘ave been for most of m’life. Just like you. Never fit in, did we? Parents either too busy or too ‘ard to please. Too different fer other people to really understand us.”
“Course we diverged along the way. As we’ve both said, I was the small man, you were the big one. I decided to become invisible. Seemed easier some’ow. I already was naturally overlooked. You though? You choose to make it worse. You wore your strangeness, your solitude, like you wear that coat. Proudly and with style. But it didn’t make you any friends, did it? If anything, made it worse. And your parents? Didn’t know wot to do with you. Sent you to shrinks ‘oo gave you labels like autistic and Aspergers at first, sociopath and psychopath later. Bad enough to be invisible, but at least my family didn’t expect nothin’ of me. But you? Bein’ as ‘igh profiled as you are? Bet everyone expected more from you. Better. Couldn’t see ‘ow brilliant you was, made that more of a detriment than an ‘elp. And of course there you are, makin’ it worse, not better. Pointin’ out to everyone around you just ‘ow much better you are than them? Makes you vilified. Despised. People don’t like bein’ made the fool. Your pride, your arrogance, it’s your two-edged sword, ain’t it Mr. ‘olmes? Keeps the others at bay, but all the while it’s cuttin’ you, cuttin’ away at your ‘eart and soul…”
An actual snort of derision escapes Sherlock at the cabbie’s boastful claims. Alike? Pfft! Sherlock is nothing like this little man, or, rather, Hope is nothing like Sherlock. For one, he hasn’t proven himself to be nearly as masterful at divining the truth about people and situations that Sherlock has. Where is Hope’s website? Where is Hope’s proof?
A tiny voice murmurs softly inside his mind, Well, yes, but then again he has managed to kill four people so far. People who had no apparent guilt or compunction about what they were doing, people whom everyone around them reported as being happy, content, fulfilled. You don’t change your mind at the drop of a hat and decide to kill yourself just because someone talks to you for five minutes. Whether you like it or not, Sherlock, Hope has power.
Yes, but it’s not his power. Not like mine. I was always brilliant, always a powerful Adept…
But also flawed. Smart about facts, things, but not people. Never could understand other people, why they were angry with you, why they were mean. Decided it was because you were smarter than them, that they were jealous. But the truth is, you were broken. Mum and Dad saw it. That’s why they took you all those psychiatrists when you were young. And then, of course, there’s your magic. When you were little you could see things, just like Mycroft did. You were an Adept and a Sensitive, just like you were supposed to be. But then you lost it. That’s when it all started to fall apart. Mycroft was always so nice in the beginning. Teaching us, caring for us, but when you lost the ability to see, you were so hurt, so upset. Mycroft said he would be your eyes, but that wasn’t good enough. So what did you do? You pushed him away. Just like you pushed everyone else away. You thought they were jealous, but it was you who was jealous. You wanted to fit in, you wanted to be cared for, you wanted people to like you…
No, no, that wasn’t how it was at all! Mycroft was jealous of me! What is the use of being a Sensitive? So you can see things. A convenience, nothing more! Doesn’t allow you to affect or change anything. More of a curse, really, to be able to see but not do. I pitied Mycroft! Mycroft knew I was better than him, and once I started to stand up for myself, when I didn’t need him any more, that’s when he drew away. He resented my power, resented the fact that I was the Adept and not him!
Still lying to yourself? Listen to Hope, Sherlock. Everything he’s saying is the truth and you know it. You’ve hidden it, forgotten it, deleted it, twisted the facts to support your theory. And who can blame you? You were a child after all. You needed someone to understand you, to love and cherish you, but you were so afraid to let people in. When you let people in, that’s when they can hurt you, isn’t it? And since you couldn’t see the cues, couldn’t understand the clues then, you got hurt. It was safer, easier, just to close yourself off, wasn’t it? It’s not your fault. You did the best that you could with the tools that you had. Problem is, you never grew up, did you? You never grew out of those behaviors. Oh, yes, you can see the cues now, you can clinically dissect the emotional reactions and actions of people now, disparaging them as weaknesses and foibles. You could change your ways now that you understand, but you won’t. Because you’ve convinced yourself that your way is better. That having a heart of stone will save you from heartbreak. That’s why you still don’t have any friends, why you still are alone, why you’re still pointlessly fighting with Mycroft. You’re never going to change. It’s too late now. You probably don’t even know how to love, how to care for someone other than yourself. It’s like you said, all you care about is the work, but it isn’t enough. I know it, and you know it…
Abruptly Sherlock comes back to himself to find his gaze has dropped down to the table, his eyes staring at nothing. Somehow, at some point, he lost focus, lost what it was that the cabbie was saying to him, Hope’s voice droning on, unheard, forgotten. Except for the fact that it isn’t. Jerking his head up with a gasp, Sherlock struggles to concentrate on what Hope is saying, blinking dazedly.
