20 Years: Immortal View
This is my story for hl_chronicles. 20 years: Immortal view.
Rating: PG/Teen
A World Away Lies Truth
Sherlock stepped into the small enclosure in the morgue, his skin feeling as damp and musty as the thick air around him. He straightened his blue checked scarf, wrapping it more securely around his neck to ward off the creeping chill, and grimaced when his palm came away smeared with the sticky residue of coagulated blood. Logically, he knew in the scheme of things it mattered very little, and he pushed his distaste aside. After all, his hair and scalp were also covered with the stuff, causing him to itch and bristle with the need to get into a hot shower soon.
Closing his eyes, he leaned against the wall, taking comfort in the strong support it leant his aching, exhausted body. The scent of formaldehyde burned his nostrils with its acrid odor, and he had to push aside the rise of nausea in his throat.
Oddly enough, he had once found the trappings of death comforting, the odor of formaldehyde a reminder of the mysteries waiting to be solved in the corpses left behind. All of it -- puzzles to be pieced together, using only his cunning and clues in the bodies and specimens laid out around him in the morgue. It was one of his favorite places, like a toy store at Christmas time.
Now, with the circumstances of his own mortality and death so close at hand, he felt shaken and sickened by the mental scene laid out before him in his mind. If he didn’t get out of there soon he would vomit, and wouldn’t that be a wonderful tribute to the life and intellect of one Sherlock Holmes.
Light steps fell across the concrete floor and he opened his eyes to peer out from the partially hidden enclosure into the poorly lit main room of the morgue. Molly stepped closer, her small frame concealed within her white lab coat that she had buttoned securely as if the layer of fabric could protect her from the terror.
“Sherlock,” she whispered, startling when he stepped out and placed a finger against her lips to silence her.
Removing his finger, he leaned down to whisper against her ear. “Is it safe?”
“Yes. Y - your brother gave me the signal.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought. “Are you certain it was Mycroft?”
“Yes.” She pulled out her cell phone from her lab coat pocket and handed it to him.
He took it, studying the crisp text from his brother’s cell number. “Good.”
He handed her back the phone and stepped away, then stopped, turned, and stared at the woman who had trusted him when the rest of the world had thought him a fraud. He could have thought about all the times he had been mean to her, knowing she had a crush on him, but regrets were stupid and useless. He didn’t have the time or inclination to worry over them when he needed to be planning his next course of action. Escaping was his first priority, of course -- that and keeping the world at large ignorant of his actions. Better for all those involved, Molly included, if they thought him a fraud, dead by his own hand and no longer a factor in a very dangerous chess game between himself and Moriarty.
He had no doubt the insane criminal mind of his opponent had taken every contingency into account and still had plans in play. Now the question was what was next? What was the next move on the board? Sherlock Homes was just the man to figure it out and check mate.
As much as he personally detested his brother’s “minor” involvement in the British government, he smiled to himself, at times like these Mycroft’s help was invaluable.
“Sherlock?”
The softly spoken whisper shook him out of his reverie, and he focused, once again, on the concerned woman standing before him.
He cupped her face with his hand and smiled knowingly. “Thank you, Molly.”
A returned smile, given both sadly and hesitantly, and he was gone with a swish of his coat. Grateful for the cover of darkness, he stepped out into the narrow passageway behind Bart’s mortuary. To the left, several large bins protected him from the view of the main street in front of the hospital. He knew a black limousine would be waiting for him to sprint around the bins and whisk him away. With a self-satisfied smirk, he flicked up his coat collar and ran in the opposite direction to an adjoining alley.
Despite the precarious situation he found himself in, he had to smile as a memory came to him unbidden.
“Oh, please. Can we not do this this time?"
“Do what?”
“You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you’ll look cool.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Yeah, you do.”
John. With determination, he pushed his memories aside, reminding himself that sentiment belonged on the losing side. Sherlock Holmes did not lose.
Coursing his way through several alleys, he stopped and placed his hands to his head. A few mental calculations later and he had a firm route established in his mind. He knew Mycroft's minions would have contacted him by now and his brother would be scouring the city for him, as much out of frustration from Sherlock's obstinacy as his own worry. Sherlock smiled, amused at the thought of his brother's annoyance, only to have his thoughts suddenly and rudely severed by the sharp, biting sound of steel on steel.
Easing toward the sound cautiously, he found himself in another passageway, wider than those he had previously navigated, if only marginally better lit. Two men were dueling, although the cut and thrust of the men's swords could hardly be called a gentlemen's duel. No, these two men were clearly fighting for their lives, their moves never pulled, with an occasional punch and kick between strikes to try and throw the other off balance.
He pressed himself into the shadows and continued to observe as the men fought. Both men were approximately the same height, although the man with the fairer features appeared to be heavier than the other by at least ten kilos. He was fighting with a rapier, seventeenth century, Sherlock surmised, although it was difficult to be sure from that distance.
The man's opponent was leaner, fair, but with darker hair and sharper features. He was hacking away with a broadsword, clearly more focused on winning than finesse. His sword was heavy, and Sherlock studied him curiously, wondering at his strength and agility while commanding such a weapon.
The battle was already bloody and vicious when Sherlock came across them. Although he was fascinated by the scene playing out before him, he didn’t know who these men were, and Mycroft’s team was searching for him at that very moment. Therefore, it would be in his best interest to back away before the fight came to a conclusion. However, before he could escape from the scene, the man with the broadsword had his opponent on his knees. In his periphery, Sherlock spotted a man at the foremost end of the alley, peering around the worn brick while texting on his phone. His sleeve rode up on his arm and Sherlock narrowed his vision to the man’s wrist where a tattoo peeked out from the cuff of his suit coat. A moment later and the man had apparently completed his text as he pocketed his phone, and backed away, leaving a question mark in Sherlock’s mind as he returned his attention back to the scene in the alley.
Words were being exchanged between the two men, muffled initially, until the victor’s voice rang out in clear, crisp tones. “There can be only one!” Then Sherlock watched in horror as the broadsword was raised and the losing man's head flew from its body to bounce onto the littered pavement.
Dark eyes were boring into Sherlock from across the alley and he knew he had been spotted. He opened his mouth to speak, to assure the man of his intent, when the alley exploded with powerful raw energy which seemed to expel from the body lying callously at the man’s feet. The noise was deafening, and Sherlock backed cautiously away until his back was pressing against a far wall. Brick and lights shattered as white -- blue lightning bolts bounced off the enclosed walls before ripping into the other man's body as he screamed under the assault. A few minutes later and it was over, leaving the man alive and trembling as he fell to his knees.
Letting out a long breath, Sherlock stepped out of the shadows to get a better look at him. What had just happened? He should have been frightened, he guessed, but instead he was just intrigued. The lightening was very definitely a form of electrical energy that had left the dead man's body when his head was severed. Equally obvious, was that the dead man's energy had entered his opponent's body quite intentionally. While he would expect the man to be seriously injured, if not dead, he appeared to be only shaken and exhausted, but quite alive and unsurprised by the events.
Sherlock stopped and held up his hands in surrender when the other man reached for his sword and eased up on shaky legs. Dark, dangerous eyes stared at him, and Sherlock tensed, willing himself to remain still as the other man clearly assessed his risk.
The man stepped closer and Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as he prepared to speak. “I….” he began, then the pointed end of the sword was pressing against his throat and he wisely swallowed the rest of his words.
"I know who you are, Sherlock Holmes."
~~~~~~
Sherlock studied the man intently as they entered a quaint, modernized flat in Upper Clapton. The man had hardly spoken to him after they left the alley, only informing him sharply that they needed to vacate as quickly as possible. Since a decapitated body was excuse enough to flee, Sherlock had readily complied. To Sherlock’s relief, the other man quickly and effortlessly disposed of his weapon inside his long, leather coat, which had previously been thrown to the ground, presumably prior to the fight.
With a nod and a terse invitation Sherlock had been led from the area back to the man's flat. The thought of escaping had never entered his mind. This was much too interesting. He took in everything, his sharp mind assessing the man's dress and stance, his nondescript accent, and ever watchful eye as they navigated the lesser known streets of London.
