NOMINO (R), Chapter 8
Title: NOMINO
Characters: John, Sherlock, Molly
Rating: R (warnings for character death, suicidal ideation and some violence)
Length: ~22K total
Summary: In a world where everyone is born with a name inscribed on his or her hand, finding your soulmate should be easy. And for John, it sort of is. It's what happens after he finds Sherlock that causes all the problems.
Notes: I know a lot of people want to know what's under Sherlock's gloves, but unfortunately the big reveal will have to wait for the epilogue. I will say however, that there is a clue in this chapter. Can you guess what it is? *evil laugh* Originally posted in response to
casmomo's wonderful prompt on the meme. Click for disclaimer.
ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4 | ch 5 | ch 6 | ch 7 | ch 8 | ch 9
CHAPTER 8
“Stand still.”
“Are-are those for me and John?”
“Yes.”
“Why are they…oh. Oh. I see.”
“…”
“I want that one.”
“You don’t get to choose.”
“Please.”
“I can’t let you choose.”
“Please.”
“It’s out of my hands. The boss already decided.”
“But you think he picked the wrong one don’t you?”
“…”
“I’m doing this is for Jim too.”
“I…”
“Please.”
“… Alright.”
<><><><><>
“Open the door,” the silky voice murmured in his ear. “And repeat after me.” John swallowed, then pushed open the changing room locker. The rusty hinges creaked and echoed deafeningly in the silent pool. He turned slowly, the bulky vest and anorak impeding his movements. “Evening.”
“Evening.” His voice sounded alien even to his own ears, flat and toneless.
Sherlock froze, his arm still upraised like a dancer poised onstage. Come on, Sherlock, realize something’s wrong…
“This is a turn-up, isn’t it Sherlock?”
“This is a turn-up, isn’t it Sherlock?”
“John,” Sherlock choked a bit on the name, and John felt a strange leaping sensation in the pit of his stomach at the sound. The detective’s face was blank with shock edging towards disbelief. It was inexplicably comforting. “What the hell-”
“Bet you never saw this coming,” Molly interrupted in a brittle voice, stepping out of the change room on the opposite side of the pool.
Sherlock’s head whipped around to stare at her, his eyes widening in sudden comprehension as he took in her matching anorak, the hood up and the front open to reveal a wired Semtex vest beneath. “You,” he hissed, his gaze darting around the pool. He started towards Molly, but stopped when he saw the pinpoint of red light dancing on her chest. He whirled around to look at John again, fixed on the sniper’s mark now glowing there too. “Who are you? Show yourself!”
A door opened behind John.
“I gave you my number.” He twitched as the flirty whinge of Jim’s voice echoed twice as loud through his earpiece. “I thought you might call.”
Sherlock glared over John’s shoulder at far corner of the pool, his hand itching towards his back pocket. “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket? Or are you just pleased to see me,” Jim said, and John could hear the smirk in his voice. It appeared he’d turned off the microphone. It was a small comfort.
“Both,” Sherlock replied, drawing the gun in one smooth movement. Molly gave a strangled little gasp from across the pool.
“Jim Moriarty. Hi.” The crisp clack of Jim’s shoes echoed against the tile as he walked nearer. “Jim? Jim from the hospital?” He gave a little laugh. “Did I really make such a fleeting impression? Although, that was rather the point.”
Sherlock spared a glance for John, noting the position of the sniper’s sight against his neck. John tried to catch his eyes, but they were already glued back to his target. Sherlock palmed the Browning in both hands, steadying the weapon.
“Don’t be silly, someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”
“What do you want?” Sherlock growled, pistol still at the ready.
“Patience, patience, darling,” Jim admonished. His steps were receding now, back towards the side of the pool where Molly still stood, silent and quivering in her oversized anorak. “We wouldn’t want the end to come…prematurely.” He chuckled at the pun. “I have loved this. This little game of ours. Playing ‘Jim from IT.’ Molly was such a useful little doll.” He had reached her side by then, and he tweaked her ear as he spoke. She bit her lip, her face twisting in pain or disgust, John couldn’t tell.
“People have died,” Sherlock said.
“That’s what people DO!” he screamed. Molly jumped, nearly slipping, her face pale and bloodless beneath the hood. Even Sherlock started at Jim’s sudden vehemence. “Playtime’s over Sherlock,” the man continued, softer and more serious now. “I can’t let you keep getting in my way.”
