Invisible Bonds - Chapter 7
Title: Invisible Bonds - Chapter 7
Length: 4,022 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and purely platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OCs are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to non_canonical for her friendship, brilliant advice and Brit picking! :D No beta on this chapter, sorry!
Special thanks go out to abundantlyqueer. If it wasn't for her initial encouragement, I wouldn't be writing at all.
Notes: This is the second story in the Fallen series. One should read Fallen first, otherwise this probably won't make much sense. ;) This is also a WIP, but I'm VERY committed to finishing it! 43,000+ words written so far!
Invisible Bonds: Chapter 7
John will never understand how Sherlock can just stride into any establishment and make the personnel believe that he belongs there. It would be easy to chalk it up to a magic spell or charm, but John knows that Sherlock has never employed such a cheap trick to get what he wants. It’s confidence and a talent for mimicry that allows Sherlock passage through nearly any door. Such is the same with the British Museum where somehow they manage to not only get past the entrance without paying, but manage to gain passage into the research department without anyone batting an eye as Sherlock rolls some imaginary credentials off his lips.
When a dark skinned woman approaches them, his brow creases in mild confusion and irritation as he asks questioningly, “I’m sorry, but we’re looking for Soo Lin Yao?” The woman shakes her head and offers her hand which, after studying for a moment Sherlock accepts and shakes in turn. “I’m Susan Leighton. I am, well, I was Soo Lin’s supervisor. But I’m afraid that Ms. Yao has resigned her position. Is there something I can help you with, Mr….?”
“Gillette. William Gillette. And no, thank you, I needed to consult with Ms. Yao on some Chinese antiquities I recently acquired, from the Han Dynasty. I was told that she was the resident expert and unparalleled when it came to the authentication and restoration of Chinese relics.”
“This is true. She will be dearly missed here at the Museum. I’m afraid that we haven’t hired a replacement for her yet. She only just recently left. A family emergency, apparently. But if you like, I can take your contact information and as soon as we have a new head of Chinese antiquities, I can pass on your information.”
Shaking his head, Sherlock rumbles, “I’m afraid that will be too late for my needs, but thank you for your offer.”
Nodding, the woman notes, “Well, I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing. If you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal of work to do, in order to find someone to fill Soo Lin’s shoes.”
They watch as the woman departs before John murmurs softly, “Sherlock, why didn’t you ask her for the next best expert in London?”
“John, think about it. Two men return from China with relics from that country. Shortly after their return, they each receive a warning and then are brutally tortured and murdered, their flats torn apart. And at the very same time the resident expert on Chinese antiquities has abruptly and unexpectedly resigned her position.”
“You think she’s involved.”
“She’s obviously involved. The only question is how? Is she responsible, for the deaths of those two men? Has she gone into hiding because she’s been targeted by the killer to be the next victim?”
John licks his lips anxiously as he finishes, “Or maybe… maybe she’s already dead.”
“Excuse me?”
They turn in tandem toward a tall gangly man who hasn’t quite grown out of his youth yet. He looks at Sherlock and John with hopeful eyes. “I heard you talking about Soo Lin?”
“Yes,” Sherlock replies, eyes narrowing intently. “We were hoping to speak with her, but have just learned that she no longer works here.”
“Oh.” He is clearly disappointed.
“Why do you ask?”
“Honestly? I was hoping that you knew where she was.”
One brow lifts as Sherlock inquires smoothly, “Didn’t she leave a forwarding address?”
Shaking his head, the young man murmurs, “Well you see, that’s just it. It’s all very… strange. Soo Lin…. I mean, Ms. Yao. She was devoted to her work. It was all she cared about. But then three days ago I come in to work and Mrs. Leighton is asking me to go look at some vases at Christies that have just come in, telling me that Soo Lin had quit for some kind of family emergency. But that doesn’t make any sense! Soo Lin told me that all of her family were dead!”
His features redden as he confesses, “I thought it was strange, so I went to her flat to see if she was there. I rang and rang, but there was no answer. I left her a note, but she hasn’t called.” He swallows hard and stares at John and Sherlock before noting, “I’m concerned that something has happened to her. I mean, she wouldn’t just leave her work behind like this. Her work is her life.”
Sherlock considers the young man quietly, assessing him. New staff, over-eager to please, clearly utterly infatuated with the dearly departed Ms. Yao, has a fondness for lamb biryani, still lives with his mother, but is saving up for a flat of his own. These and a dozen other observations are made in those brief seconds of dispassionate study before Sherlock offers a smile and asks, “Would you mind showing us her work?”
Andy gives them a quick tour of the space, stopping in front of a glass case of fragile looking clay pots. “These. These pots were her life. She was working on restoring them. Apparently you have to actually use them, make tea with them. Otherwise the clay starts to crack and break. She used to do tea ceremonies for the museum patrons as part of her work, demonstrating the tradition as it was performed hundreds of years ago while at the same time working on restoring the pots to their original strength and luster.”