There was an unfocused nervousness about the man that unsettled him, and he wondered if the energy he had just taken in was irritating raw nerve endings. What did it feel like to absorb that much electricity and how could it happen?
He noted faded jeans and a now torn and bloodied jumper as the man’s coat was placed on the coat rack by the front door. Several things clicked in Sherlock’s mind at once. His host was relatively young, late twenties or early thirties at most. He had longish dark, brown hair parted and swept back from his face to curl around his ears and whisper against the collar of his coat. A few pounds lighter and the man’s features would have been sharp and chiseled like stone. Instead, while his nose was easily the most prominent feature, his high cheekbones and piercing dark green, hazel eyes lent him a look that was far too young and quasi-innocent for a man who had just beheaded an opponent beaten and on his knees.
Following suit, Sherlock shed his own outer wear while the other man began undressing, even as he disappeared down the hall to a presumed bathroom at the back of the flat. With piqued interest, Sherlock began a cursory appraisal of the small living area.
The furniture was well made, but worn. There were no formal trappings of wealth in the room, with its sparse décor, but the flat was located in an affluent part of town and a new dark gray Volvo was parked at the side of the building. A large, dark brown leather couch took up much of a far wall with just enough room for two small side tables with a single lamp and various items of clutter lying atop. A coffee table was in the center of the room with several professional journals strewn across the surface. Two medium sized light brown leather chairs and a desk with a laptop computer and long neck dark blue lamp completed the living room area which opened into a small kitchenette and dining room area which was void of a table or chairs. While decidedly curious, Sherlock assumed the man used his kitchen counter top as his table. Not that unusual for a bachelor who infrequently, if ever, entertained guests. A bookcase stood idle against a far wall, its shelves covered with various books and journals. Two windows covered with heavy red drapes blocked out the view outside. Curious, he drew back the drapes and peered out. Satisfied they had not been followed; he turned back to the living room for a more detailed look, and began cataloging everything he saw in rapid-fire sequence.
~~~~~~
Methos scrubbed at his skin, cleaning away the dried blood as the hot water soothed his aching muscles. God, that felt wonderful. Of all nights, he would have to run into an asshole looking for a quickening. He was certain Talbert, or whatever the hell the man was calling himself, had not known who he really was. No, he was just out looking for an easy quickening, and Justin Adams' mild and unassuming presence could often be too much a lure to resist. On the other hand, his young looks and nonthreatening demeanor often gave him an edge in a fight. Ergo, the risk was well worth it as his challenger found out tonight.
Now the question remaining was what he was going to do with his guest. Of course, he knew who the infamous Sherlock Holmes was. There wasn't anyone alive in London who had not heard of the genius detective, now heralded as a gigantic fraud. The gossip rags on his bedside table were full of stories about Sherlock Holmes and his companion, John Watson, and how they had perpetuated a fraud on the police and Commonwealth alike. Not that he believed everything he read in the gossip mags, but it was in his best interest to keep up with current events and pop culture, as he learned long ago during his game show fiasco.
Not to mention the fact that the man had witnessed a beheading and quickening. What was he doing scurrying around dirty alleyways in the middle of the night anyway? Come to think of it, wasn't there a news report earlier in the evening about Holmes' suicide? Obviously, Methos thought as he turned off the water and reached for a towel, reports of Sherlock Holmes' death were greatly exaggerated. It was a situation Methos could empathize with fully. The news of fake Methos' death was a blessing he gratefully accepted. The fewer people hunting for Methos for his age and power, the better. Therefore, if Mr. Holmes had a reason to fake his own death, it was of no concern to him. However, that did not mean he could give the other man a pass. Time to find out exactly what Mr. Holmes intended to do with his new-found information.
He dressed quickly and smoothed back his damp hair with his hands. Reaching for the revolver he kept in the bathroom in case of unexpected visitors, he tucked it inside his jeans’ waist band, and pulled his oversized sweater down to fully cover it. Exiting the bathroom, he noted his visitor sitting quietly on the couch, but Methos had no doubt the man had been snooping while left alone. Methos did a mental inventory of his belongings in the living room area and secretly wondered if the amateur detective was as good as he was reported to be. If nothing else, it was a good way to get a measure of the man, and Methos was easily amused.
~~~~~~
Methos finished straightening up the room, setting aside his newest medical journals to read later, as the water cut off in the bathroom, alerting him that his guest had finished his shower. A few moments later he appeared, freshly cleaned of grime and dried blood, and wearing one of Methos’ sweaters and a pair of jeans. Luckily, both men were tall and lean and his guest could easily fit into his clothing.
“Ah, there you are. Beer?” Methos opened the fridge and reached inside for a bottle.
Across the room, Sherlock stretched out on the couch, appearing quite content to make himself comfortable. “No. Do you have tea?”
Methos hesitated only briefly before placing his beer back in the fridge and opening the cabinet over the kitchen counter. “Tea it is. Let me put the kettle on and we’ll have a cuppa.”
“Thank you.” Sherlock scooted down to lay his head on the arm rest of the couch.
Methos set up the kettle and joined him, sliding neatly into the nearest chair to wait for the water to boil. “Comfortable? I have a pillow you can use.”
Sherlock glanced at him gratefully. “Yes. That would be most appreciated.”
A few minutes later, they had cup in hand, with Methos ensconced in his favorite chair while Sherlock settled back onto the couch, now sitting more than lying with his legs stretched out in front of him in order to enjoy his tea.
Sherlock grinned. “Much better. I was beginning to feel like I was at a therapist’s.”
“Do they still have you lie on a couch?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to ask John.”
“John Watson? I’ve read about him in the tabloids.”
Sherlock looked up at him sharply. “Don’t believe everything you read.”
Methos smirked knowingly and lifted his cup in salute. “Never have.”
A nod from Sherlock and that was settled. There was a brief moment of quiet while Sherlock gathered his thoughts. Methos let him, knowing the man’s quick mind was filling in the gaps to decipher what he had witnessed that night.
“So,” Sherlock began. “What happened in the alley? Explain.”
“Oh no, Mr. Holmes,” Methos retorted. “Not like that. First, you have to prove to me I can trust you. I’ve read your friend’s blog and it seems the press has made you out to be a bloody genius. Now they’re accusing you of being a fraud and it’s on the news that you committed suicide. Yet, here you sit, alive if not wholly well and utterly unaffected. Suppose you explain.”
Methos paused, although he did not intend to wait long, the revolver biting into his flesh as a reminder of the threat the man could still be to him. If Sherlock was smart, and Methos could only assume he was, he would play along.
Methos released a tense breath when Sherlock finally began to speak.
“There’s a man named Moriarty, although, truthfully, he’s not a man at all. He’s a spider, a spider in the center of a web, a criminal web with a thousand strands, and he knows precisely how every single one of them dances. At first it was a game, a dangerous and fascinating game pitting our intellect against one another. John would say my ego took over and winning became more important than the stakes.”
“What would you say?” Methos interjected mildly when the other man fell silent.
A cool look greeted Methos’ question before Sherlock began to speak again. “John was right to a point….” He paused, a resigned sigh filling the void before he continued. “He was disappointed because I was more focused on the work than the victims. I couldn’t make him understand that the victims didn’t matter. Why should they? Caring about them wouldn’t save them, after all. What’s important is the work. Without that my brain rots. But, I was too clever and suddenly it was no longer a game. Moriarty was also too clever and he had a brilliant plan to ruin me by destroying my reputation.”
“Is that why you faked your own suicide?” Methos set his empty cup aside and scooted back into the chair while waiting for a reply.
Sherlock shook his head. “Hardly. He had assassins trained on my friends. If they didn’t see me jump, they had orders to kill them.”
“I see. Another cup?”
“No.” Sherlock frowned. “Aren’t you curious why I’m alive?”
Methos laughed. “Not in the least. I have an idea how you pulled off this little fantasy. Moriarty now thinks you are dead and he has won. I take it your friends are now safe?”
“Moriarty is dead. But I have no doubt he still has people watching my friends and their lives would be forfeit if it were discovered I was still alive.”
“Dead?”
