Fallen - Chapter 11: Pretence
Title: Fallen - Chapter 11: Pretence
Length: 3928 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 is the final chapter of Fallen, with an epilogue to follow in a few days time. For those of you who don't know this already, this is just the first 'episode', if you will, in what I intend to be a series that follows the show. The next story will be based (loosely) on "The Blind Banker" and will be titled Invisible Bonds. I'm going to take a little time off to recover from writing this before starting the next story, and I intend to write as much of that as possible before I start posting it, so you probably won't see anything new from me for a while. But never fear, I will most definitely be working hard on the second story. :)
Thanks to everyone who read this and took the time to leave a comment. You have no idea how much your feedback means to me; to all writers, really. Feedback is more than just love - it's food and fuel, inspiration and light, and sometimes it's the only thing that keeps us writers writing. So thank you for reading, thank you for your kind words, your gifts of art, your thoughts and opinions. They are finer than gold. :)
Fallen - Chapter 11: Pretence
Sherlock stares up at the pill between his fingers, mesmerized. All of the fight has drained out of him. No more trembling, no more fighting, no more fear or resistance. Who was he kidding? He’s wanted this for as long as he can remember. To silence the cruel taunting voices, to quiet the endless cacophony of his mind, to ease the constant struggle to survive one day to the next, forever searching for the perfect crime, the unsolvable problem, the ultimate experiment just to keep the endless loneliness and emptiness at bay. It’s all so boring and tedious and painful and pointless. His hand lowers the pill down, resting it lightly on the tip of his tongue, feeling the gelatin begin to soften in reaction.
I could just let it all stop here. No more struggling. No more just existing through each day just to be faced with another, all alone. Alone is better when no one understands you, but human beings are social creatures. It’s not natural, it’s not right. It’s not… normal. I’m not normal. I’m wrong. I’m a ‘freak’, an aberration. How long before deducing crimes isn’t enough? How long will it be before I’ll have to kill just to keep it all at bay? It’s not like I haven’t been here before. A needle. A pill. What’s the difference? Last time I said that it was an accident, that I didn’t mean to overdose, but I know the truth. At that moment, I just wanted it to be over. I wanted all the noise to just go away. I wanted my head to stop ringing and pounding. I wanted to just be able to turn off for once. Turn off and stay off. And now’s my chance…
The sound of the shot breaks through Sherlock’s thoughts, through the spell, just as powerfully and explosively as it does the glass and Hope’s body. As the older man falls, rationality returns, the pill nearly crushed between Sherlock’s fingers as he jerks his hand away from his mouth and tosses it violently to the floor, shivering in reaction. It takes less than a second to determine that Hope is going exactly nowhere, so in a flurry of movement, Sherlock vaults himself over a table and rushes toward the pierced window, eyes crinkling as he stares out toward the parallel building to search for his savior. No one on the rooftop, no balconies, no, wait, there!
He can just barely make out the room directly across from him, all pale shadows and suggestions of shapes thanks to the light spilling in from outside the building and the light slipping in from the hallway beyond. But he can make out the broken glass panel from whence the shot was taken, eyes narrowing as he watches for a figure, for any kind of movement, but can see none.
A feeble, gurgling cough brings his attention back to room behind him. With a frustrated frown, Sherlock turns and storms over to the cabbie, pulling out his phone and quickly texting Lestrade before crouching down next to the man.
He’s not going to make it, that much is clear. Even if Sherlock were inclined to help him which, quite honestly, he is not. Hope’s jumper is already heavily stained with blood and there’s a small pool forming beneath him. His mouth opens and closes like a fish as his eyes search desperately for Sherlock. Blinking rapidly, struggling to hold on, the cabbie gasps out, “Mor…. Moriarty!”
Sherlock’s eyes are cold and dispassionate as he stares down at the dying man. No pity, certainly no regret, and not a hint of the emotionally desperate man he was just a few moments before. Anger is all that is left; the rest Sherlock has been banished from whence it came. But his confusion is betrayed by the creasing of his brow at this apparent non sequitur.
“What?”
Dragging in a wet and wheezing breath that indicates one lung is filling up with blood, Hope rasps desperately once more, lips trembling, “Mor-iarty. My sp-sp-sponsor….” His hand suddenly grasps Sherlock’s arm, holding on with a literal death grip as he forces himself to continue. “You… have to ss-stop him. Please! My son… my son…”
Sherlock’s silvery eyes are only clouded with confusion for a brief moment before comprehension clears their depths. “Your contract,” he deduces abruptly. “If you fail, it’s not only your soul, but your son’s as well.”
Hope doesn’t have to nod to make the truth as apparent as his panic and remorse for the terrible mistake he has made, for the jeopardy he has placed his son in. Sherlock tries to shake off the hand gripping him, Hope’s very touch making his skin crawl, but the cabbie refuses to let go.
“Ss-stop ‘im, Mr. ‘olmes. Please! F-for my son’s sake…”
“This Moriarty. Who exactly is he? What is he? Tell me everything.” Not that Sherlock gives a damn about Hope, or his child, but this demon who uses humans, uses Adepts for his purpose. Clever. Unique. A challenge.