He sighs softly, gesturing at the number of pots still flat and dry in appearance, only one pot shining with health and care. “As you can see, she had a way to go yet.” Turning back to John and Sherlock, his eyes imploring, Andy insists, “I know that something must have happened to her. She’s been with the museum for years, dedicated to adding to our collection and restoring antiquities. She wouldn’t have just left. She couldn’t have.”
Sherlock’s eyes study the pots, narrowed in concentration till they lift to Andy’s face. Tilting his head to one side, Sherlock smiles slightly and asks, “Do you happen to still have her address?”
*****
The late afternoon sun is cutting through the buildings as they stare at the door before them, the little hand written card that says “Soo Lin Yao” with a tiny flower over the ‘i’. They’ve already pressed the doorbell several times, to no effect. Crouching down, Sherlock asks, “How long would you say it’s been since it’s rained?”
Of course John knows exactly how long, seeing as how the last time it rained he was being dragged off to meet with Sherlock’s brother. “Three days ago.” Sherlock’s fingers drag over the phone books propped up against her white door, still damp from where the rain got in through a hole in the plastic covering them. He looks up once more. “Three days. She hasn’t been home in at least three days, hasn’t been to work in three days. Van Coon was murdered two days ago, Lukis yesterday. So the question now is, is Soo Lin our murderer? Or another victim?”
Rising up gracefully, Sherlock heads down the small alleyway next to her building, glancing about before espying a small open window. John stares up at it too before realizing what Sherlock is about to do. “Hang on a minute, you’re going to just break into her flat, just like that?”
“Come now, John, I’m sure that someone else has broken into it before us. Perhaps as much as four or five days before us.” His height gives him an advantage as he jumps up, fingers just barely catching the edge of the fire escape stairs, pulling them down before he clambers up them. John watches dubiously from the ground as Sherlock manages, just barely, to reach the high window and pull his lean, lanky form through it. Certainly not something John can manage with his broader form and shorter height, and Sherlock doesn’t even make an offer to help. A soft huff of frustration clouds the air for a moment before John makes his way back to the front of the building.
Jostling the table on the way in, Sherlock just barely manages to grab the vase of flowers there before it tips to the ground, water sloshing out of it before he delicately puts it back on the table and carefully pulls himself the rest of the way in. Frowning slightly he turns around, expecting to see John behind him, only to be corrected by a ringing of the doorbell and John’s voice calling through the thin wood, “Any time you feel like letting me in!” A small fleeting smile touches his lips before Sherlock becomes distracted.
Rising up he takes in the room, brows lifting up in bemusement. To say that it is stark would be something of an understatement. The tiny flat has little in it other than questions and mysteries. What few items it has are very old, very beautiful and very valuable, but none of it is personal. “Well, well, well, Soo Lin, just how involved in all of this are you?” he asks softly to himself, too taken with his exploration to give John’s knocking and yells much attention. A quick tour through the kitchen reveals that the person who lives here eats even less than Sherlock does. The fridge and cupboards are bare of food; there aren’t even any plates or utensils. A quick glance at the bathroom indicates the same thing. It’s beyond clean and closer to being unused, at least by the current tenant. No glass for water, no toiletries, no toothbrush or toothpaste or even a hairbrush. Not even a roll of toilet paper or a loose strand of hair. All in all, the flat seems less a home and more a storage space. There is art on the walls, likewise valuable and rare, but no pictures or photographs
“No one’s been living here for days!” Sherlock yells again, down the stairs this time for John’s benefit or, more likely, in an attempt to silence the ringing of the bell and the pounding on the door. “In fact, I would say that no one actually ‘lives’ here!”
Returning the main room, Sherlock slowly turns once more, frowning. Amidst all the tidiness and ascetic style there is an anomalous spot of disarray and destruction. Crossing over to small, square table, Sherlock takes in the tableau before him. An old, elegantly carved wooden tablet, has been removed from where it rested against the wall and struck repeatedly until it has splintered and shattered into pieces. A knocked over bowl of incense has scattered thick dust all about. Crouching down, Sherlock picks up a battered frame. The faces of two smiling children look out at him from behind the broken glass; not a photograph but a painting, and quite old by the looks of it. He frowns at it thoughtfully, wiping the surface of it before placing it back on the table carefully.
Everything in the small flat has a fine layer of dust on it. Only a few days worth, a week at the most, but still faintly visible. This display, however, has been disturbed far more recently as indicated through the disturbed dust and scattered ash.
“But someone was here!” he yells. Someone who was very angry, it would seem. Eyes search the apartment, looking for the telltale tag of yellow to no avail. The apartment is so small and so barren, there are few places that would hide such a mark. Only one, in fact. A beautiful, antique folding screen hides one corner of the room. With slow measured steps, Sherlock approaches the screen, one hand reaching out to pull it wide.
There is no warning. No flash of movement caught out of the corner of his eye, no sound of footsteps behind him. Which is why when something tightens around his throat from behind Sherlock is caught completely unaware. Gurgling, his air supply instantly cut off, Sherlock’s hands lift to his throat to try and grapple with what is strangling him, but to no avail. His grasping fingers find nothing there but his own scarf and skin in their desperate search. He gasps and sputters, trying to call out John’s name, but the sound comes out as little more than a pathetic croak.