“Dead, yes. He shot himself in order to stop me from forcing him to let my friends go.” Sherlock swung his legs around to sit up straighter on the couch while placing his cup on the nearest end table. “Your turn,” he stated pointedly.
Methos grinned, inclining his head in acknowledgement. “Exactly what have you worked out on your own, Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock studied him for a moment, then returned his smile, and sat back against the couch to recite his thoughts in rapid fire speech.
“When I came upon you, you were embattled in a deadly challenge. Both you and your opponent handled your weapons expertly as if they were a part of you. I would expect the fact that you were both using swords was important, and the fact that you sliced off your opponent’s head when he was on his knees was relevant to who and what you are. After he was beheaded he released a large amount of energy, electricity if you will, that you were able to absorb into your own body. Somehow this is a primary goal to your battle. I don’t know how exactly, but I suspect you can now use this energy to make yourself stronger. I noticed when you fought that although you both sustained numerous injuries, neither of you became incapacitated. Therefore, I conclude that a normal injury would not kill you. In order for you to be killed you would have to be beheaded.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock looked him squarely in the eye and continued. “There was a man watching from behind a bin on the other side of the alley. I could see him in the shadows. He was clearly watching your battle and his lack of shock leads me to conclude he was fully aware of what was going on. He appeared to be texting, probably an interested party, perhaps someone like yourself, but more likely not. He had a tattoo on his wrist. It was very unusual and I would guess specific to a particular organization. I would wager the receiver of his text has the same tattoo.”
Methos sighed deeply. “Ah yes. Mr. Talbert’s Watcher.”
“A Watcher?” Sherlock questioned, with a clear look of confusion on his face.
Methos nodded and waved his hand at the couch. “You might as well get comfortable. I have a lot to tell you.”
~~~~~~
Methos clicked a key on his computer keyboard, bringing up a webpage on the screen. If one looked carefully, he would see the Watcher symbol at the top of the page. Underneath the symbol was a picture of Duncan MacLeod from the late 1900s. Another click and the page refreshed, giving Methos the newest update on his lover. With a sigh, he minimized the page and turned to his guest.
“Join me, Mr. Holmes? We might as well have a bite while we talk.”
Sherlock joined him at the kitchen island, seemingly too tense to lean against the tiled counter as coolly as his counterpart.
“I’m impressed, Mr. Holmes.”
“Sherlock, please.”
A nod and he pulled out a loaf of bread from the cabinet. “Any dietary restrictions?”
“No. Please, I’m really not interested in food at present.”
Methos opened his fridge and pulled out a package of lunch meat and assorted condiments. He reached into the cabinet to pull out two plates, giving his guest a superfluous glance as he did. “Sherlock then. Trust me, we have plenty of time to talk. You might as well have a bite while we sort it all out.”
“Fine.”
Methos continued preparing their food, adding two bottles of water while Sherlock looked around the confined area soberly, only settling his gaze on his host when a sandwich was slid toward him.
“At present my name is Justin Adams.”
Sherlock looked up at him sharply. “At present?”
“Well, yes at the moment, but circumstances can change very quickly. This….” He waved his hand to encompass their surroundings, “is my humble abode two weeks out of the year. The rest of the year I live in-between Washington State and Italy.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and Methos hid his smile with a bite of his sandwich.
“What do you do?”
“Do?”
“Yes, do. You have separate residences in three different countries. Obviously you have property and means to sustain your lifestyle.”
Methos set down his sandwich and grinned openly. “How do you know I do anything? I may live off my wealthy lover and do nothing but spend money and cut off people’s heads.”
Sherlock lifted a brow in response while a sly smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
Methos took a long drink of water and sighed on a chuckle. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Most of what you guessed….”
“Not guessed,” Sherlock corrected him sharply. “Observed. I make logical conclusions based on data and my own analysis.”
Methos tilted his head with an understated bow of acknowledgement. “I stand corrected. Most of what you have concluded is correct.” He put slight emphasis on his wording, and smiled as the other man nodded his head in acceptance.
“I am immortal. I belong to a race of people who cannot die unless you cut off our heads. As you have also aptly observed, normal injuries do not incapacitate us as we heal very quickly. We don’t know where we come from or why we’re here. You ask who I am.” He paused and sighed deeply as he gathered his thoughts, fully aware his visitor was studying him astutely. “Sometimes I’m not sure I know myself. Currently I’m a physician involved in cancer research. I teach six months out of the year in the US. “
"How old are you?"
Methos felt himself bristle. “That’s a very rude question, Mr. Holmes. Let’s stick with present day, shall we?”
Sherlock studied him keenly, his cold grey eyes giving Methos the sensation the man was trying to look into his soul.
“You’re telling me these things. How do you know you can trust me? For all you know, I might be the fraud the press has made me out to be.”
Methos shrugged and pushed aside his empty plate. Noting Sherlock had also finished his sandwich he left the kitchen and walked back to the living room. As expected, Sherlock fell behind him easily. Once settled back onto their respective furniture of choice Methos continued.
“You’re not the only one who observes and draws conclusions, Sherlock. Quite simply, I have taken what I know about you, determined the level of threat you are to me and decided how much information I can trust you with.” He paused. “As you have done with me.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Don’t you? Then why are you still here? I know your secret. You’d be a fool if you weren’t trying to determine if I was a threat to your existence or your friend’s safety. You’ve already told me about your plans, after all.”
“Ah, but I don’t know what you plan to do with that information, do I? I don’t trust easily, Mr. Adams."
“Justin, please. Or I’ll think you don’t want to be friends, Sherlock.”
“You said you trusted me. Why? Why would you believe a man you’ve never met before?”
~~~~~~
Methos clicked off his computer, satisfied for the time being that Duncan was safe at their home in Seacouver. A beep from Sherlock’s cell had alerted him to a new text message -- from his brother, Mycroft -- no doubt, and Methos had used the brief intermission to do his own quick check. Honestly, he needed the time to regroup and get his thoughts in order. Just how much could he risk telling someone like Sherlock Holmes?
It wasn’t long before Sherlock’s phone was placed beside him on the nearest end table, and he was once again lying across the couch, appearing deep in thought, as Methos detoured to the kitchen to boil a pot of water. Truth be known, Methos had already had his fill of food and tea, but it gave his hands something to do while he mused over their current predicament. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind and he had the feeling the other man had missed nothing as Methos puttered around the room.
Finally, he was settled back in his chair, a hot cup of tea occupying his hands. Sherlock looked at him expectantly.
“There was a time when I would have tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. I didn’t want to be on anyone’s radar. It was easy then. Once you used up an identity, you simply rode to a different town and became someone else. Once technology became more advanced and countries relied on standardized identification it was still easy enough to hire someone to get you everything you needed to set up a new identity. But through it all, I kept my head down. The last thing I wanted was to be noticed by anyone in government or the press. But now….”
“Now?” Sherlock prompted when Methos fell silent to his thoughts.
“Now technology has surpassed the most clever of us. It’s too difficult to stay hidden when anyone can turn on a computer or google your name, your records, your life history - everything at their disposal.” He shrugged and smiled to himself, little attention spared for the man listening so intently across the room.
“Now since I can’t hide from potential enemies, I keep them close. I have friends and contacts in the highest offices of government in several countries, Sherlock Holmes. Including this one.”
Sherlock stood and began pacing, clearly agitated, and only placing his cup of tea on the nearby table when the warm liquid sloshed on his hand. Turning sharply to face Methos, he asked accusingly, “You know Mycroft?”
“Your brother? Yes. And while I don’t know him personally, I know of Moriarty. You certainly have to give the man credit. It was a very clever plan to bring you down.”
“Clever, yes. He was clever, but pardon me if I don’t share your enthusiasm.”
Methos shrugged and laughed. “I’m sure you don’t, but you have to admit the complexities of his plan were brilliant.”
His observation was met with a cold, hard stare, and Methos sobered immediately, clearing his throat to fight back his amusement. The man really did not have a sense of humor, he noted.
He continued warily. “The point is, I’m privy to certain information the general population is not. I knew when I met you that you weren’t a fraud although Mycroft has never mentioned you to me.”
Sherlock dropped down on the couch inelegantly, his agitation waning as he focused his attention fully on the man before him. “Then how?”