Sherlock’s lip curled. “I’ll stop you.”
“No you won’t. You won’t even leave this pool,” Jim dismissed him blithely. He raised a hand and brought it down on Molly’s shoulder. She shuddered at the touch. “Raise your hand, Molly dear.” The words were whispered, but in the still pool they carried. Molly closed her eyes. “Molly.” Slowly, she raised her right hand.
Jim smiled. “Good girl,” he said, patting her on the head. He stepped away from her, facing across the pool. “Now you, Dr. Watson,” he called.
John clenched his fist tighter in the pocket of the anorak, feeling the rasp of bare, callused skin rubbing against itself. “Don’t fight me,” the earpiece hissed to life again. “Or you know what I’ll do.” John grimaced, then steeled himself. Fuck all. He raised his left hand, trying not to see Sherlock staring at the name printed across his palm.
“My, my!” Jim squealed with girlish drama. “Two name matches, Sherlock? What a greedy, greedy boy you are.”
“I’ve been reliably informed that I have no names,” Sherlock answered, nearly monotone. John raised his head only to find Sherlock looking straight at him. A hand squeezed his heart.
“But we both know that’s not quite true.”
Sherlock did not reply.
“I know how much you enjoyed my little deal with the cabbie and the pills,” Jim continued. “Elegant, wasn’t it? The choice.” He walked back to the deep side of the pool, facing Sherlock at the other end. “So I thought you might enjoy the sequel!” He swept his arms wide, like an actor preparing for his grand bow.
“Behold, your choices,” he began. “Behind door one, the gimpy GP and his brainless blog!” He snapped his fingers at John. “And, behind door number two, the spineless spinster and her stupid morgue. Choose the right one, and you might just walk out of here alive. Choose the wrong one and… everyone goes boom!” He giggled. John felt his pulse thudding thickly in his ears.
Sherlock shifted his stance, his eyes narrowing at the man across from him. “I could just walk out now. What’s there to gain from choosing?”
“Oh, Sherlock, you are suspicious. Don’t worry, I play fair.” Jim paused. “Well. No I don’t. But just this once, for you, I’ll make an exception.” John heard a shuffling noise, like someone removing a jacket. “See?” Jim said. “If you pick the right one, you get me too. Good, isn’t it?”
“What if I were to shoot you now? Right now.” Sherlock raised the gun.
“Well, then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face,” Jim said, mocking. “Because I’d be surprised, Sherlock, I really would. And a teensy bit…disappointed.” Sherlock’s aim wavered, as though Jim had struck a chord. “And of course, you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long.”
Sherlock let out a hiss of breath, his face distorted into a mask of hate. “I’ll kill you,” he snarled, his smoker’s voice cracking over the words. “I will kill you.”
“If you like, dear,” Jim replied lightly. “You know what to do.”
Sherlock hesitated, the Browning still pointed at Jim, but John knew he wouldn’t shoot. As if responding to John’s thoughts, Sherlock lowered the pistol to his side. John could practically see the wheels turning in the detective’s head, spinning through every possible combination of action and conclusion, endlessly searching for a way out of this impossible situation. John prayed for him to find it, without any real hope of a solution. The thought crossed his mind that they needed a miracle. Sherlock didn’t believe in miracles.
Sherlock took a step left, bringing him to the center of the shallow end, John and Molly facing him on opposite sides of the pool. He raised the Browning again, letting it track slowly to one side-John’s pulse raced as the muzzle inched closer to him-then to the other. John chanced a look sideways at Molly. She was starkly white and beads of sweat were dripping down her face, soaking the collar of her blouse where it stuck out above the anorak, but she stood straight and still. Her eyes were locked on Sherlock.
Sherlock stopped, the gun poised. Molly’s lips parted, mouthing something. John strained to see, but the angle wasn’t right.
He heard the safety click.
<><><><><>
Gun shots. People diving for cover. The ground running up to kiss his face. Pain. Smoke. The world exploding in a shock of color and blindness. The copper-and-shit flavour of blood. Bill Murray hovering over him, It’ll be okay, hold on Watson! What do you say before you die?
“Run, Sherlock!”