His brain informs him that he only seven to fourteen seconds before he blacks out. Seven to fourteen seconds to break free from his attacker. Sherlock pushes and presses backward, seeking to collide into his attacker, to slam him against the nearest surface available. And for a brief moment he feels a smaller form against his back, moving with him as he struggles and fights for oxygen. His back hits the wall, causing Sherlock’s eyes to bulge in shock and confusion, his hands reaching behind him, trying to find purchase on something that isn’t there, apparently. Lunging forward, he briefly feels that grip loosen but then return, tightening against his larynx and carotid artery. His head is pounding, his vision starting to swim, his balance and coordination failing him as his body desperately tries to draw in a breath and fails. Sherlock trips against something and feels himself falling, falling, falling. Oh how pedestrian. John will be so annoyed. These are his last thoughts as his limbs go slack and everything goes black.
*****
Outside the door, John can just imagine what is going on inside. Sherlock exploring, deducing clues, and utterly forgetting that he no longer works alone but has a partner.
Course, it’s not like Sherlock really needs John. He’s solved hundreds of cases without him and likely would continue to do so with or without John’s presence. If he could just manage not to get himself nearly killed quite so often. Sherlock is shockingly good at solving mysteries, but shockingly bad at keeping out of trouble and in one piece. But it does make John feel left out, forgotten, which is a hard thing to accept now that he’s got a taste for being tangible to Sherlock. His left shoulder gives a wistful twinge and with a sigh, John reaches up one hand to gently massage it.
No reason to take it personally. His company is not merely endured by Sherlock, but actively sought out and enjoyed. Doesn’t mean the man is going to change overnight into a tender, caring individual. And it’s not like John expects or wants him to. Unconditional love. Whether Sherlock wants it or not, that’s what he’s got with John for a flatmate. With a soft sigh he gives up trying to get Sherlock’s attention. Folding his arms over his chest John leans his back against the door, looking up at the sky. He watches the people walk by. Here, in Chinatown, he can see the shift in belief systems and patterns more clearly. Some of the people walking by are followed by their Guardian Angels while others are flanked by their ancestors whom they have honored. There are also spirit guides and totem animals walking along with their humans. Even more rare is the occasional Hungry Ghost who, through rituals and offerings, has been transmuted and released from their suffering and now choose to act as protectors to the living.
He frowns slightly, reaching up once more to massage his aching shoulder, rotating the injured joint within its socket. Bloody nuisance it is, acting up at random. His eyes continue to watch the crowd curiously, noting with bemusement how they seem to be shifting toward the other side of the street.
Willing servants, ghosts, angels and guardians. Perhaps it is their presence that blinded John to the presence of another. Or perhaps it is only against this backdrop of contentment that John can suddenly sense the seething rage and terrible emptiness of a ravaged soul coming from behind him. Coming from the apartment. Spinning around, John starts ringing the bell and hammering on the door with his fists, yelling at Sherlock much to the astonishment and dismay of passers by. He can feel the anger and yearning for vengeance growing. People are veering away from Soo Lin’s apartment not because of the crazy white man hammering on her door, but because their guardians are urging them away from the devouring hunger that has awoken inside.
It’s been two months, but John can feel the transformation rushing toward him with the inevitability of a tsunami wave, every nerve ending in his body screaming out ‘DANGER!DANGER!DANGER!’ while his mind is crying, “SHERLOCK!SHERLOCK!SHERLOCK!” With a deft and powerful twist of his hand, the strength of it far beyond what a mortal would be capable of, John breaks the doorknob with a sharp jerk, the lock giving way, before surging inside and up the stairs. His back explodes with pain as his right hand lifts unerringly to his left shoulder, drawing out the burning sensation there, his scream of pain transformed into a battle cry.
The spirit stands before him, hands not around Sherlock’s throat but inside his throat, choking him to death, crushing his larynx and cutting off both his air and blood supply. Sherlock’s head dangles within his grip, tipped backward, throat arched and displayed like a sacrificial offering, his body sprawled awkwardly upon the floor, limp and lifeless. The ghost is half tangible to the human eye, half invisible, but John can see him clearly, completely, and growls in heated rage, “Release him, spirit, or I will disperse you into nothing!” His wings spread wide, filling the room, beating furiously, his sword ablaze with swirling colors, held before him in both hands.
The ghost stares at John, a mixture of hatred and astonishment on his face. His hands release Sherlock’s throat, sliding back out of his flesh as the consulting detective slumps to the floor like a broken rag doll. For a brief instant the ghost’s face transforms into something hideous and deformed - mottled and discolored flesh, flared nostrils, fanged mouth, bulging eyes; his true countenance after centuries of rage and abuse - before he whirls and plunges through the walls, vanishing from sight. John waits only a second to ensure the ghost is truly gone before dropping his sword and dropping to the ground beside Sherlock, fingers delicately running over his throat. Larynx severely bruised, but not crushed, the hyoid is still intact and none of the bones in his spine appear to be damaged. But he’s not breathing. Fingers press gently to confirm the next. No pulse.