“After hearing the news reports and seeing you in the alley, it didn’t take me long to work out what had happened.”
“You’re not shocked? Knowing about Moriarty and the people he killed?”
“And your part in the little game?” Methos smirked openly. “Do you really believe you and Moriarty were that clever, Sherlock?” Methos laughed out loud at the look of shocked disbelief that crossed the other man’s face. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I offend you?”
A pregnant pause and a smile played across Sherlock’s face as the tension visibly released from his body. “Ah, I see. You’re a genius too, then?”
Methos smiled knowingly and met the other man’s gaze without flinching. “That’s hardly for me to say. It’s all fleeting, Sherlock - your genius, Moriarty’s plans, our world today. Moriarty thought he was a criminal mastermind; no one had ever reached his level of genius. The truth is that the world doesn’t change. Not in five hundred years, not in five thousand. It’s only the details that change. Evil is not a new commodity. Do you really think there won’t be someone to take his place? That’s why we need people like you to fight the good fight.”
Sherlock shot up from the couch angrily, stepping across the coffee table as if it wasn’t there, and began pacing like a caged animal. The air bristled with contained emotion as he tried to sort out his feelings. “People like me? He almost destroyed me. How could I have missed it?” His voice rose sharply as he turned to look Methos in the eye. “Me?”
“Despite what you think about yourself, Sherlock, you are still just a man. And men are flawed. Even men with your extraordinary intellect.”
Sherlock walked around Methos’ chair, oddly self-contained for a man who spoke so passionately only moments before. “Flawed? Yes, I suppose I am. John has said he doesn’t think I’m human at times. He was so disappointed in me. I told him there were no heroes and if there were, I wouldn’t be one of them. Yet, I let him influence me against my better judgment. I let someone get close enough to be used against me. It caused me to falter when my mind should have been sharp and focused.”
Methos sighed loudly in disgust. “Spare me the melodrama. I get enough of that at home. People need other people in their lives. You can’t block them out because they may come to harm. Pushing them away will not keep them safe.”
“Push them away? I didn’t push them away. I never should have let them in. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. I should have been focused on Moriarty. I should have been ahead of the game."
Methos fell silent as his guest walked across the room. He had known men like Sherlock Holmes during his long lifetime. He knew Sherlock was trying to come to grips with his thoughts, and put them into a framework he could live with. With a hushed snort, he recalled the times during his own life when he thought the only way he would survive was by pushing people away. Caring about someone too much put him into perilous situations. Ironic, then, when Duncan pushed them all away after O’Rourke. On one hand he was thankful for the respite. It took a long time before he could admit to himself how much it hurt. He and Duncan had come a long way although their relationship still had its hardships - most of which were his own doing. Who was he to be lecturing Sherlock Holmes about relationships?
He was so lost in his own internal dialog that he did not notice Sherlock had gone still as stone, his eyes narrowed in thought as he studied Methos. He had the oddest sensation the man could read his thoughts.
~~~~~~
Methos walked around the flat, giving the appearance of being busy as he picked up journals and straightened the couch cushions. Sherlock was pecking away at the computer keyboard, trying to catch the latest updates on his death. Once the dishes were washed and the living room clearly put to rights, he sat back down, fighting the urge to sprawl a la Adam Pierson. Justin Adams, however, did not sprawl.
He sat back and closed his eyes, the click of the computer keys lulling him into peacefulness. When he allowed himself to get still, he thought about Duncan. The past sixteen years had been rough, and wild, and filled with joy. Through it all they had survived as a couple. Of course, sixteen years in the life of an immortal was just a spit in the wind, and he smiled as that thought filtered across his mind. They still had problems, but he loved the man more than his own life.
He frowned as the truthfulness of that statement hit him squarely in the chest. That would have scared the shit out of him at one time. But, now -- he had been telling Sherlock the truth. Now he knew his love for Duncan made him stronger. There was very little they could not battle together.
Oh, they still had their problems. When they first met, he made the mistake of showing Duncan only one side of himself - shy, gawky Adam Pierson. Later he had shattered Duncan’s perceptions when he found out how much a lie that had been. He still did not think Duncan fully understood Methos’ transition into different personas. With Duncan, he might use a different name, pick a different vocation, wear glasses or change the color of his hair. But always his essence was Duncan MacLeod.
Methos could not do that. Truth be told, Methos was no longer sure what or who his underlying essence was any longer. He had been many things, he had told MacLeod. “Who are you now?” He could still hear his lover ask. He never answered him, but now as then the answer that whispered across his mind was, “I don’t know.”
In the past, when it was time to change personas he would fully immerse himself in his new character’s personality. Whereas Adam Pierson was sloppy, sprawling on the furniture and flicking beer caps behind the fridge, Justin Adams was contained and proper. He liked tea instead of beer, contemporary music instead of rock. He was still in research, but now as a physician trying to find the newest treatment to ease the suffering of cancer patients. It was lucrative to say the least.
However, he found out very quickly that Duncan could not handle Methos’ personality changes. He suspected his lover still felt he had never uncovered the real Methos. How could he make him understand there might not be a ‘real’ Methos to discover? Sometimes he didn’t know where he ended and his persona began. But waking up and finding a completely different person in his bed was something Duncan could not come to terms with. It had been the one obstacle that had almost ended their relationship.
Now, he had learned to make the transition gradually. First, he would change his name and make basic modifications to his appearance. He would add particular quirks while dropping others slowly over a long period of time to let Duncan get used to them. In some aspects, that had made the transition much harder. Reaching for a beer was as automatic as taking a breath. Sprawling was a natural inclination, and he had to continually remind himself to sit up straighter in Justin’s more contained manner.
He still did many things, not because he wanted to, but because it was expected of him. Coming to this flat for two weeks out of the year was one of them. He had used this hide-away for decades, using different excuses over the years so he could be alone and leave the mortal world behind. He told Duncan it was because he was afraid of losing himself in their relationship. Clichéd, and he knew it for the lie it was even then. Secretly, he was afraid Duncan was relieved when he was gone. After all, togetherness for an immortal could be a very long time.
It wasn’t as if the time was gone to waste, he told himself. He had told Sherlock the truth. Even Duncan did not know how many connections Methos had to some of the most secretive and powerful people in the world. He would certainly be shocked since the Methos he had met almost twenty years ago had lived by the sacred tenets of hiding, blending in and running away. However, as he had also told Sherlock, that was now obsolete and much too dangerous. It was much too easy to be found and hunted. Like Sherlock, he had his own game to play and he wasn’t above using any means available to keep himself and Duncan MacLeod safe.
Only four more days until his flight back to Seacouver and his lover’s arms. He could picture Duncan in his mind, naked, his dark brown hair falling around his shoulders, unhindered by the usual clasp he wore during the day to keep it in place. His cock began to stir, and he mentally pushed the vision away. Thankfully, before he could embarrass himself, he heard one final click of the keyboard, and his guest was scooting back the chair from the computer to join him in the living room area.
Sherlock walked around the coffee table, seemingly unsure if he needed to sit or stand, his actions as anticipatory as resigned.
“Any news?” Methos asked, not waiting for Sherlock to make up his mind.
Sherlock turned to look at him, seemingly surprised that Methos was still in the room with him. It was clear the man’s thoughts were intensely inward and Methos wondered if he was aware of his surroundings at all. It shocked him on some level since Sherlock was known for his skills of observation and deduction.
“What?” Sherlock’s brows creased with a frown. “Oh, yes.” He sat down on the couch and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“I caught up on the news. It appears my suicide was accepted. No one is questioning the validity.” He looked up with a sly grin that was quickly replaced with a scowl. “Be that as it may, my brother is quite perturbed with my actions. I’ve been given strict orders for retrieval.”
“I see. And your friends?”
“Safe for the moment. But, as I pointed out, Moriarty is sure to have contingency plans in play if I were suddenly to reappear alive and well.”
“Your friend John?”
Sherlock frowned and looked at him questionably. “As I stated, he’s fine for the moment.”
“I’m sorry. I thought perhaps there was more involvement between the two of you.”