A violent coughing spasm wracks Hope’s body, a thin stream of blood escaping his mouth before he drags in one final gasping breath, eyes slowly glazing over as his body goes limp. Jerking his arm free, Sherlock hesitates for a moment before reaching over, resting his fingers against the man’s throat. No pulse. Cursing softly, he rises up to his feet and starts to walk back to the chair he had been sitting on earlier when his legs suddenly wobble and give out beneath him. Now that the adrenaline has stopped pumping through his system, he feels completely drained, physically and mentally. Since no one is there to witness the momentary weakness, Sherlock just sits for a moment, sprawled inelegantly on the floor, palms resting against the cool linoleum, head hanging down.
He just stood up too fast. That’s all. Should have eaten something at Angelo’s earlier after all. How long has it been since he last ate? That’s all it is. Nothing more. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s always fine, right? He waits for a moment, shoulders tensing, half expecting his other voice to counter his thoughts… only to be met with silence. Shifting up onto his knees, Sherlock takes his time getting up, grimacing in irritation with himself, glaring at his hands which have begun to shake uncontrollably as he rolls his sleeves back down.
Get a hold of yourself! It was just Hope playing with your mind, controlling your thoughts. None of that was real. Another pause, waiting for a biting retort…
Nothing.
Buttons are apparently impossible, and with a muttered oath, Sherlock leaves off the cuffs and simply pulls his coat on before sitting down at the table once more, his head falling into his hands, fingers clawing into his dark hair. The faint sound of sirens is audible now, growing closer. Sherlock calculates that he has approximately eight minutes in which to pull himself together before the Detective Inspector and his troops come through the doorway. Wouldn’t do to give them the satisfaction of seeing him act like a normal human being, now would it?
*****
John doesn’t remember much after taking the shot. He saw the glass shatter, saw Hope go flying back and then down, and the next thing he knew he was crouched on the floor on his hands and knees, shaking violently and weak as a kitten. Rolling over to the side, he presses his back up against the wall next to the window, panting and confused before he suddenly realizes two things.
His sword and his wings are gone again.
Eyes widen as he reaches back to feel for appendages that have magically disappeared with the same abruptness as they had first appeared. He casts about frantically for a few moments for the gun, or sword, or whatever it might be now, but the room is as dark and empty of things mysterious and magical as it was before John entered it. His right hand lifts up tentatively to touch his left shoulder. It doesn’t hurt now. Nothing hurts. For the first time in a long time neither his leg nor his shoulder pains him. But as he reaches beneath his jumper and fingers the scarred wound, he can feel it. The power. His sword, somehow sheathed within his flesh. His hand drops away to lay limp on one thigh as he realizes that he feels perfectly human once more, save for the power lying dormant in his shoulder, and his link to Sherlock.
Wait.
Sitting upright, John focuses on the bond between them, sensing through it that Sherlock is no longer in danger, but still in the room across the way. If everything else is gone, why has this remained? Too many questions with no answers. The urge to peek through the window is a powerful one that he resists. Best if Sherlock doesn’t know who shot the cabbie. That could lead to too many questions with too many complicated answers.
Lifting his hands, a part of John that is Watson studies his fingers, surprised at the lack of powder burns. But then again, that was no gun he held in his hand. He somehow doubts that the forensics team will ever find a bullet. It likely vanished when the gun did.
And then it finally hits him and John goes still with shock.
I killed. I killed a human being. I, John, a Guardian Angel of eons, sworn to cherish and protect mankind took a human life intentionally, without hesitation, and if it were to happen again, right this very second I would do nothing different.
The realization shakes him to his core.
It isn’t until his ears register the ever-louder sound of approaching sirens that John realizes that he can’t just sit around in shock, waiting to be found. Time to get out of here, now.
*****
Words were exchanged between Lestrade and Sherlock, quickly and softly, while the rest of the Detective Inspector’s team closed off the building and began to collect forensic evidence. Only Lestrade would know the truth. Between him and Sherlock, they would come up with something to write in the report.
For now, he kept it simple. The cabbie had made a deal with a demon - power in exchange for souls. He had used mind control to force the victims to poison themselves. No point in bringing up how it worked. That would only lead to questions; questions Sherlock has no intention of answering with regards to how Hope had managed to convince him to commit suicide.
Well, almost commit suicide.
Sitting in the back of the ambulance, Sherlock’s ignored the weight of the orange blanket the first few times it was dropped upon his shoulders, shrugging it off, but when Lestrade returns upon the fourth time, he stares at the man bemusedly and asks, “Why do they keep putting this blanket on me? I am wearing a coat, and it’s not that cold out tonight.”
Staring at Sherlock with amusement, the DI explains. “It’s for shock. Not that you have any experience with that, ahhh, experience.”
“Not true. I was in shock when you found me by the Thames.”
“Well, yeah, but that was different. You were in physical shock. This time the blanket is for emotional sho…. Oh forget about it, I forgot who I was talking to. You don’t do emotions, do you?” he finally sighs as Sherlock’s expression only becomes more and more bemused.