NEXT >>
Characters: John, Sherlock, Molly
Rating: R (warnings for character death, suicidal ideation and some violence)
Length: ~22K total
Summary: In a world where everyone is born with a name inscribed on his or her hand, finding your soulmate should be easy. And for John, it sort of is. It's what happens after he finds Sherlock that causes all the problems.
Notes: I know a lot of people want to know what's under Sherlock's gloves, but unfortunately the big reveal will have to wait for the epilogue. I will say however, that there is a clue in this chapter. Can you guess what it is? *evil laugh* Originally posted in response to
casmomo's wonderful prompt on the meme. Click for disclaimer.
ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4 | ch 5 | ch 6 | ch 7 | ch 8 | ch 9
CHAPTER 8
“Stand still.”
“Are-are those for me and John?”
“Yes.”
“Why are they…oh. Oh. I see.”
“…”
“I want that one.”
“You don’t get to choose.”
“Please.”
“I can’t let you choose.”
“Please.”
“It’s out of my hands. The boss already decided.”
“But you think he picked the wrong one don’t you?”
“…”
“I’m doing this is for Jim too.”
“I…”
“Please.”
“… Alright.”
<><><><><>
“Open the door,” the silky voice murmured in his ear. “And repeat after me.” John swallowed, then pushed open the changing room locker. The rusty hinges creaked and echoed deafeningly in the silent pool. He turned slowly, the bulky vest and anorak impeding his movements. “Evening.”
“Evening.” His voice sounded alien even to his own ears, flat and toneless.
Sherlock froze, his arm still upraised like a dancer poised onstage. Come on, Sherlock, realize something’s wrong…
“This is a turn-up, isn’t it Sherlock?”
“This is a turn-up, isn’t it Sherlock?”
“John,” Sherlock choked a bit on the name, and John felt a strange leaping sensation in the pit of his stomach at the sound. The detective’s face was blank with shock edging towards disbelief. It was inexplicably comforting. “What the hell-”
“Bet you never saw this coming,” Molly interrupted in a brittle voice, stepping out of the change room on the opposite side of the pool.
Sherlock’s head whipped around to stare at her, his eyes widening in sudden comprehension as he took in her matching anorak, the hood up and the front open to reveal a wired Semtex vest beneath. “You,” he hissed, his gaze darting around the pool. He started towards Molly, but stopped when he saw the pinpoint of red light dancing on her chest. He whirled around to look at John again, fixed on the sniper’s mark now glowing there too. “Who are you? Show yourself!”
A door opened behind John.
“I gave you my number.” He twitched as the flirty whinge of Jim’s voice echoed twice as loud through his earpiece. “I thought you might call.”
Sherlock glared over John’s shoulder at far corner of the pool, his hand itching towards his back pocket. “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket? Or are you just pleased to see me,” Jim said, and John could hear the smirk in his voice. It appeared he’d turned off the microphone. It was a small comfort.
“Both,” Sherlock replied, drawing the gun in one smooth movement. Molly gave a strangled little gasp from across the pool.
“Jim Moriarty. Hi.” The crisp clack of Jim’s shoes echoed against the tile as he walked nearer. “Jim? Jim from the hospital?” He gave a little laugh. “Did I really make such a fleeting impression? Although, that was rather the point.”
Sherlock spared a glance for John, noting the position of the sniper’s sight against his neck. John tried to catch his eyes, but they were already glued back to his target. Sherlock palmed the Browning in both hands, steadying the weapon.
“Don’t be silly, someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”
“What do you want?” Sherlock growled, pistol still at the ready.
“Patience, patience, darling,” Jim admonished. His steps were receding now, back towards the side of the pool where Molly still stood, silent and quivering in her oversized anorak. “We wouldn’t want the end to come…prematurely.” He chuckled at the pun. “I have loved this. This little game of ours. Playing ‘Jim from IT.’ Molly was such a useful little doll.” He had reached her side by then, and he tweaked her ear as he spoke. She bit her lip, her face twisting in pain or disgust, John couldn’t tell.
“People have died,” Sherlock said.
“That’s what people DO!” he screamed. Molly jumped, nearly slipping, her face pale and bloodless beneath the hood. Even Sherlock started at Jim’s sudden vehemence. “Playtime’s over Sherlock,” the man continued, softer and more serious now. “I can’t let you keep getting in my way.”