“Involvement? Oh….” The shadows cleared from his eyes as comprehension dawned on him within a heartbeat.
“No,” he stated firmly. “I’m married to my work. That’s all that matters.”
Methos studied him solemnly. “No one at all? Can’t you have both?”
“What? No. I know people think love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive. You should never let your heart overrule your head. Don’t you see?”
Methos nodded and went to open the drapes to peer outside. “Like you did tonight? Well, last night actually. It’s almost daylight now.”
Sherlock’s response was silence. Methos allowed him the moment, suspecting he would never come to terms with his true feelings. Denial was a wonderful friend. He should know. It had been his constant for millennia. He turned back to look at Sherlock, not surprised to see him walking about as if he could not contain his energy. Understandable, he mused. He was feeling a bit edgy himself. Of course, he had taken a quickening a few hours ago and had yet to work off the excess tension from his body.
“What about you?” Sherlock spoke at last.
Methos leaned against the window and crossed his arms across his chest. “Me?”
“Yes, you. Are you involved with anyone?”
Methos paused, aware the other man was watching him intently. Walking over to his coat hanging on the rack by the door, he reached into the folds and retrieved his Ivanhoe from its hidden sheath. Normally he cleaned his blade as soon as possible after a battle unless Duncan was there to help him burn off the excess energy as the quickening seared his nerve endings, leaving him over stimulated and horny as hell. Even then, he never left his blade unattended for long. Finding Sherlock Holmes, of all people, witnessing a beheading and subsequent quickening had certainly led to an interesting turn of events. Still, he chastised himself, an immortal’s blade was an extension of himself. Its upkeep should take priority. “You’re sloppy, old man,” he thought to himself mockingly.
Detouring to his desk to retrieve his sword maintenance kit, he sat down with his sword balanced neatly across his lap. Picking up the rice paper cloth to clean the blade, and seemingly focused on the task at hand, he began to speak.
“Yes, I’m involved. His name is Duncan MacLeod.” He paused and looked up at his guest to gauge his reaction. Seeing no surprise or recrimination in the other man’s gaze, he continued. ‘We’ve been together sixteen years, give or take.” Methos paused and leaned over to pick up the powder ball. Cleaning his sword was like a meditation for him. It always had been. With the peace and familiarity of an old friend, he began to relate his story.
When all was said and done, he had omitted the fact that his lover was immortal. While he had already ascertained Sherlock was not a threat - clearly, and he smiled to himself, there was no reason to betray Duncan’s immortality to a mortal.
He had never spoken the words out loud. All his insecurities had been firmly planted in his own mind. It dawned on him as he was relaying his feelings that he had never actually sat down with Duncan and discussed these things. The man wasn’t stupid. Quite the contrary, in fact. If Duncan still didn’t know who Methos was under all his fake personas, whose fault was that? And maybe Duncan would surprise him. After all, he had been sharing the man’s bed for nearly two decades.
Many things had changed over that period of time. At first, they were both afraid their relationship would lead headhunters to their door. Joe had tried to tell him it would be a deterrent, and damn if he hadn’t been right.
He didn’t know what the future would bring. None of them did. He was now protecting them from harm by infiltrating some of the highest offices in the world; secretly and completely removed from his public life. He was sure Duncan was monitoring the Watchers just as closely now that Joe was retired. He didn’t know how aware they were of Duncan’s scrutiny, but if they knew Methos was still accessing their files, and Duncan was also keeping tabs on them, it was a subject they never breeched under the immortal’s watchful eyes.
Once he had completed his tale, his sword now cleaned and placed safely within reach -- and when had that happened? He sat back silently and waited while Sherlock read the text messages that had been beeping angrily on his phone for at least the past fifteen minutes.
Sherlock stood and put on his coat. “I’m afraid I must go,” he said while sliding his phone into his coat pocket. He went to the window and peered out.
Methos joined him. “Before you leave, one thing?”
Sherlock raised a brow in question.
“Impress me, Sherlock Holmes. What have you ascertained by our time together?”
Sherlock grinned slyly as they walked back toward the front door. In rapid-fire sequence, he began to speak. “I know that you are immortal. Yes, you told me, but I had already observed you during battle, how your wound instantly healed and how your body absorbed the other man’s power. You would not tell me your age, in fact, you became angry and protective when I asked. Therefore, I believe you are very old….”
“Now, how did you come up with that assumption?” Methos interjected coldly.
“Please do not interrupt, Mr. Adams. As I stated, you became agitated when I asked your age. Yet several things you mentioned such as the world not changing in five hundred years or five thousand. You talked about evil as it were something you had been intimately involved in. You told me about a time when you could ride into a town and change your identity without worry, before standardized means of identification. So, from experience then, not theory. Your journals date back to the early nineteen fifties with your name and careers changing every ten to fifteen years. By your career choices it appears you hold several degrees including PhDs and medical licensure. Yes, I’m aware you could have obtained those in the past one hundred years, but you speak of life in terms of centuries instead of decades. I noticed your accent changed while we were speaking. It was quite nondescript during your fight, but was a more distinct Welsh accent when speaking to me.” He paused and reached for his phone. Holding it up, he continued. “I looked up some of your past identities using the names on your journals. You have been British, French and Italian over the past thirty years. You’re used to changing your physical traits and nationality to match the place and situation you find yourself at any one time. Your sword….” He swept his hand to indicate Methos’ weapon lying on the table. “…is a medieval broadsword, probably around the thirteenth century. You talk about your persona changes, and you’re afraid your lover does not comprehend who you really are. Not the worries of a young man. Your lover is clearly immortal as well….”
“How could you possibly know that?” Methos asked irritably.
“I observe, Mr. Adams. You spoke of your relationship of twenty years. Of all the problems you were concerned about, your lover aging wasn’t one of them. Your problems revolved around your immortality, not his lack of the same. You feel you must leave your home two weeks out of every year, but that’s habit, not necessity. In fact, you don’t want to be here. You’ve gotten up at least four times tonight to check your lover’s whereabouts and safety, another clue to his immortality, and the webpage was already bookmarked when I arrived. A calendar ….” He walked to the computer desk and pulled out the top drawer. “…is clearly marked off every day. You can’t wait to get home. It’s not that you need the time away, you’re afraid your lover won’t accept the fact that you don’t.”
“Very good.” Methos walked back to the window and looked out. Dawn was creeping in, light grays and orange creating a tapestry across the morning sky as the sun waited patiently to announce its presence. A black sedan pulled up beside the flat. “I believe it’s for you,” he remarked.
“Clearly. Good day.” Sherlock bowed his head minutely to Methos as he hurried to the door.
“Mr. Holmes?” Methos let go of the drapes and turned to face the room as Sherlock reached for the door knob. Sherlock stopped and turned.
Methos walked toward him. “John Watson. He’s more than a friend.”
Sherlock’s brows creased with a frown as he stepped away from the door to meet him halfway. “Why would you think that?”
“By your own definition, Sherlock. You let your heart overrule your head.”
Sherlock stilled with a long inhaled breath. Closing his eyes in thought, he let out the breath slowly. A heartbeat passed, and he opened his eyes, meeting Methos’ gaze with a smile barely touching his lips. “One more observation, Mr. Adams. You’re not afraid your lover won’t accept you. You’re afraid he will.” Then, with a knowing wink and a swish of his coat, he was gone.
Methos stood in place one long moment before turning to go to his bedroom. It had been a hell of a night. He had fought for his life, taken a quickening, and spent the rest of the night intellectually dueling with the infamous Sherlock Holmes.
Walking past the computer desk, he noticed the opened drawer and reached to push it closed. The calendar caught his eye, the days clearly marked off with a red circle around the day he would be returning home.
“I must be out of my mind,” he said out loud, but the detective’s words had hit home with frightening accuracy.
A call to the airlines was taken care of handily. “So here it is,” he thought. Hitting the speed dial on his cell, he waited as the phone rang, and then a familiar voice was saying his name.
“Justin?”
“Duncan, I’m coming home.”
The End
This entry is also posted at http://pat-t.dreamwidth.org/742845.html with
comments.