Sherlock turns his head to stare back at the building across the way. He is most definitely not hiding his face from Lestrade. To wit, he asks distractedly, “No idea then, who the shooter was?”
“Nope,” Lestrade returns with a shake of his head. “Hell, we can’t even find the bullet. Not in the body; clean through and through. No sign of it imbedded in any of the walls. Going to be damn tricky to prosecute anyone if we can’t find it. No way to get a ballistics match and we know next to nothing about this Jefferson Hope fellow. Hopefully, no pun intended, we’ll have something more to go on by tomorrow, but I’m not holding my breath.”
Looking up at the broken window himself now, Lestrade rumbles, “It would be a lot easier if this whole mumbo jumbo stuff wasn’t involved. We have a hard enough time catching the human criminals without having supernatural ones that can do magic and control minds making a mess of things.” That seems to make Lestrade suddenly consider something for the first time, his eyes narrowing as he stares at Sherlock and asks, “You can’t do that, can you? Control people’s thoughts?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lestrade. People are so stupid I don’t need magical abilities to make them do what I want…”
Snorting, Lestrade shakes his head, running a hand through his silver hair and chuckling, “Right, of course. How foolish of me.”
“Indeed.”
Glancing out toward the small group of police cars, Sherlock’s brow creases as his eyes alight upon Dr. Watson’s small frame. “How did John get here?”
Glancing over as well, Lestrade cocks his head, shoulders shrugging. “I dunno? You texted him I imagine, just like you did me. Probably got a cab or something…”
“But I didn’t…” Sherlock begins to say before silencing himself, staring at John now intently, upgrading him from a mere electron microscope to the Hubble telescope. John’s face flushes slightly when he catches Sherlock’s look, his head turning away abruptly to stare at nothing absently.
Catching the strange expression, Lestrade glances back and forth between Sherlock and John, brow creasing as he asks, “What? What is it?” a dawning idea coming into his mind as he looks back at John and murmurs, “You don’t think it was…”
“No, no of course not. Don’t be preposterous, Lestrade. I took off in the taxi by myself and then texted him after, as you said. I just remembered that we haven’t finished discussing the flat agreement yet…” Sherlock drops down from the back of the ambulance and tugs on his clothes, noting pointedly, “Well, if that is all…”
Lestrade catches his elbow. “Now hang on, I’ve still got questions and we have a report to hammer out that actually makes sense for a change.”
Shrugging free of the DI’s grip, Sherlock blows out a breath and snaps, “What? What now? Look,” he points out, tugging on the blanket about his shoulders, “I’m in shock. I need to go lie down, or… something. Whatever questions you have, surely they can wait till tomorrow. Besides, I just helped you catch a serial killer. Sort of. I think I’ve earned the rest of the night off.”
Eyeing Sherlock for a long moment, Lestrade finally throws up his hands, muttering, “Fine, fine, but if you’re not in tomorrow morning I’ll be sending a squad car to pick you up, in handcuffs if necessary.”
“Of course, Detective Inspector.”
Strolling up to John, Sherlock tugs the blanket about himself, taking in the doctor’s body language and facial expressions. John’s gaze can’t seem to steady itself, shifting from the buildings to the police cars to Lestrade to Sherlock and then back again. Stopping before him, Sherlock’s stare forces John’s to meet it, albeit not entirely comfortably.
Both men open their mouths at the same time, saying the same thing.
“Are you alright?”
There’s a brief moment of awkwardness, juggling who should go first, but finally with a gesture of his head, John indicates that Sherlock should. “Yes, of course I’m alright. Look, I’ve got a blanket. According to Lestrade, it eliminates shock, so there you have it. Medical science at its finest.” Naturally the last thing Sherlock is going to admit to is the fact that Hope managed to reduce him to a shattered, emotional, mess. No one ever need know that. In fact, Sherlock firmly intends to delete this evening’s events from his mind just as soon as practically possible. “And you?”
“Course I’m alright.” John’s chin lifts up fractionally, trying to look more calm and confident than he currently is. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Sherlock gives John that look. The look that says, ‘don’t be an idiot when I know you’re not’. “You have just killed a man.”
It’s a shot in the dark, but Sherlock is a decent marksman himself. John just barely prevents himself from flinching at those words, his ocean blue eyes and expression admitting his guilt in a brief flash of discomfort before he looks away, composing his features. Turning back, he offers Sherlock a crooked, pained sort of smile.
“Yes, yes I suppose I have.”
Sherlock’s gaze holds John’s, willing him to continue.
“But he wasn’t a good man,” he rationalizes. Not that that is reason enough for an angel to kill. But then, John isn’t an angel any more, is he? God, what is he now, that he could do that??
Sherlock is somber and quiet for a moment, his gaze a touch haunted as well. “No, no he wasn’t a good man.” But the momentary weakness is banished, his eyes narrowing down to slits as he asks softly, “What did you do with the gun?”