Wings beat the air as John tips Sherlock’s mouth open and breathes deeply into it. CPR would do the same trick eventually, but there’s no guarantee and John has no idea how long Sherlock’s brain has been without oxygen. If the power is his for the taking then, by God, he will use it. Each breath given to Sherlock contains life, John’s own spirit and energy, healing and repairing the damage done, urging Sherlock to breathe on his own. He lays a hand upon Sherlock’s chest. Watson knows intimately how the heart beats and functions; John wills it into doing so. After a few steady pulses, Sherlock’s heart gives a lurch and starts beating on its own. Though still limp and unconscious, his open mouth drags in a raspy breath and then another.
Shuddering, John falls over Sherlock, his wings blanketing them both, allowing John to see them for the first time since Michael struck him down. Gone is the brilliant white plumage, replaced not with feathers of black ink but instead with rich shades of russet and gold; the wings of a hawk. They beat the air desperately of their own will, as if trying to resist what is to come, before they shudder and vanish once again, as wholly inexplicable now as their presence was two months ago. Exhaustion floods John and with a soft sigh he slowly sits upright once more and gently eases Sherlock’s head upon his thigh to aid his breathing. Because he can, John tenderly strokes his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, waiting quietly while they both recover.
When Sherlock finally regains consciousness it is violent and struggling, his hands reaching to his throat, his body thrashing as if he were still trying to fight off his attacker. John’s hands catch his arms, holding his steady as Sherlock begins to cough and hack violently, his body shuddering as he tries to draw in breath through his damaged larynx. “Easy, easy, I got you, just relax Sherlock, relax. Take slow gentle breaths. Just breathe. In and out. In and out.”
Eventually Sherlock goes boneless again, allowing himself to rest against the support of John’s frame, focusing on nothing but breathing, his head shifting fractionally against John’s thigh as he tries to find the least painful position for this endeavor. As he quiets, John’s fingers absently return to stroking through the tousled mass of Sherlock’s black locks. He’s surprised by just how soft they are.
Finally, in a voice raspy and weak, Sherlock wheezes, “Is that a medically…” a rough inhale of breath, “p-proven treatment for…” another helpless gasp, “strangulation victims?”
“Sherlock, easy. Don’t talk. Just rest.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow upon John’s upside-down features, scowling in rebellion as he drags in another unsteady breath and pushes on despite his doctor’s advice. “If so,” he wheezes, “it seems rather counterintuitive, seeing as it’s my thro…” a short cough and a flailing hand, “my throat that appears to have been wrung out like a wet towel and not,” another raspy inhale, “my head…”
“You damn stubborn git,” John grouses, but a small smiles is upon his lips. A stubborn Sherlock is an undefeated Sherlock. “It’s a medically proven treatment for just about every form of assault, though in truth it’s often more for the benefit of the survivors than the victim, though some patients claim it has a soothing and reassuring affect.”
“Hmmmmmm.” Sherlock’s tone is disbelieving, but he doesn’t move either head or hand to stop John. “So, what did I miss?”
“Well, I got tired of waiting for you, so I broke down the door and found you being strangled.”
“Mmmmm, yes, I could have deduced that much. What about the killer?”
“Male, Chinese, about 5’6” I believe. Finally, someone shorter than me. Strong, muscular. Oh, and quite dead.”
That catches Sherlock off guard. His eyes snap open as he rasps a bit too enthusiastically, “Dead?!” Which naturally catapults him into a fierce coughing fit. John helps him up and holds him till he settles once more, rubbing his back soothingly now.
“Yes, dead. Our killer is a ghost. Which I suppose explains how he was able to get into those locked rooms and kill his victims, and how he was able to crush Lukis’ heart from inside his chest.” His head tilts thoughtfully as John considers what they know and what he’s witnessed. “I would surmise he’s been dead for a rather long time to have such power. Not only can he shift between being invisible to humans to having a visible form, but he can also move and affect the material world. He can manifest physicality and shift readily between tangible and intangible form. That takes a long time for a being of the spirit world to master.”
Eyeing John quietly, Sherlock finally rumbles, “You are forever surprising me, John Watson. Not just a Sensitive but an informed Sensitive.” He takes a moment to consider the information before using John to help himself rise up. “Come on. It’s clear that Soo Lin is involved in all of this, just as it is clear that she has gone into hiding.”
“Or she’s dead,” John points out again.
Sherlock’s gaze has returned once more to the splintered pieces of wood lying on the floor. “Possibly. But there’s hasn’t been a body and we haven’t found any graffiti meant for her yet. None here or at the museum. She might be in danger, yes, but she may very well be the ringleader in all of this, John.” Crouching down, Sherlock collects the fragments, fingering them lightly before slipping them into his pocket and rising up once more. “Either way, it behooves us to find her, and find her quickly.”