Rating: PG/Teen
A World Away Lies Truth
Sherlock stepped into the small enclosure in the morgue, his skin feeling as damp and musty as the thick air around him. He straightened his blue checked scarf, wrapping it more securely around his neck to ward off the creeping chill, and grimaced when his palm came away smeared with the sticky residue of coagulated blood. Logically, he knew in the scheme of things it mattered very little, and he pushed his distaste aside. After all, his hair and scalp were also covered with the stuff, causing him to itch and bristle with the need to get into a hot shower soon.
Closing his eyes, he leaned against the wall, taking comfort in the strong support it leant his aching, exhausted body. The scent of formaldehyde burned his nostrils with its acrid odor, and he had to push aside the rise of nausea in his throat.
Oddly enough, he had once found the trappings of death comforting, the odor of formaldehyde a reminder of the mysteries waiting to be solved in the corpses left behind. All of it -- puzzles to be pieced together, using only his cunning and clues in the bodies and specimens laid out around him in the morgue. It was one of his favorite places, like a toy store at Christmas time.
Now, with the circumstances of his own mortality and death so close at hand, he felt shaken and sickened by the mental scene laid out before him in his mind. If he didn’t get out of there soon he would vomit, and wouldn’t that be a wonderful tribute to the life and intellect of one Sherlock Holmes.
Light steps fell across the concrete floor and he opened his eyes to peer out from the partially hidden enclosure into the poorly lit main room of the morgue. Molly stepped closer, her small frame concealed within her white lab coat that she had buttoned securely as if the layer of fabric could protect her from the terror.
“Sherlock,” she whispered, startling when he stepped out and placed a finger against her lips to silence her.
Removing his finger, he leaned down to whisper against her ear. “Is it safe?”
“Yes. Y - your brother gave me the signal.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought. “Are you certain it was Mycroft?”
“Yes.” She pulled out her cell phone from her lab coat pocket and handed it to him.
He took it, studying the crisp text from his brother’s cell number. “Good.”
He handed her back the phone and stepped away, then stopped, turned, and stared at the woman who had trusted him when the rest of the world had thought him a fraud. He could have thought about all the times he had been mean to her, knowing she had a crush on him, but regrets were stupid and useless. He didn’t have the time or inclination to worry over them when he needed to be planning his next course of action. Escaping was his first priority, of course -- that and keeping the world at large ignorant of his actions. Better for all those involved, Molly included, if they thought him a fraud, dead by his own hand and no longer a factor in a very dangerous chess game between himself and Moriarty.
He had no doubt the insane criminal mind of his opponent had taken every contingency into account and still had plans in play. Now the question was what was next? What was the next move on the board? Sherlock Homes was just the man to figure it out and check mate.
As much as he personally detested his brother’s “minor” involvement in the British government, he smiled to himself, at times like these Mycroft’s help was invaluable.
“Sherlock?”
The softly spoken whisper shook him out of his reverie, and he focused, once again, on the concerned woman standing before him.
He cupped her face with his hand and smiled knowingly. “Thank you, Molly.”
A returned smile, given both sadly and hesitantly, and he was gone with a swish of his coat. Grateful for the cover of darkness, he stepped out into the narrow passageway behind Bart’s mortuary. To the left, several large bins protected him from the view of the main street in front of the hospital. He knew a black limousine would be waiting for him to sprint around the bins and whisk him away. With a self-satisfied smirk, he flicked up his coat collar and ran in the opposite direction to an adjoining alley.
Despite the precarious situation he found himself in, he had to smile as a memory came to him unbidden.
“Oh, please. Can we not do this this time?"
“Do what?”
“You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you’ll look cool.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Yeah, you do.”
John. With determination, he pushed his memories aside, reminding himself that sentiment belonged on the losing side. Sherlock Holmes did not lose.
Coursing his way through several alleys, he stopped and placed his hands to his head. A few mental calculations later and he had a firm route established in his mind. He knew Mycroft's minions would have contacted him by now and his brother would be scouring the city for him, as much out of frustration from Sherlock's obstinacy as his own worry. Sherlock smiled, amused at the thought of his brother's annoyance, only to have his thoughts suddenly and rudely severed by the sharp, biting sound of steel on steel.
Easing toward the sound cautiously, he found himself in another passageway, wider than those he had previously navigated, if only marginally better lit. Two men were dueling, although the cut and thrust of the men's swords could hardly be called a gentlemen's duel. No, these two men were clearly fighting for their lives, their moves never pulled, with an occasional punch and kick between strikes to try and throw the other off balance.
He pressed himself into the shadows and continued to observe as the men fought. Both men were approximately the same height, although the man with the fairer features appeared to be heavier than the other by at least ten kilos. He was fighting with a rapier, seventeenth century, Sherlock surmised, although it was difficult to be sure from that distance.
The man's opponent was leaner, fair, but with darker hair and sharper features. He was hacking away with a broadsword, clearly more focused on winning than finesse. His sword was heavy, and Sherlock studied him curiously, wondering at his strength and agility while commanding such a weapon.
The battle was already bloody and vicious when Sherlock came across them. Although he was fascinated by the scene playing out before him, he didn’t know who these men were, and Mycroft’s team was searching for him at that very moment. Therefore, it would be in his best interest to back away before the fight came to a conclusion. However, before he could escape from the scene, the man with the broadsword had his opponent on his knees. In his periphery, Sherlock spotted a man at the foremost end of the alley, peering around the worn brick while texting on his phone. His sleeve rode up on his arm and Sherlock narrowed his vision to the man’s wrist where a tattoo peeked out from the cuff of his suit coat. A moment later and the man had apparently completed his text as he pocketed his phone, and backed away, leaving a question mark in Sherlock’s mind as he returned his attention back to the scene in the alley.
Words were being exchanged between the two men, muffled initially, until the victor’s voice rang out in clear, crisp tones. “There can be only one!” Then Sherlock watched in horror as the broadsword was raised and the losing man's head flew from its body to bounce onto the littered pavement.
Dark eyes were boring into Sherlock from across the alley and he knew he had been spotted. He opened his mouth to speak, to assure the man of his intent, when the alley exploded with powerful raw energy which seemed to expel from the body lying callously at the man’s feet. The noise was deafening, and Sherlock backed cautiously away until his back was pressing against a far wall. Brick and lights shattered as white -- blue lightning bolts bounced off the enclosed walls before ripping into the other man's body as he screamed under the assault. A few minutes later and it was over, leaving the man alive and trembling as he fell to his knees.
Letting out a long breath, Sherlock stepped out of the shadows to get a better look at him. What had just happened? He should have been frightened, he guessed, but instead he was just intrigued. The lightening was very definitely a form of electrical energy that had left the dead man's body when his head was severed. Equally obvious, was that the dead man's energy had entered his opponent's body quite intentionally. While he would expect the man to be seriously injured, if not dead, he appeared to be only shaken and exhausted, but quite alive and unsurprised by the events.
Sherlock stopped and held up his hands in surrender when the other man reached for his sword and eased up on shaky legs. Dark, dangerous eyes stared at him, and Sherlock tensed, willing himself to remain still as the other man clearly assessed his risk.
The man stepped closer and Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as he prepared to speak. “I….” he began, then the pointed end of the sword was pressing against his throat and he wisely swallowed the rest of his words.
"I know who you are, Sherlock Holmes."
~~~~~~
Sherlock studied the man intently as they entered a quaint, modernized flat in Upper Clapton. The man had hardly spoken to him after they left the alley, only informing him sharply that they needed to vacate as quickly as possible. Since a decapitated body was excuse enough to flee, Sherlock had readily complied. To Sherlock’s relief, the other man quickly and effortlessly disposed of his weapon inside his long, leather coat, which had previously been thrown to the ground, presumably prior to the fight.
With a nod and a terse invitation Sherlock had been led from the area back to the man's flat. The thought of escaping had never entered his mind. This was much too interesting. He took in everything, his sharp mind assessing the man's dress and stance, his nondescript accent, and ever watchful eye as they navigated the lesser known streets of London.
There was an unfocused nervousness about the man that unsettled him, and he wondered if the energy he had just taken in was irritating raw nerve endings. What did it feel like to absorb that much electricity and how could it happen?