“It’s not a problem. Disappeared.” Ironic, but true. Looking up at Sherlock, John tilts his head to one side, his gaze unusually piercing before he asks, “Are you sure you’re alright?” To Sherlock, John is a virtual stranger. On the other hand, Sherlock is in many ways more familiar to John than he is to himself. Others might not see the carefully hidden vulnerability in the consulting detective’s eyes, but John can. Moreover, he cannot help but want to ease that pain.
“Yes, of course I’m alright. I said I was alright, didn’t I?”
“I wasn’t….” John fumbles for the right words. Sherlock has a right to know. “I could see it, you know, him speaking to you, his words like a poisonous mist, pouring right into your head.” He’s quick to reassure, “I don’t know what he said, but I know that whatever it was, you were going to take that pill. Weren’t you?”
The tiniest flicker of panic flashes within those silver eyes until John confesses not know what Hope actually did to him. And Sherlock is not about to explain it. He reins in his fear, along with the disconcerting desire for a kind word, a gentle touch. “I’m fine.” His tone brooks no further discussion. He turns and starts to walk away from the crime scene, heedless of whether John will follow or not. But John is at his side almost instantly, falling into step, matching Sherlock’s pace.
“Right. Okay. Well, how did you know it was me?” That’s safer ground. Give Sherlock something to think about, something to brag about.
“Didn’t. Not at first. But then I saw you here, and I hadn’t texted you to tell you where I was. You didn’t find out from Lestrade, so you had no way of knowing where to find me after the fact, unless you were already here. Then, considering your years of service, it doesn’t take a genius to realize that you could potentially be a crack-shot, acclimatized to the pressure of the field, thus able to cleanly hit a target at that kind of a distance.” His brow crinkles as he notes, “Still haven’t quite figured out how you found me though.”
“Followed you, in another cab.” No need to point out how long it took to actually do so. “Realized I couldn’t get into the building, so I took a chance by going into the other one. Damn lucky for both of us that you happened to be in a facing window. How did Lestrade manage to get in by the way?”
Sherlock’s brow lifts curiously, wondering to himself just how that was ‘lucky’ for John. “The spell was designed to keep people out until I was dead. Well, technically until someone was dead. Hope just never considered the possibility that it might be him.” Glancing down Sherlock watches John walk for a few more steps before smiling smugly.
“See, I was right.”
Now it’s John’s turn to look confused, his head tilting up to gaze at Sherlock. “About what?”
“Your limp being psychosomatic. Somewhere along the way you seem to have lost your cane, but you’re walking just fine.”
John blinks, his hand rubbing at his thigh for a moment before he smiles and shakes his head. “That was bloody stupid, you know. Going off with that cabbie without a word to me. You’re just damn lucky I decided to follow the pair of you. You really need to stop doing that, risking your life to prove your clever.”
“Is that what I’m doing? Hmmmm. And why exactly would I do something like that?”
John can’t help but smile up at Sherlock, his affection for the man coloring his words. “Cause you’re an idiot.”
Sherlock gives John the smallest of appreciative smiles, his gaze turning forward once more as he snorts softly. “Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread, is that it? For the record, I did not rush in. My pace was practically leisurely, with no haste or rushing involved. You, on the other hand…”
There’s brief moment where panic washes through John’s already overtaxed system. Does he know? Has he figured it out? But no, studying Sherlock’s expression proves that the quote chosen is merely surprisingly prescient. “Alexander Pope. Alright fine. I’ll bite. Who is the greater fool? The fool, or the fool who follows him?”
Bemusement flutters over Sherlock’s features, his expression turning inward for a bit before he finally gives up. “Who said that?
“Obi Wan Kenobi.” At Sherlock’s blank expression, John prompts, “Sir Alec Guinness? From Star Wars?” Still nothing. “Oh come on. You must have seen Star Wars!” John knows Sherlock has. He can remember Mycroft showing it to him when he was a child. But Sherlock shakes his head and dismisses the point with a wave of his hand. “If I did, I must have deleted it.” With a soft snort, he glances sideways at John, pointing out, “You do realize that that implies you are the greater fool, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I’m fully cognizant of that fact.”
“Excellent. So, when are you moving in?”
“Who said anything about me moving in?”
“You just shot a man to save my life.” Sherlock shoots John an almost flirtatious look. “I think moving in together is the next logical step, don’t you?”
John can’t help himself, a small giggle escaping him before he covers his mouth to muffle it. “Mmmm, point taken. Tomorrow too soon?”
“Hmmmm, I don’t know. I do have to meet with Lestrade tomorrow to go over the case and help him write up the report. Knowing him, and how dull he is, could take all day…”
John’s gaze studies Sherlock’s profile curiously as he strides along, long legs eating up the pavement. Could it be that for once Sherlock would rather not be alone? That after what he’s been through, he would feel more secure if John was there as well? That would be just like him, not to simply outright ask for what he wants. Not when it’s personal. John puts on the pretence of mulling the matter over, glancing at his watch. “Well-lll, it’s not terribly late yet. How about right now?”
Turning his head to look back at John with an approving smile, Sherlock concurs. “As it turns out, I’m conveniently free at the moment...” And if there’s a hint of relief in the curve of his lips, the tone of his voice, who is John to complain about a little manipulation?