Length: 4,022 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and purely platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OCs are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to non_canonical for her friendship, brilliant advice and Brit picking! :D No beta on this chapter, sorry!
Special thanks go out to abundantlyqueer. If it wasn't for her initial encouragement, I wouldn't be writing at all.
Notes: This is the second story in the Fallen series. One should read Fallen first, otherwise this probably won't make much sense. ;) This is also a WIP, but I'm VERY committed to finishing it! 43,000+ words written so far!
Invisible Bonds: Chapter 7
John will never understand how Sherlock can just stride into any establishment and make the personnel believe that he belongs there. It would be easy to chalk it up to a magic spell or charm, but John knows that Sherlock has never employed such a cheap trick to get what he wants. It’s confidence and a talent for mimicry that allows Sherlock passage through nearly any door. Such is the same with the British Museum where somehow they manage to not only get past the entrance without paying, but manage to gain passage into the research department without anyone batting an eye as Sherlock rolls some imaginary credentials off his lips.
When a dark skinned woman approaches them, his brow creases in mild confusion and irritation as he asks questioningly, “I’m sorry, but we’re looking for Soo Lin Yao?” The woman shakes her head and offers her hand which, after studying for a moment Sherlock accepts and shakes in turn. “I’m Susan Leighton. I am, well, I was Soo Lin’s supervisor. But I’m afraid that Ms. Yao has resigned her position. Is there something I can help you with, Mr….?”
“Gillette. William Gillette. And no, thank you, I needed to consult with Ms. Yao on some Chinese antiquities I recently acquired, from the Han Dynasty. I was told that she was the resident expert and unparalleled when it came to the authentication and restoration of Chinese relics.”
“This is true. She will be dearly missed here at the Museum. I’m afraid that we haven’t hired a replacement for her yet. She only just recently left. A family emergency, apparently. But if you like, I can take your contact information and as soon as we have a new head of Chinese antiquities, I can pass on your information.”
Shaking his head, Sherlock rumbles, “I’m afraid that will be too late for my needs, but thank you for your offer.”
Nodding, the woman notes, “Well, I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing. If you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal of work to do, in order to find someone to fill Soo Lin’s shoes.”
They watch as the woman departs before John murmurs softly, “Sherlock, why didn’t you ask her for the next best expert in London?”
“John, think about it. Two men return from China with relics from that country. Shortly after their return, they each receive a warning and then are brutally tortured and murdered, their flats torn apart. And at the very same time the resident expert on Chinese antiquities has abruptly and unexpectedly resigned her position.”
“You think she’s involved.”
“She’s obviously involved. The only question is how? Is she responsible, for the deaths of those two men? Has she gone into hiding because she’s been targeted by the killer to be the next victim?”
John licks his lips anxiously as he finishes, “Or maybe… maybe she’s already dead.”
“Excuse me?”
They turn in tandem toward a tall gangly man who hasn’t quite grown out of his youth yet. He looks at Sherlock and John with hopeful eyes. “I heard you talking about Soo Lin?”
“Yes,” Sherlock replies, eyes narrowing intently. “We were hoping to speak with her, but have just learned that she no longer works here.”
“Oh.” He is clearly disappointed.
“Why do you ask?”
“Honestly? I was hoping that you knew where she was.”
One brow lifts as Sherlock inquires smoothly, “Didn’t she leave a forwarding address?”
Shaking his head, the young man murmurs, “Well you see, that’s just it. It’s all very… strange. Soo Lin…. I mean, Ms. Yao. She was devoted to her work. It was all she cared about. But then three days ago I come in to work and Mrs. Leighton is asking me to go look at some vases at Christies that have just come in, telling me that Soo Lin had quit for some kind of family emergency. But that doesn’t make any sense! Soo Lin told me that all of her family were dead!”
His features redden as he confesses, “I thought it was strange, so I went to her flat to see if she was there. I rang and rang, but there was no answer. I left her a note, but she hasn’t called.” He swallows hard and stares at John and Sherlock before noting, “I’m concerned that something has happened to her. I mean, she wouldn’t just leave her work behind like this. Her work is her life.”
Sherlock considers the young man quietly, assessing him. New staff, over-eager to please, clearly utterly infatuated with the dearly departed Ms. Yao, has a fondness for lamb biryani, still lives with his mother, but is saving up for a flat of his own. These and a dozen other observations are made in those brief seconds of dispassionate study before Sherlock offers a smile and asks, “Would you mind showing us her work?”
Andy gives them a quick tour of the space, stopping in front of a glass case of fragile looking clay pots. “These. These pots were her life. She was working on restoring them. Apparently you have to actually use them, make tea with them. Otherwise the clay starts to crack and break. She used to do tea ceremonies for the museum patrons as part of her work, demonstrating the tradition as it was performed hundreds of years ago while at the same time working on restoring the pots to their original strength and luster.”