This is like nothing he has ever experienced before. Everything that Hope has thrown at him since he first stepped into the killer’s cab was so subtle that he never even realized what was happening. Never even felt the Adept’s influence tugging his actions this way or that. But now it’s even more insidious and irresistible. The words aren’t being heard so much as they are being absorbed. Hope isn’t speaking to Sherlock; he’s speaking to Sherlock’s subconscious, rousing the normally dormant beast, awakening it like some primeval, nocturnal creature, hungry after its long rest, teeth and claws sharpened by Sherlock’s own intellect and spurred on by Hope’s dark, whispering words.
Normally it is the streets of London that serve as his battlefield, his intelligence his weapon of choice. But now it is Sherlock’s mind that is under siege, his intellect and cunning turning against him.
Blinking again, Sherlock tries at once to both listen to what the cabbie is saying while at the same time fervently resist the poison slowly being dripped into his ears. Like Claudius to the King. He thought he would be fighting emotion with logic, an easy battle. He never suspected that emotion would be wearing logic as both its shield and its sword…
Hope doesn’t even pause for a moment in his assault, his gaze focused on Sherlock, watching as the genius Adept’s gaze drops away and turns inward, grinning as he resurfaces, floundering like a drowning man. He’ll be a greater challenge compared to the others, a challenge that Hope thoroughly intends to enjoy. He’s spent so many years looking up to the younger man, impressed by him and, yes, naturally, jealous of him. If he manages to defeat Sherlock Holmes? Hell, it’s almost worth it just in and of itself. The fact that his sponsor will give him enough power to save his son? Icing on the cake. His lips curl into a sadistic smile, eyes glittering with an unholy sort of pleasure.
*****
Dashing down the hall, running full tilt, John abruptly jerks to a full stop, arms wheeling as the heart string linking him to Sherlock suddenly tugs him to the right and through an open classroom doorway. He runs through the room, winding about desks in his path until his hands are plastered against the window, staring in horror at the scene across from him. Sherlock sitting at a long table, motionless, and before him the cab driver, his lips moving, and between them power, magic, the words like a poisonous vapor, dark and twisted, seeping into Sherlock’s ears, shadowing his mind with loneliness, despair, weariness.
John slams his hands against the glass, screaming Sherlock’s name helplessly, trying in vain to draw his attention away from the cabbie, from those words. Oh God. Oh dear God…
*****
“…and then, of course, there’s the boredom. Mind like yours, impossible to keep it sufficiently occupied. Too much redundancy in the world. Society is going to ‘ell in an ‘andbasket. Everything is just a waste of time, really. Nothing really challenging left to do, is there? It’s why you’ve got the work, isn’t it? You don’t catch killer’s cause it’s a noble cause. It’s just somethin’ to ‘elp keep your mind busy. But it’s not enough is it?” The cabbie’s head tilts to one side as he notes, pulling at his collar, “Lordy, but it’s ‘ot in ‘ere, dontcha think? Why don’t you take your coat off, Mr. ‘olmes, roll up your sleeves and relax?”
Trembling, Sherlock’s hands lift, shoulder shrugging his coat off and pushing it back over the chair behind him. The motions are slow and jerky, Sherlock’s mind resisting the pressure of Hope’s as best as he can, but hobbled as he is, he has no leverage against this kind of magic. His voice comes out tight, rough, as if the effort of speaking his mind were almost too difficult. “This is hardly what one would call a fair fight,” he points out coldly, fingers now shaking violently as he unwillingly undoes the cuffs of his shirt and begins to roll up the sleeves. “I thought you wanted a true challenge. Your skills against mine…” It’s a reprieve, a moment for Sherlock to try and gather his wits once more, for Hope to gloat over his perceived success.
“Oh, you ‘ad your chance, Mr. ‘olmes. If you’d done wot you should ‘ave, realized that you were up against a real adversary, you’d ‘ave taken precautions. Been prepared with talismans and spells. But you failed. You failed to see ‘oo I really was, you failed to protect yourself. You ‘ave no one to blame for this situation but yourself. Ahhh, that’s better isn’t it?” he asks as Sherlock’s hands fall away from his clothes. Reaching across the table, Hope grasps Sherlock’s forearm just as he tries to pull it away. The struggle is brief, but long enough for the cabbie to glean what he was looking for.