Length: 3928 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 is the final chapter of Fallen, with an epilogue to follow in a few days time. For those of you who don't know this already, this is just the first 'episode', if you will, in what I intend to be a series that follows the show. The next story will be based (loosely) on "The Blind Banker" and will be titled Invisible Bonds. I'm going to take a little time off to recover from writing this before starting the next story, and I intend to write as much of that as possible before I start posting it, so you probably won't see anything new from me for a while. But never fear, I will most definitely be working hard on the second story. :)
Thanks to everyone who read this and took the time to leave a comment. You have no idea how much your feedback means to me; to all writers, really. Feedback is more than just love - it's food and fuel, inspiration and light, and sometimes it's the only thing that keeps us writers writing. So thank you for reading, thank you for your kind words, your gifts of art, your thoughts and opinions. They are finer than gold. :)
Fallen - Chapter 11: Pretence
Sherlock stares up at the pill between his fingers, mesmerized. All of the fight has drained out of him. No more trembling, no more fighting, no more fear or resistance. Who was he kidding? He’s wanted this for as long as he can remember. To silence the cruel taunting voices, to quiet the endless cacophony of his mind, to ease the constant struggle to survive one day to the next, forever searching for the perfect crime, the unsolvable problem, the ultimate experiment just to keep the endless loneliness and emptiness at bay. It’s all so boring and tedious and painful and pointless. His hand lowers the pill down, resting it lightly on the tip of his tongue, feeling the gelatin begin to soften in reaction.
I could just let it all stop here. No more struggling. No more just existing through each day just to be faced with another, all alone. Alone is better when no one understands you, but human beings are social creatures. It’s not natural, it’s not right. It’s not… normal. I’m not normal. I’m wrong. I’m a ‘freak’, an aberration. How long before deducing crimes isn’t enough? How long will it be before I’ll have to kill just to keep it all at bay? It’s not like I haven’t been here before. A needle. A pill. What’s the difference? Last time I said that it was an accident, that I didn’t mean to overdose, but I know the truth. At that moment, I just wanted it to be over. I wanted all the noise to just go away. I wanted my head to stop ringing and pounding. I wanted to just be able to turn off for once. Turn off and stay off. And now’s my chance…
The sound of the shot breaks through Sherlock’s thoughts, through the spell, just as powerfully and explosively as it does the glass and Hope’s body. As the older man falls, rationality returns, the pill nearly crushed between Sherlock’s fingers as he jerks his hand away from his mouth and tosses it violently to the floor, shivering in reaction. It takes less than a second to determine that Hope is going exactly nowhere, so in a flurry of movement, Sherlock vaults himself over a table and rushes toward the pierced window, eyes crinkling as he stares out toward the parallel building to search for his savior. No one on the rooftop, no balconies, no, wait, there!
He can just barely make out the room directly across from him, all pale shadows and suggestions of shapes thanks to the light spilling in from outside the building and the light slipping in from the hallway beyond. But he can make out the broken glass panel from whence the shot was taken, eyes narrowing as he watches for a figure, for any kind of movement, but can see none.
A feeble, gurgling cough brings his attention back to room behind him. With a frustrated frown, Sherlock turns and storms over to the cabbie, pulling out his phone and quickly texting Lestrade before crouching down next to the man.
He’s not going to make it, that much is clear. Even if Sherlock were inclined to help him which, quite honestly, he is not. Hope’s jumper is already heavily stained with blood and there’s a small pool forming beneath him. His mouth opens and closes like a fish as his eyes search desperately for Sherlock. Blinking rapidly, struggling to hold on, the cabbie gasps out, “Mor…. Moriarty!”
Sherlock’s eyes are cold and dispassionate as he stares down at the dying man. No pity, certainly no regret, and not a hint of the emotionally desperate man he was just a few moments before. Anger is all that is left; the rest Sherlock has been banished from whence it came. But his confusion is betrayed by the creasing of his brow at this apparent non sequitur.
“What?”
Dragging in a wet and wheezing breath that indicates one lung is filling up with blood, Hope rasps desperately once more, lips trembling, “Mor-iarty. My sp-sp-sponsor….” His hand suddenly grasps Sherlock’s arm, holding on with a literal death grip as he forces himself to continue. “You… have to ss-stop him. Please! My son… my son…”
Sherlock’s silvery eyes are only clouded with confusion for a brief moment before comprehension clears their depths. “Your contract,” he deduces abruptly. “If you fail, it’s not only your soul, but your son’s as well.”
Hope doesn’t have to nod to make the truth as apparent as his panic and remorse for the terrible mistake he has made, for the jeopardy he has placed his son in. Sherlock tries to shake off the hand gripping him, Hope’s very touch making his skin crawl, but the cabbie refuses to let go.
“Ss-stop ‘im, Mr. ‘olmes. Please! F-for my son’s sake…”
“This Moriarty. Who exactly is he? What is he? Tell me everything.” Not that Sherlock gives a damn about Hope, or his child, but this demon who uses humans, uses Adepts for his purpose. Clever. Unique. A challenge.