Sherlock’s lip curled. “I’ll stop you.”
“No you won’t. You won’t even leave this pool,” Jim dismissed him blithely. He raised a hand and brought it down on Molly’s shoulder. She shuddered at the touch. “Raise your hand, Molly dear.” The words were whispered, but in the still pool they carried. Molly closed her eyes. “Molly.” Slowly, she raised her right hand.
Jim smiled. “Good girl,” he said, patting her on the head. He stepped away from her, facing across the pool. “Now you, Dr. Watson,” he called.
John clenched his fist tighter in the pocket of the anorak, feeling the rasp of bare, callused skin rubbing against itself. “Don’t fight me,” the earpiece hissed to life again. “Or you know what I’ll do.” John grimaced, then steeled himself. Fuck all. He raised his left hand, trying not to see Sherlock staring at the name printed across his palm.
“My, my!” Jim squealed with girlish drama. “Two name matches, Sherlock? What a greedy, greedy boy you are.”
“I’ve been reliably informed that I have no names,” Sherlock answered, nearly monotone. John raised his head only to find Sherlock looking straight at him. A hand squeezed his heart.
“But we both know that’s not quite true.”
Sherlock did not reply.
“I know how much you enjoyed my little deal with the cabbie and the pills,” Jim continued. “Elegant, wasn’t it? The choice.” He walked back to the deep side of the pool, facing Sherlock at the other end. “So I thought you might enjoy the sequel!” He swept his arms wide, like an actor preparing for his grand bow.
“Behold, your choices,” he began. “Behind door one, the gimpy GP and his brainless blog!” He snapped his fingers at John. “And, behind door number two, the spineless spinster and her stupid morgue. Choose the right one, and you might just walk out of here alive. Choose the wrong one and… everyone goes boom!” He giggled. John felt his pulse thudding thickly in his ears.
Sherlock shifted his stance, his eyes narrowing at the man across from him. “I could just walk out now. What’s there to gain from choosing?”
“Oh, Sherlock, you are suspicious. Don’t worry, I play fair.” Jim paused. “Well. No I don’t. But just this once, for you, I’ll make an exception.” John heard a shuffling noise, like someone removing a jacket. “See?” Jim said. “If you pick the right one, you get me too. Good, isn’t it?”
“What if I were to shoot you now? Right now.” Sherlock raised the gun.
“Well, then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face,” Jim said, mocking. “Because I’d be surprised, Sherlock, I really would. And a teensy bit…disappointed.” Sherlock’s aim wavered, as though Jim had struck a chord. “And of course, you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long.”
Sherlock let out a hiss of breath, his face distorted into a mask of hate. “I’ll kill you,” he snarled, his smoker’s voice cracking over the words. “I will kill you.”
“If you like, dear,” Jim replied lightly. “You know what to do.”
Sherlock hesitated, the Browning still pointed at Jim, but John knew he wouldn’t shoot. As if responding to John’s thoughts, Sherlock lowered the pistol to his side. John could practically see the wheels turning in the detective’s head, spinning through every possible combination of action and conclusion, endlessly searching for a way out of this impossible situation. John prayed for him to find it, without any real hope of a solution. The thought crossed his mind that they needed a miracle. Sherlock didn’t believe in miracles.
Sherlock took a step left, bringing him to the center of the shallow end, John and Molly facing him on opposite sides of the pool. He raised the Browning again, letting it track slowly to one side-John’s pulse raced as the muzzle inched closer to him-then to the other. John chanced a look sideways at Molly. She was starkly white and beads of sweat were dripping down her face, soaking the collar of her blouse where it stuck out above the anorak, but she stood straight and still. Her eyes were locked on Sherlock.
Sherlock stopped, the gun poised. Molly’s lips parted, mouthing something. John strained to see, but the angle wasn’t right.
He heard the safety click.
<><><><><>
Gun shots. People diving for cover. The ground running up to kiss his face. Pain. Smoke. The world exploding in a shock of color and blindness. The copper-and-shit flavour of blood. Bill Murray hovering over him, It’ll be okay, hold on Watson! What do you say before you die?
“Run, Sherlock!”
NEXT >>