He noted faded jeans and a now torn and bloodied jumper as the man’s coat was placed on the coat rack by the front door. Several things clicked in Sherlock’s mind at once. His host was relatively young, late twenties or early thirties at most. He had longish dark, brown hair parted and swept back from his face to curl around his ears and whisper against the collar of his coat. A few pounds lighter and the man’s features would have been sharp and chiseled like stone. Instead, while his nose was easily the most prominent feature, his high cheekbones and piercing dark green, hazel eyes lent him a look that was far too young and quasi-innocent for a man who had just beheaded an opponent beaten and on his knees.
Following suit, Sherlock shed his own outer wear while the other man began undressing, even as he disappeared down the hall to a presumed bathroom at the back of the flat. With piqued interest, Sherlock began a cursory appraisal of the small living area.
The furniture was well made, but worn. There were no formal trappings of wealth in the room, with its sparse décor, but the flat was located in an affluent part of town and a new dark gray Volvo was parked at the side of the building. A large, dark brown leather couch took up much of a far wall with just enough room for two small side tables with a single lamp and various items of clutter lying atop. A coffee table was in the center of the room with several professional journals strewn across the surface. Two medium sized light brown leather chairs and a desk with a laptop computer and long neck dark blue lamp completed the living room area which opened into a small kitchenette and dining room area which was void of a table or chairs. While decidedly curious, Sherlock assumed the man used his kitchen counter top as his table. Not that unusual for a bachelor who infrequently, if ever, entertained guests. A bookcase stood idle against a far wall, its shelves covered with various books and journals. Two windows covered with heavy red drapes blocked out the view outside. Curious, he drew back the drapes and peered out. Satisfied they had not been followed; he turned back to the living room for a more detailed look, and began cataloging everything he saw in rapid-fire sequence.
~~~~~~
Methos scrubbed at his skin, cleaning away the dried blood as the hot water soothed his aching muscles. God, that felt wonderful. Of all nights, he would have to run into an asshole looking for a quickening. He was certain Talbert, or whatever the hell the man was calling himself, had not known who he really was. No, he was just out looking for an easy quickening, and Justin Adams' mild and unassuming presence could often be too much a lure to resist. On the other hand, his young looks and nonthreatening demeanor often gave him an edge in a fight. Ergo, the risk was well worth it as his challenger found out tonight.
Now the question remaining was what he was going to do with his guest. Of course, he knew who the infamous Sherlock Holmes was. There wasn't anyone alive in London who had not heard of the genius detective, now heralded as a gigantic fraud. The gossip rags on his bedside table were full of stories about Sherlock Holmes and his companion, John Watson, and how they had perpetuated a fraud on the police and Commonwealth alike. Not that he believed everything he read in the gossip mags, but it was in his best interest to keep up with current events and pop culture, as he learned long ago during his game show fiasco.
Not to mention the fact that the man had witnessed a beheading and quickening. What was he doing scurrying around dirty alleyways in the middle of the night anyway? Come to think of it, wasn't there a news report earlier in the evening about Holmes' suicide? Obviously, Methos thought as he turned off the water and reached for a towel, reports of Sherlock Holmes' death were greatly exaggerated. It was a situation Methos could empathize with fully. The news of fake Methos' death was a blessing he gratefully accepted. The fewer people hunting for Methos for his age and power, the better. Therefore, if Mr. Holmes had a reason to fake his own death, it was of no concern to him. However, that did not mean he could give the other man a pass. Time to find out exactly what Mr. Holmes intended to do with his new-found information.
He dressed quickly and smoothed back his damp hair with his hands. Reaching for the revolver he kept in the bathroom in case of unexpected visitors, he tucked it inside his jeans’ waist band, and pulled his oversized sweater down to fully cover it. Exiting the bathroom, he noted his visitor sitting quietly on the couch, but Methos had no doubt the man had been snooping while left alone. Methos did a mental inventory of his belongings in the living room area and secretly wondered if the amateur detective was as good as he was reported to be. If nothing else, it was a good way to get a measure of the man, and Methos was easily amused.
~~~~~~
Methos finished straightening up the room, setting aside his newest medical journals to read later, as the water cut off in the bathroom, alerting him that his guest had finished his shower. A few moments later he appeared, freshly cleaned of grime and dried blood, and wearing one of Methos’ sweaters and a pair of jeans. Luckily, both men were tall and lean and his guest could easily fit into his clothing.
“Ah, there you are. Beer?” Methos opened the fridge and reached inside for a bottle.
Across the room, Sherlock stretched out on the couch, appearing quite content to make himself comfortable. “No. Do you have tea?”
Methos hesitated only briefly before placing his beer back in the fridge and opening the cabinet over the kitchen counter. “Tea it is. Let me put the kettle on and we’ll have a cuppa.”
“Thank you.” Sherlock scooted down to lay his head on the arm rest of the couch.
Methos set up the kettle and joined him, sliding neatly into the nearest chair to wait for the water to boil. “Comfortable? I have a pillow you can use.”
Sherlock glanced at him gratefully. “Yes. That would be most appreciated.”
A few minutes later, they had cup in hand, with Methos ensconced in his favorite chair while Sherlock settled back onto the couch, now sitting more than lying with his legs stretched out in front of him in order to enjoy his tea.
Sherlock grinned. “Much better. I was beginning to feel like I was at a therapist’s.”
“Do they still have you lie on a couch?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to ask John.”
“John Watson? I’ve read about him in the tabloids.”
Sherlock looked up at him sharply. “Don’t believe everything you read.”
Methos smirked knowingly and lifted his cup in salute. “Never have.”
A nod from Sherlock and that was settled. There was a brief moment of quiet while Sherlock gathered his thoughts. Methos let him, knowing the man’s quick mind was filling in the gaps to decipher what he had witnessed that night.
“So,” Sherlock began. “What happened in the alley? Explain.”
“Oh no, Mr. Holmes,” Methos retorted. “Not like that. First, you have to prove to me I can trust you. I’ve read your friend’s blog and it seems the press has made you out to be a bloody genius. Now they’re accusing you of being a fraud and it’s on the news that you committed suicide. Yet, here you sit, alive if not wholly well and utterly unaffected. Suppose you explain.”
Methos paused, although he did not intend to wait long, the revolver biting into his flesh as a reminder of the threat the man could still be to him. If Sherlock was smart, and Methos could only assume he was, he would play along.
Methos released a tense breath when Sherlock finally began to speak.
“There’s a man named Moriarty, although, truthfully, he’s not a man at all. He’s a spider, a spider in the center of a web, a criminal web with a thousand strands, and he knows precisely how every single one of them dances. At first it was a game, a dangerous and fascinating game pitting our intellect against one another. John would say my ego took over and winning became more important than the stakes.”
“What would you say?” Methos interjected mildly when the other man fell silent.
A cool look greeted Methos’ question before Sherlock began to speak again. “John was right to a point….” He paused, a resigned sigh filling the void before he continued. “He was disappointed because I was more focused on the work than the victims. I couldn’t make him understand that the victims didn’t matter. Why should they? Caring about them wouldn’t save them, after all. What’s important is the work. Without that my brain rots. But, I was too clever and suddenly it was no longer a game. Moriarty was also too clever and he had a brilliant plan to ruin me by destroying my reputation.”
“Is that why you faked your own suicide?” Methos set his empty cup aside and scooted back into the chair while waiting for a reply.
Sherlock shook his head. “Hardly. He had assassins trained on my friends. If they didn’t see me jump, they had orders to kill them.”
“I see. Another cup?”
“No.” Sherlock frowned. “Aren’t you curious why I’m alive?”
Methos laughed. “Not in the least. I have an idea how you pulled off this little fantasy. Moriarty now thinks you are dead and he has won. I take it your friends are now safe?”
“Moriarty is dead. But I have no doubt he still has people watching my friends and their lives would be forfeit if it were discovered I was still alive.”
“Dead?”
“Dead, yes. He shot himself in order to stop me from forcing him to let my friends go.” Sherlock swung his legs around to sit up straighter on the couch while placing his cup on the nearest end table. “Your turn,” he stated pointedly.