A violent coughing spasm wracks Hope’s body, a thin stream of blood escaping his mouth before he drags in one final gasping breath, eyes slowly glazing over as his body goes limp. Jerking his arm free, Sherlock hesitates for a moment before reaching over, resting his fingers against the man’s throat. No pulse. Cursing softly, he rises up to his feet and starts to walk back to the chair he had been sitting on earlier when his legs suddenly wobble and give out beneath him. Now that the adrenaline has stopped pumping through his system, he feels completely drained, physically and mentally. Since no one is there to witness the momentary weakness, Sherlock just sits for a moment, sprawled inelegantly on the floor, palms resting against the cool linoleum, head hanging down.
He just stood up too fast. That’s all. Should have eaten something at Angelo’s earlier after all. How long has it been since he last ate? That’s all it is. Nothing more. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s always fine, right? He waits for a moment, shoulders tensing, half expecting his other voice to counter his thoughts… only to be met with silence. Shifting up onto his knees, Sherlock takes his time getting up, grimacing in irritation with himself, glaring at his hands which have begun to shake uncontrollably as he rolls his sleeves back down.
Get a hold of yourself! It was just Hope playing with your mind, controlling your thoughts. None of that was real. Another pause, waiting for a biting retort…
Nothing.
Buttons are apparently impossible, and with a muttered oath, Sherlock leaves off the cuffs and simply pulls his coat on before sitting down at the table once more, his head falling into his hands, fingers clawing into his dark hair. The faint sound of sirens is audible now, growing closer. Sherlock calculates that he has approximately eight minutes in which to pull himself together before the Detective Inspector and his troops come through the doorway. Wouldn’t do to give them the satisfaction of seeing him act like a normal human being, now would it?
*****
John doesn’t remember much after taking the shot. He saw the glass shatter, saw Hope go flying back and then down, and the next thing he knew he was crouched on the floor on his hands and knees, shaking violently and weak as a kitten. Rolling over to the side, he presses his back up against the wall next to the window, panting and confused before he suddenly realizes two things.
His sword and his wings are gone again.
Eyes widen as he reaches back to feel for appendages that have magically disappeared with the same abruptness as they had first appeared. He casts about frantically for a few moments for the gun, or sword, or whatever it might be now, but the room is as dark and empty of things mysterious and magical as it was before John entered it. His right hand lifts up tentatively to touch his left shoulder. It doesn’t hurt now. Nothing hurts. For the first time in a long time neither his leg nor his shoulder pains him. But as he reaches beneath his jumper and fingers the scarred wound, he can feel it. The power. His sword, somehow sheathed within his flesh. His hand drops away to lay limp on one thigh as he realizes that he feels perfectly human once more, save for the power lying dormant in his shoulder, and his link to Sherlock.
Wait.
Sitting upright, John focuses on the bond between them, sensing through it that Sherlock is no longer in danger, but still in the room across the way. If everything else is gone, why has this remained? Too many questions with no answers. The urge to peek through the window is a powerful one that he resists. Best if Sherlock doesn’t know who shot the cabbie. That could lead to too many questions with too many complicated answers.
Lifting his hands, a part of John that is Watson studies his fingers, surprised at the lack of powder burns. But then again, that was no gun he held in his hand. He somehow doubts that the forensics team will ever find a bullet. It likely vanished when the gun did.
And then it finally hits him and John goes still with shock.
I killed. I killed a human being. I, John, a Guardian Angel of eons, sworn to cherish and protect mankind took a human life intentionally, without hesitation, and if it were to happen again, right this very second I would do nothing different.
The realization shakes him to his core.
It isn’t until his ears register the ever-louder sound of approaching sirens that John realizes that he can’t just sit around in shock, waiting to be found. Time to get out of here, now.
*****
Words were exchanged between Lestrade and Sherlock, quickly and softly, while the rest of the Detective Inspector’s team closed off the building and began to collect forensic evidence. Only Lestrade would know the truth. Between him and Sherlock, they would come up with something to write in the report.
For now, he kept it simple. The cabbie had made a deal with a demon - power in exchange for souls. He had used mind control to force the victims to poison themselves. No point in bringing up how it worked. That would only lead to questions; questions Sherlock has no intention of answering with regards to how Hope had managed to convince him to commit suicide.
Well, almost commit suicide.
Sitting in the back of the ambulance, Sherlock’s ignored the weight of the orange blanket the first few times it was dropped upon his shoulders, shrugging it off, but when Lestrade returns upon the fourth time, he stares at the man bemusedly and asks, “Why do they keep putting this blanket on me? I am wearing a coat, and it’s not that cold out tonight.”
Staring at Sherlock with amusement, the DI explains. “It’s for shock. Not that you have any experience with that, ahhh, experience.”
“Not true. I was in shock when you found me by the Thames.”
“Well, yeah, but that was different. You were in physical shock. This time the blanket is for emotional sho…. Oh forget about it, I forgot who I was talking to. You don’t do emotions, do you?” he finally sighs as Sherlock’s expression only becomes more and more bemused.