He sighs softly, gesturing at the number of pots still flat and dry in appearance, only one pot shining with health and care. “As you can see, she had a way to go yet.” Turning back to John and Sherlock, his eyes imploring, Andy insists, “I know that something must have happened to her. She’s been with the museum for years, dedicated to adding to our collection and restoring antiquities. She wouldn’t have just left. She couldn’t have.”
Sherlock’s eyes study the pots, narrowed in concentration till they lift to Andy’s face. Tilting his head to one side, Sherlock smiles slightly and asks, “Do you happen to still have her address?”
*****
The late afternoon sun is cutting through the buildings as they stare at the door before them, the little hand written card that says “Soo Lin Yao” with a tiny flower over the ‘i’. They’ve already pressed the doorbell several times, to no effect. Crouching down, Sherlock asks, “How long would you say it’s been since it’s rained?”
Of course John knows exactly how long, seeing as how the last time it rained he was being dragged off to meet with Sherlock’s brother. “Three days ago.” Sherlock’s fingers drag over the phone books propped up against her white door, still damp from where the rain got in through a hole in the plastic covering them. He looks up once more. “Three days. She hasn’t been home in at least three days, hasn’t been to work in three days. Van Coon was murdered two days ago, Lukis yesterday. So the question now is, is Soo Lin our murderer? Or another victim?”
Rising up gracefully, Sherlock heads down the small alleyway next to her building, glancing about before espying a small open window. John stares up at it too before realizing what Sherlock is about to do. “Hang on a minute, you’re going to just break into her flat, just like that?”
“Come now, John, I’m sure that someone else has broken into it before us. Perhaps as much as four or five days before us.” His height gives him an advantage as he jumps up, fingers just barely catching the edge of the fire escape stairs, pulling them down before he clambers up them. John watches dubiously from the ground as Sherlock manages, just barely, to reach the high window and pull his lean, lanky form through it. Certainly not something John can manage with his broader form and shorter height, and Sherlock doesn’t even make an offer to help. A soft huff of frustration clouds the air for a moment before John makes his way back to the front of the building.
Jostling the table on the way in, Sherlock just barely manages to grab the vase of flowers there before it tips to the ground, water sloshing out of it before he delicately puts it back on the table and carefully pulls himself the rest of the way in. Frowning slightly he turns around, expecting to see John behind him, only to be corrected by a ringing of the doorbell and John’s voice calling through the thin wood, “Any time you feel like letting me in!” A small fleeting smile touches his lips before Sherlock becomes distracted.
Rising up he takes in the room, brows lifting up in bemusement. To say that it is stark would be something of an understatement. The tiny flat has little in it other than questions and mysteries. What few items it has are very old, very beautiful and very valuable, but none of it is personal. “Well, well, well, Soo Lin, just how involved in all of this are you?” he asks softly to himself, too taken with his exploration to give John’s knocking and yells much attention. A quick tour through the kitchen reveals that the person who lives here eats even less than Sherlock does. The fridge and cupboards are bare of food; there aren’t even any plates or utensils. A quick glance at the bathroom indicates the same thing. It’s beyond clean and closer to being unused, at least by the current tenant. No glass for water, no toiletries, no toothbrush or toothpaste or even a hairbrush. Not even a roll of toilet paper or a loose strand of hair. All in all, the flat seems less a home and more a storage space. There is art on the walls, likewise valuable and rare, but no pictures or photographs
“No one’s been living here for days!” Sherlock yells again, down the stairs this time for John’s benefit or, more likely, in an attempt to silence the ringing of the bell and the pounding on the door. “In fact, I would say that no one actually ‘lives’ here!”
Returning the main room, Sherlock slowly turns once more, frowning. Amidst all the tidiness and ascetic style there is an anomalous spot of disarray and destruction. Crossing over to small, square table, Sherlock takes in the tableau before him. An old, elegantly carved wooden tablet, has been removed from where it rested against the wall and struck repeatedly until it has splintered and shattered into pieces. A knocked over bowl of incense has scattered thick dust all about. Crouching down, Sherlock picks up a battered frame. The faces of two smiling children look out at him from behind the broken glass; not a photograph but a painting, and quite old by the looks of it. He frowns at it thoughtfully, wiping the surface of it before placing it back on the table carefully.
Everything in the small flat has a fine layer of dust on it. Only a few days worth, a week at the most, but still faintly visible. This display, however, has been disturbed far more recently as indicated through the disturbed dust and scattered ash.
“But someone was here!” he yells. Someone who was very angry, it would seem. Eyes search the apartment, looking for the telltale tag of yellow to no avail. The apartment is so small and so barren, there are few places that would hide such a mark. Only one, in fact. A beautiful, antique folding screen hides one corner of the room. With slow measured steps, Sherlock approaches the screen, one hand reaching out to pull it wide.
There is no warning. No flash of movement caught out of the corner of his eye, no sound of footsteps behind him. Which is why when something tightens around his throat from behind Sherlock is caught completely unaware. Gurgling, his air supply instantly cut off, Sherlock’s hands lift to his throat to try and grapple with what is strangling him, but to no avail. His grasping fingers find nothing there but his own scarf and skin in their desperate search. He gasps and sputters, trying to call out John’s name, but the sound comes out as little more than a pathetic croak.