“Just as I thought. You ‘ad to find a little ‘elp just to be able to cope with it all, didn’t you? A little injection of something to take the edge off? Calm the mind, or sharpen it, no doubt. But it’s not enough is it? Noooo, not nearly enough. You can’t escape it, can you? All the noise in your head, between your deductions, your magic, your cases and websites and work. Clear indicators that you’re the sort of man that can’t find the off switch. Doesn’t know ‘ow to relax, ‘ow to just sit back and enjoy life. No, that would be the mouth of madness fer you, wouldn’t it? Doin’ nothing? Drive you right up the walls. So when it gets bad, you give into the temptation, don’t you? Been awhile I see. Easy to guess why. But I bet you long for it, don’t you? Something to help you forget the work, forget the boredom, even forget the loneliness. Cause when it gets right down to it, what you ‘ate, more than the boredom, more than all the noise in your ‘ead, all the cheap shots and bitter remarks, is that you’re all alone and friendless. No one understands you. No one likes you. No one will ever love you. You scoff at love, at emotions, because you think it makes you strong. But you know that’s a lie, Mr. ‘olmes. Cause deep down? You want to be loved. We all do, no matter ‘ow much we deny it…”
No, no, don’t listen to his words. No! Wait, listen to them, concentrate on them, their shapes, their syllables, their meaning. Dissect his words, render them useless. They’re just words, nothing but words. How does that children’s rhyme go? Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me? God, how utterly inane and obvious. How is it I haven’t deleted this yet?
Because you know it’s not true. You thought you could close yourself off, but words do hurt, don’t they Sherlock? Of course they do. They hurt then and they hurt now. You’ve got better at pretending that they don’t, but we both know that they do. John was right, wasn’t he? You try to beat everyone to the punch now, draw your own blood first rather than have someone else draw it. But whether you cut yourself or something else cuts you, it still hurts. Cutting yourself just allows you the comfort of control. Same with the drugs. You choose. You’re in control of when and how much and what drug for what effect. You hurt yourself, not someone else. And what a lovely little hurt, isn’t it? It takes the pain away, makes it easier to forget, easier to be distracted by the work, makes the mind quieter on those days when all the noise is just too much. When all you want is to curl up into a small ball like you did when you were little, have a kind hand stroke gently through your hair, tell you that it’s alright, that you’re safe, that you’re home and protected and loved. When did that stop, Sherlock? When your mother died? When your father turned to his work to stop the pain? Is that where you learned how to do that?
Emotions that Sherlock hasn’t felt since childhood rise up like a tsunami wave, the sound of the cabbie’s voice the initial shockwave stirring everything up, his own voice, words, memories surging through him like a massive body of water tainted with the bitter sediment of the past. It’s staggering, beyond logic, beyond comprehension. So much that Sherlock though dead and buried, so many things he ‘deleted’ are rising up from the bottom of his mind under the strength of this tidal wave of emotion. For the first time in what seems like such a long time, his foundations crack and shudder, his logic falters and flails.
God stop, just stop… please, please stop…
Shhhh-hhhh, it’s alright Sherlock. You’re not alone any more. I’m here. Even if everyone else thinks you’re horrible and heartless, even if everyone else shuns you and hates you, I’ll still be here. After all, I’m you and you’re me. It’ll be alright. Hope knows what to do. He was right all along. It’s so obvious now. You’ve already thought about it, you know you have. That last time, with the morphine. You’re too intelligent not to know what the correct dosage is. You’ve done it dozens upon dozens of times. And yet you took too much. If Lestrade hadn’t shown up in the nick of time, that would have been it. It would have been good. Peaceful. Finally at ease. Finally able to rest. And then it will just be you and me forever. And no matter how ugly or awful you are, I’ll always love you. I’m the only one who ever will…
Sherlock’s whole body is shaking violently, his hands clutching the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles stand out white. Eyes snap open, his gaze wild and frantic as he shouts, “NO! Just STOP! For God’s sake, STOP IT!!” Hands lift to dig through his hair, his head falling forward as his voice breaks a little, gasping, “Please, please… just… no more….”
But Hope’s voice doesn’t stop, his words prattling on, tossing salt into the wounds already cut into Sherlock’s soul, his expression supercilious as he watches Sherlock fall apart right before his eyes.