Sherlock turns his head to stare back at the building across the way. He is most definitely not hiding his face from Lestrade. To wit, he asks distractedly, “No idea then, who the shooter was?”
“Nope,” Lestrade returns with a shake of his head. “Hell, we can’t even find the bullet. Not in the body; clean through and through. No sign of it imbedded in any of the walls. Going to be damn tricky to prosecute anyone if we can’t find it. No way to get a ballistics match and we know next to nothing about this Jefferson Hope fellow. Hopefully, no pun intended, we’ll have something more to go on by tomorrow, but I’m not holding my breath.”
Looking up at the broken window himself now, Lestrade rumbles, “It would be a lot easier if this whole mumbo jumbo stuff wasn’t involved. We have a hard enough time catching the human criminals without having supernatural ones that can do magic and control minds making a mess of things.” That seems to make Lestrade suddenly consider something for the first time, his eyes narrowing as he stares at Sherlock and asks, “You can’t do that, can you? Control people’s thoughts?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lestrade. People are so stupid I don’t need magical abilities to make them do what I want…”
Snorting, Lestrade shakes his head, running a hand through his silver hair and chuckling, “Right, of course. How foolish of me.”
“Indeed.”
Glancing out toward the small group of police cars, Sherlock’s brow creases as his eyes alight upon Dr. Watson’s small frame. “How did John get here?”
Glancing over as well, Lestrade cocks his head, shoulders shrugging. “I dunno? You texted him I imagine, just like you did me. Probably got a cab or something…”
“But I didn’t…” Sherlock begins to say before silencing himself, staring at John now intently, upgrading him from a mere electron microscope to the Hubble telescope. John’s face flushes slightly when he catches Sherlock’s look, his head turning away abruptly to stare at nothing absently.
Catching the strange expression, Lestrade glances back and forth between Sherlock and John, brow creasing as he asks, “What? What is it?” a dawning idea coming into his mind as he looks back at John and murmurs, “You don’t think it was…”
“No, no of course not. Don’t be preposterous, Lestrade. I took off in the taxi by myself and then texted him after, as you said. I just remembered that we haven’t finished discussing the flat agreement yet…” Sherlock drops down from the back of the ambulance and tugs on his clothes, noting pointedly, “Well, if that is all…”
Lestrade catches his elbow. “Now hang on, I’ve still got questions and we have a report to hammer out that actually makes sense for a change.”
Shrugging free of the DI’s grip, Sherlock blows out a breath and snaps, “What? What now? Look,” he points out, tugging on the blanket about his shoulders, “I’m in shock. I need to go lie down, or… something. Whatever questions you have, surely they can wait till tomorrow. Besides, I just helped you catch a serial killer. Sort of. I think I’ve earned the rest of the night off.”
Eyeing Sherlock for a long moment, Lestrade finally throws up his hands, muttering, “Fine, fine, but if you’re not in tomorrow morning I’ll be sending a squad car to pick you up, in handcuffs if necessary.”
“Of course, Detective Inspector.”
Strolling up to John, Sherlock tugs the blanket about himself, taking in the doctor’s body language and facial expressions. John’s gaze can’t seem to steady itself, shifting from the buildings to the police cars to Lestrade to Sherlock and then back again. Stopping before him, Sherlock’s stare forces John’s to meet it, albeit not entirely comfortably.
Both men open their mouths at the same time, saying the same thing.
“Are you alright?”
There’s a brief moment of awkwardness, juggling who should go first, but finally with a gesture of his head, John indicates that Sherlock should. “Yes, of course I’m alright. Look, I’ve got a blanket. According to Lestrade, it eliminates shock, so there you have it. Medical science at its finest.” Naturally the last thing Sherlock is going to admit to is the fact that Hope managed to reduce him to a shattered, emotional, mess. No one ever need know that. In fact, Sherlock firmly intends to delete this evening’s events from his mind just as soon as practically possible. “And you?”
“Course I’m alright.” John’s chin lifts up fractionally, trying to look more calm and confident than he currently is. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Sherlock gives John that look. The look that says, ‘don’t be an idiot when I know you’re not’. “You have just killed a man.”
It’s a shot in the dark, but Sherlock is a decent marksman himself. John just barely prevents himself from flinching at those words, his ocean blue eyes and expression admitting his guilt in a brief flash of discomfort before he looks away, composing his features. Turning back, he offers Sherlock a crooked, pained sort of smile.
“Yes, yes I suppose I have.”
Sherlock’s gaze holds John’s, willing him to continue.
“But he wasn’t a good man,” he rationalizes. Not that that is reason enough for an angel to kill. But then, John isn’t an angel any more, is he? God, what is he now, that he could do that??
Sherlock is somber and quiet for a moment, his gaze a touch haunted as well. “No, no he wasn’t a good man.” But the momentary weakness is banished, his eyes narrowing down to slits as he asks softly, “What did you do with the gun?”