His brain informs him that he only seven to fourteen seconds before he blacks out. Seven to fourteen seconds to break free from his attacker. Sherlock pushes and presses backward, seeking to collide into his attacker, to slam him against the nearest surface available. And for a brief moment he feels a smaller form against his back, moving with him as he struggles and fights for oxygen. His back hits the wall, causing Sherlock’s eyes to bulge in shock and confusion, his hands reaching behind him, trying to find purchase on something that isn’t there, apparently. Lunging forward, he briefly feels that grip loosen but then return, tightening against his larynx and carotid artery. His head is pounding, his vision starting to swim, his balance and coordination failing him as his body desperately tries to draw in a breath and fails. Sherlock trips against something and feels himself falling, falling, falling. Oh how pedestrian. John will be so annoyed. These are his last thoughts as his limbs go slack and everything goes black.
*****
Outside the door, John can just imagine what is going on inside. Sherlock exploring, deducing clues, and utterly forgetting that he no longer works alone but has a partner.
Course, it’s not like Sherlock really needs John. He’s solved hundreds of cases without him and likely would continue to do so with or without John’s presence. If he could just manage not to get himself nearly killed quite so often. Sherlock is shockingly good at solving mysteries, but shockingly bad at keeping out of trouble and in one piece. But it does make John feel left out, forgotten, which is a hard thing to accept now that he’s got a taste for being tangible to Sherlock. His left shoulder gives a wistful twinge and with a sigh, John reaches up one hand to gently massage it.
No reason to take it personally. His company is not merely endured by Sherlock, but actively sought out and enjoyed. Doesn’t mean the man is going to change overnight into a tender, caring individual. And it’s not like John expects or wants him to. Unconditional love. Whether Sherlock wants it or not, that’s what he’s got with John for a flatmate. With a soft sigh he gives up trying to get Sherlock’s attention. Folding his arms over his chest John leans his back against the door, looking up at the sky. He watches the people walk by. Here, in Chinatown, he can see the shift in belief systems and patterns more clearly. Some of the people walking by are followed by their Guardian Angels while others are flanked by their ancestors whom they have honored. There are also spirit guides and totem animals walking along with their humans. Even more rare is the occasional Hungry Ghost who, through rituals and offerings, has been transmuted and released from their suffering and now choose to act as protectors to the living.
He frowns slightly, reaching up once more to massage his aching shoulder, rotating the injured joint within its socket. Bloody nuisance it is, acting up at random. His eyes continue to watch the crowd curiously, noting with bemusement how they seem to be shifting toward the other side of the street.
Willing servants, ghosts, angels and guardians. Perhaps it is their presence that blinded John to the presence of another. Or perhaps it is only against this backdrop of contentment that John can suddenly sense the seething rage and terrible emptiness of a ravaged soul coming from behind him. Coming from the apartment. Spinning around, John starts ringing the bell and hammering on the door with his fists, yelling at Sherlock much to the astonishment and dismay of passers by. He can feel the anger and yearning for vengeance growing. People are veering away from Soo Lin’s apartment not because of the crazy white man hammering on her door, but because their guardians are urging them away from the devouring hunger that has awoken inside.
It’s been two months, but John can feel the transformation rushing toward him with the inevitability of a tsunami wave, every nerve ending in his body screaming out ‘DANGER!DANGER!DANGER!’ while his mind is crying, “SHERLOCK!SHERLOCK!SHERLOCK!” With a deft and powerful twist of his hand, the strength of it far beyond what a mortal would be capable of, John breaks the doorknob with a sharp jerk, the lock giving way, before surging inside and up the stairs. His back explodes with pain as his right hand lifts unerringly to his left shoulder, drawing out the burning sensation there, his scream of pain transformed into a battle cry.
The spirit stands before him, hands not around Sherlock’s throat but inside his throat, choking him to death, crushing his larynx and cutting off both his air and blood supply. Sherlock’s head dangles within his grip, tipped backward, throat arched and displayed like a sacrificial offering, his body sprawled awkwardly upon the floor, limp and lifeless. The ghost is half tangible to the human eye, half invisible, but John can see him clearly, completely, and growls in heated rage, “Release him, spirit, or I will disperse you into nothing!” His wings spread wide, filling the room, beating furiously, his sword ablaze with swirling colors, held before him in both hands.
The ghost stares at John, a mixture of hatred and astonishment on his face. His hands release Sherlock’s throat, sliding back out of his flesh as the consulting detective slumps to the floor like a broken rag doll. For a brief instant the ghost’s face transforms into something hideous and deformed - mottled and discolored flesh, flared nostrils, fanged mouth, bulging eyes; his true countenance after centuries of rage and abuse - before he whirls and plunges through the walls, vanishing from sight. John waits only a second to ensure the ghost is truly gone before dropping his sword and dropping to the ground beside Sherlock, fingers delicately running over his throat. Larynx severely bruised, but not crushed, the hyoid is still intact and none of the bones in his spine appear to be damaged. But he’s not breathing. Fingers press gently to confirm the next. No pulse.