“…so ‘ere you are, alone and friendless, unable to love or be loved because you been pushing everyone away fer so long you’ve forgotten ‘ow to care for someone, ‘ow to let someone care fer you. And that’s ‘ow it’s goin’ to end, ain’t it? You’ll die on some case, tryin’ to ‘elp someone ‘oo doesn’t even know ‘oo you are, let alone care. And for wot? ‘Thank God, the freak is finally dead.’ That’s what they’ll say. Good riddance. ‘Bout time.”
Clucking sadly, Hope reaches over, his hand gently stroking over Sherlock’s hair, his pale blue gaze waiting until Sherlock releases a soft sob and lifts his head to stare back, his silvery eyes shell-shocked and dazed. Hope smiles sweetly and gently, patting Sherlock’s hands as they drop to the table before him. “It’s all for naught, Mr. ‘olmes. You know it. I know it. All you know is a life of pain and misery. You’re so un’appy, so desperately alone and starved for affection, for mental stimulation. And it’s just gonna go on and on and on, isn’t it? But it doesn’t ‘ave to, now does it?”
Releasing Sherlock’s hands with a gentle pat, the cab driver unscrews the cap of the bottle before pushing it over toward Sherlock, his voice gentle, soothing, the voice of someone who understands, who cares.
“Aren’t you tired? Tired of it all? Tired of being unloved, unappreciated? Tired of all the insults, the nasty looks? Tired of dealing with all those stupid, petty, people? They don’t understand you. They can’t understand you. Really, what ‘ave you got left that’s worth livin’ for? Nothin’, that’s what. No one to love, no one to love you, and a mind that won’t give you a moment’s peace. But you ‘ave a choice. You always ‘ave a choice…”
Staring down at the open bottle, Sherlock slowly reaches forward with a trembling hand, fingers gingerly encircling the glass before he pushes back his chair slowly and rises to his feet, eyes transfixed by the red and white pills within. Hope rises as well, watching Sherlock, studying him to see if the trap is truly sprung or if the consulting detective requires a little more ‘convincing’. Once the younger man’s back is turned, the tender smile turns cruel once more, even if his voice remains sweet and soothing. “It would be so simple, wouldn’t it? It could just be over…”
Sherlock’s hand grows steadier as he reaches into the bottle and draws out a single pill, staring at it, rolling it back and forth between his fingertips.
*****
John screams Sherlock’s name again as he watches in horror, watches as Sherlock, the most calm, poised, and controlled human he has ever met starts to literally break down. Watches as the poison invades Sherlock’s mind, twisting logic into an endless Moebius strip, turning everything inside out and upside-down. His hands dig at the window, muscles straining uselessly against the painted-shut wood and glass. He’s utterly helpless to do the one thing that he must. His heart is pounding, his shoulder is burning, his breath hitching with exertion and panic as he watches Sherlock, holding the pill, the poison pill, up in the air, staring at it as if it held all the secrets of the universe in its tiny gelatin casement. And all John can do is stare at Sherlock as if he held all the secrets of the universe in his frail, mortal frame.
“SHERLOCK!”
Agony rushes over John like a flash fire, as unexpected as it is excruciating. Screaming in shock, he curls forward, doubling over, his right hand grasping desperately at his left shoulder, as if somehow he could pull out the hot poker burning there so intensely while his back feels like something is about to burst out of it… and then it does.
Behind him wings of gold and brown explode outward, unfurling in a flare of power, beating powerfully, instinctively.
The fingers of his right hand curl against something bulging out from his scarred shoulder. Still screaming, John pulls and pulls and pulls… until a sword, his sword, has been wrested free, burning with every color imaginable, blazing with power.
He has only a second to be awestruck before he can feel the level of danger reaching a piercing pitch, Sherlock’s hand starting to lower the pill inch by inch, lips open, tongue reaching, ready for the taste of death and release.
There’s no time to reach him. Even with his wings and magic. No knowing even if the spell that barred him before will hold or yield against his attack. The sword in his hand is useless. He needs a different weapon, he needs….
John Watson knows exactly what he needs.
The man within the angel steps in abruptly, as much as if the man himself were there, pushing John out of the way to do what needs to be done. His arm raises without thought, body shifting position even as the sword flickers and ripples with his will, changing shape and form, writhing as if in pain until it rests steady in his hand, the grip of the Browning solid against his palm, finger resting easily on the trigger. Eyes narrow, focusing down the barrel of the gun as he sights his target, wings flaring as he adjusts his aim fractionally… and fires.