“It’s not a problem. Disappeared.” Ironic, but true. Looking up at Sherlock, John tilts his head to one side, his gaze unusually piercing before he asks, “Are you sure you’re alright?” To Sherlock, John is a virtual stranger. On the other hand, Sherlock is in many ways more familiar to John than he is to himself. Others might not see the carefully hidden vulnerability in the consulting detective’s eyes, but John can. Moreover, he cannot help but want to ease that pain.
“Yes, of course I’m alright. I said I was alright, didn’t I?”
“I wasn’t….” John fumbles for the right words. Sherlock has a right to know. “I could see it, you know, him speaking to you, his words like a poisonous mist, pouring right into your head.” He’s quick to reassure, “I don’t know what he said, but I know that whatever it was, you were going to take that pill. Weren’t you?”
The tiniest flicker of panic flashes within those silver eyes until John confesses not know what Hope actually did to him. And Sherlock is not about to explain it. He reins in his fear, along with the disconcerting desire for a kind word, a gentle touch. “I’m fine.” His tone brooks no further discussion. He turns and starts to walk away from the crime scene, heedless of whether John will follow or not. But John is at his side almost instantly, falling into step, matching Sherlock’s pace.
“Right. Okay. Well, how did you know it was me?” That’s safer ground. Give Sherlock something to think about, something to brag about.
“Didn’t. Not at first. But then I saw you here, and I hadn’t texted you to tell you where I was. You didn’t find out from Lestrade, so you had no way of knowing where to find me after the fact, unless you were already here. Then, considering your years of service, it doesn’t take a genius to realize that you could potentially be a crack-shot, acclimatized to the pressure of the field, thus able to cleanly hit a target at that kind of a distance.” His brow crinkles as he notes, “Still haven’t quite figured out how you found me though.”
“Followed you, in another cab.” No need to point out how long it took to actually do so. “Realized I couldn’t get into the building, so I took a chance by going into the other one. Damn lucky for both of us that you happened to be in a facing window. How did Lestrade manage to get in by the way?”
Sherlock’s brow lifts curiously, wondering to himself just how that was ‘lucky’ for John. “The spell was designed to keep people out until I was dead. Well, technically until someone was dead. Hope just never considered the possibility that it might be him.” Glancing down Sherlock watches John walk for a few more steps before smiling smugly.
“See, I was right.”
Now it’s John’s turn to look confused, his head tilting up to gaze at Sherlock. “About what?”
“Your limp being psychosomatic. Somewhere along the way you seem to have lost your cane, but you’re walking just fine.”
John blinks, his hand rubbing at his thigh for a moment before he smiles and shakes his head. “That was bloody stupid, you know. Going off with that cabbie without a word to me. You’re just damn lucky I decided to follow the pair of you. You really need to stop doing that, risking your life to prove your clever.”
“Is that what I’m doing? Hmmmm. And why exactly would I do something like that?”
John can’t help but smile up at Sherlock, his affection for the man coloring his words. “Cause you’re an idiot.”
Sherlock gives John the smallest of appreciative smiles, his gaze turning forward once more as he snorts softly. “Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread, is that it? For the record, I did not rush in. My pace was practically leisurely, with no haste or rushing involved. You, on the other hand…”
There’s brief moment where panic washes through John’s already overtaxed system. Does he know? Has he figured it out? But no, studying Sherlock’s expression proves that the quote chosen is merely surprisingly prescient. “Alexander Pope. Alright fine. I’ll bite. Who is the greater fool? The fool, or the fool who follows him?”
Bemusement flutters over Sherlock’s features, his expression turning inward for a bit before he finally gives up. “Who said that?
“Obi Wan Kenobi.” At Sherlock’s blank expression, John prompts, “Sir Alec Guinness? From Star Wars?” Still nothing. “Oh come on. You must have seen Star Wars!” John knows Sherlock has. He can remember Mycroft showing it to him when he was a child. But Sherlock shakes his head and dismisses the point with a wave of his hand. “If I did, I must have deleted it.” With a soft snort, he glances sideways at John, pointing out, “You do realize that that implies you are the greater fool, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I’m fully cognizant of that fact.”
“Excellent. So, when are you moving in?”
“Who said anything about me moving in?”
“You just shot a man to save my life.” Sherlock shoots John an almost flirtatious look. “I think moving in together is the next logical step, don’t you?”
John can’t help himself, a small giggle escaping him before he covers his mouth to muffle it. “Mmmm, point taken. Tomorrow too soon?”
“Hmmmm, I don’t know. I do have to meet with Lestrade tomorrow to go over the case and help him write up the report. Knowing him, and how dull he is, could take all day…”
John’s gaze studies Sherlock’s profile curiously as he strides along, long legs eating up the pavement. Could it be that for once Sherlock would rather not be alone? That after what he’s been through, he would feel more secure if John was there as well? That would be just like him, not to simply outright ask for what he wants. Not when it’s personal. John puts on the pretence of mulling the matter over, glancing at his watch. “Well-lll, it’s not terribly late yet. How about right now?”
Turning his head to look back at John with an approving smile, Sherlock concurs. “As it turns out, I’m conveniently free at the moment...” And if there’s a hint of relief in the curve of his lips, the tone of his voice, who is John to complain about a little manipulation?