Wings beat the air as John tips Sherlock’s mouth open and breathes deeply into it. CPR would do the same trick eventually, but there’s no guarantee and John has no idea how long Sherlock’s brain has been without oxygen. If the power is his for the taking then, by God, he will use it. Each breath given to Sherlock contains life, John’s own spirit and energy, healing and repairing the damage done, urging Sherlock to breathe on his own. He lays a hand upon Sherlock’s chest. Watson knows intimately how the heart beats and functions; John wills it into doing so. After a few steady pulses, Sherlock’s heart gives a lurch and starts beating on its own. Though still limp and unconscious, his open mouth drags in a raspy breath and then another.
Shuddering, John falls over Sherlock, his wings blanketing them both, allowing John to see them for the first time since Michael struck him down. Gone is the brilliant white plumage, replaced not with feathers of black ink but instead with rich shades of russet and gold; the wings of a hawk. They beat the air desperately of their own will, as if trying to resist what is to come, before they shudder and vanish once again, as wholly inexplicable now as their presence was two months ago. Exhaustion floods John and with a soft sigh he slowly sits upright once more and gently eases Sherlock’s head upon his thigh to aid his breathing. Because he can, John tenderly strokes his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, waiting quietly while they both recover.
When Sherlock finally regains consciousness it is violent and struggling, his hands reaching to his throat, his body thrashing as if he were still trying to fight off his attacker. John’s hands catch his arms, holding his steady as Sherlock begins to cough and hack violently, his body shuddering as he tries to draw in breath through his damaged larynx. “Easy, easy, I got you, just relax Sherlock, relax. Take slow gentle breaths. Just breathe. In and out. In and out.”
Eventually Sherlock goes boneless again, allowing himself to rest against the support of John’s frame, focusing on nothing but breathing, his head shifting fractionally against John’s thigh as he tries to find the least painful position for this endeavor. As he quiets, John’s fingers absently return to stroking through the tousled mass of Sherlock’s black locks. He’s surprised by just how soft they are.
Finally, in a voice raspy and weak, Sherlock wheezes, “Is that a medically…” a rough inhale of breath, “p-proven treatment for…” another helpless gasp, “strangulation victims?”
“Sherlock, easy. Don’t talk. Just rest.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow upon John’s upside-down features, scowling in rebellion as he drags in another unsteady breath and pushes on despite his doctor’s advice. “If so,” he wheezes, “it seems rather counterintuitive, seeing as it’s my thro…” a short cough and a flailing hand, “my throat that appears to have been wrung out like a wet towel and not,” another raspy inhale, “my head…”
“You damn stubborn git,” John grouses, but a small smiles is upon his lips. A stubborn Sherlock is an undefeated Sherlock. “It’s a medically proven treatment for just about every form of assault, though in truth it’s often more for the benefit of the survivors than the victim, though some patients claim it has a soothing and reassuring affect.”
“Hmmmmmm.” Sherlock’s tone is disbelieving, but he doesn’t move either head or hand to stop John. “So, what did I miss?”
“Well, I got tired of waiting for you, so I broke down the door and found you being strangled.”
“Mmmmm, yes, I could have deduced that much. What about the killer?”
“Male, Chinese, about 5’6” I believe. Finally, someone shorter than me. Strong, muscular. Oh, and quite dead.”
That catches Sherlock off guard. His eyes snap open as he rasps a bit too enthusiastically, “Dead?!” Which naturally catapults him into a fierce coughing fit. John helps him up and holds him till he settles once more, rubbing his back soothingly now.
“Yes, dead. Our killer is a ghost. Which I suppose explains how he was able to get into those locked rooms and kill his victims, and how he was able to crush Lukis’ heart from inside his chest.” His head tilts thoughtfully as John considers what they know and what he’s witnessed. “I would surmise he’s been dead for a rather long time to have such power. Not only can he shift between being invisible to humans to having a visible form, but he can also move and affect the material world. He can manifest physicality and shift readily between tangible and intangible form. That takes a long time for a being of the spirit world to master.”
Eyeing John quietly, Sherlock finally rumbles, “You are forever surprising me, John Watson. Not just a Sensitive but an informed Sensitive.” He takes a moment to consider the information before using John to help himself rise up. “Come on. It’s clear that Soo Lin is involved in all of this, just as it is clear that she has gone into hiding.”
“Or she’s dead,” John points out again.
Sherlock’s gaze has returned once more to the splintered pieces of wood lying on the floor. “Possibly. But there’s hasn’t been a body and we haven’t found any graffiti meant for her yet. None here or at the museum. She might be in danger, yes, but she may very well be the ringleader in all of this, John.” Crouching down, Sherlock collects the fragments, fingering them lightly before slipping them into his pocket and rising up once more. “Either way, it behooves us to find her, and find her quickly.”