Methos grinned, inclining his head in acknowledgement. “Exactly what have you worked out on your own, Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock studied him for a moment, then returned his smile, and sat back against the couch to recite his thoughts in rapid fire speech.
“When I came upon you, you were embattled in a deadly challenge. Both you and your opponent handled your weapons expertly as if they were a part of you. I would expect the fact that you were both using swords was important, and the fact that you sliced off your opponent’s head when he was on his knees was relevant to who and what you are. After he was beheaded he released a large amount of energy, electricity if you will, that you were able to absorb into your own body. Somehow this is a primary goal to your battle. I don’t know how exactly, but I suspect you can now use this energy to make yourself stronger. I noticed when you fought that although you both sustained numerous injuries, neither of you became incapacitated. Therefore, I conclude that a normal injury would not kill you. In order for you to be killed you would have to be beheaded.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock looked him squarely in the eye and continued. “There was a man watching from behind a bin on the other side of the alley. I could see him in the shadows. He was clearly watching your battle and his lack of shock leads me to conclude he was fully aware of what was going on. He appeared to be texting, probably an interested party, perhaps someone like yourself, but more likely not. He had a tattoo on his wrist. It was very unusual and I would guess specific to a particular organization. I would wager the receiver of his text has the same tattoo.”
Methos sighed deeply. “Ah yes. Mr. Talbert’s Watcher.”
“A Watcher?” Sherlock questioned, with a clear look of confusion on his face.
Methos nodded and waved his hand at the couch. “You might as well get comfortable. I have a lot to tell you.”
~~~~~~
Methos clicked a key on his computer keyboard, bringing up a webpage on the screen. If one looked carefully, he would see the Watcher symbol at the top of the page. Underneath the symbol was a picture of Duncan MacLeod from the late 1900s. Another click and the page refreshed, giving Methos the newest update on his lover. With a sigh, he minimized the page and turned to his guest.
“Join me, Mr. Holmes? We might as well have a bite while we talk.”
Sherlock joined him at the kitchen island, seemingly too tense to lean against the tiled counter as coolly as his counterpart.
“I’m impressed, Mr. Holmes.”
“Sherlock, please.”
A nod and he pulled out a loaf of bread from the cabinet. “Any dietary restrictions?”
“No. Please, I’m really not interested in food at present.”
Methos opened his fridge and pulled out a package of lunch meat and assorted condiments. He reached into the cabinet to pull out two plates, giving his guest a superfluous glance as he did. “Sherlock then. Trust me, we have plenty of time to talk. You might as well have a bite while we sort it all out.”
“Fine.”
Methos continued preparing their food, adding two bottles of water while Sherlock looked around the confined area soberly, only settling his gaze on his host when a sandwich was slid toward him.
“At present my name is Justin Adams.”
Sherlock looked up at him sharply. “At present?”
“Well, yes at the moment, but circumstances can change very quickly. This….” He waved his hand to encompass their surroundings, “is my humble abode two weeks out of the year. The rest of the year I live in-between Washington State and Italy.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and Methos hid his smile with a bite of his sandwich.
“What do you do?”
“Do?”
“Yes, do. You have separate residences in three different countries. Obviously you have property and means to sustain your lifestyle.”
Methos set down his sandwich and grinned openly. “How do you know I do anything? I may live off my wealthy lover and do nothing but spend money and cut off people’s heads.”
Sherlock lifted a brow in response while a sly smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
Methos took a long drink of water and sighed on a chuckle. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Most of what you guessed….”
“Not guessed,” Sherlock corrected him sharply. “Observed. I make logical conclusions based on data and my own analysis.”
Methos tilted his head with an understated bow of acknowledgement. “I stand corrected. Most of what you have concluded is correct.” He put slight emphasis on his wording, and smiled as the other man nodded his head in acceptance.
“I am immortal. I belong to a race of people who cannot die unless you cut off our heads. As you have also aptly observed, normal injuries do not incapacitate us as we heal very quickly. We don’t know where we come from or why we’re here. You ask who I am.” He paused and sighed deeply as he gathered his thoughts, fully aware his visitor was studying him astutely. “Sometimes I’m not sure I know myself. Currently I’m a physician involved in cancer research. I teach six months out of the year in the US. “
"How old are you?"
Methos felt himself bristle. “That’s a very rude question, Mr. Holmes. Let’s stick with present day, shall we?”
Sherlock studied him keenly, his cold grey eyes giving Methos the sensation the man was trying to look into his soul.
“You’re telling me these things. How do you know you can trust me? For all you know, I might be the fraud the press has made me out to be.”
Methos shrugged and pushed aside his empty plate. Noting Sherlock had also finished his sandwich he left the kitchen and walked back to the living room. As expected, Sherlock fell behind him easily. Once settled back onto their respective furniture of choice Methos continued.
“You’re not the only one who observes and draws conclusions, Sherlock. Quite simply, I have taken what I know about you, determined the level of threat you are to me and decided how much information I can trust you with.” He paused. “As you have done with me.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Don’t you? Then why are you still here? I know your secret. You’d be a fool if you weren’t trying to determine if I was a threat to your existence or your friend’s safety. You’ve already told me about your plans, after all.”
“Ah, but I don’t know what you plan to do with that information, do I? I don’t trust easily, Mr. Adams."
“Justin, please. Or I’ll think you don’t want to be friends, Sherlock.”
“You said you trusted me. Why? Why would you believe a man you’ve never met before?”
~~~~~~
Methos clicked off his computer, satisfied for the time being that Duncan was safe at their home in Seacouver. A beep from Sherlock’s cell had alerted him to a new text message -- from his brother, Mycroft -- no doubt, and Methos had used the brief intermission to do his own quick check. Honestly, he needed the time to regroup and get his thoughts in order. Just how much could he risk telling someone like Sherlock Holmes?
It wasn’t long before Sherlock’s phone was placed beside him on the nearest end table, and he was once again lying across the couch, appearing deep in thought, as Methos detoured to the kitchen to boil a pot of water. Truth be known, Methos had already had his fill of food and tea, but it gave his hands something to do while he mused over their current predicament. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind and he had the feeling the other man had missed nothing as Methos puttered around the room.
Finally, he was settled back in his chair, a hot cup of tea occupying his hands. Sherlock looked at him expectantly.
“There was a time when I would have tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. I didn’t want to be on anyone’s radar. It was easy then. Once you used up an identity, you simply rode to a different town and became someone else. Once technology became more advanced and countries relied on standardized identification it was still easy enough to hire someone to get you everything you needed to set up a new identity. But through it all, I kept my head down. The last thing I wanted was to be noticed by anyone in government or the press. But now….”
“Now?” Sherlock prompted when Methos fell silent to his thoughts.
“Now technology has surpassed the most clever of us. It’s too difficult to stay hidden when anyone can turn on a computer or google your name, your records, your life history - everything at their disposal.” He shrugged and smiled to himself, little attention spared for the man listening so intently across the room.
“Now since I can’t hide from potential enemies, I keep them close. I have friends and contacts in the highest offices of government in several countries, Sherlock Holmes. Including this one.”
Sherlock stood and began pacing, clearly agitated, and only placing his cup of tea on the nearby table when the warm liquid sloshed on his hand. Turning sharply to face Methos, he asked accusingly, “You know Mycroft?”
“Your brother? Yes. And while I don’t know him personally, I know of Moriarty. You certainly have to give the man credit. It was a very clever plan to bring you down.”
“Clever, yes. He was clever, but pardon me if I don’t share your enthusiasm.”
Methos shrugged and laughed. “I’m sure you don’t, but you have to admit the complexities of his plan were brilliant.”
His observation was met with a cold, hard stare, and Methos sobered immediately, clearing his throat to fight back his amusement. The man really did not have a sense of humor, he noted.
He continued warily. “The point is, I’m privy to certain information the general population is not. I knew when I met you that you weren’t a fraud although Mycroft has never mentioned you to me.”
Sherlock dropped down on the couch inelegantly, his agitation waning as he focused his attention fully on the man before him. “Then how?”
“After hearing the news reports and seeing you in the alley, it didn’t take me long to work out what had happened.”
“You’re not shocked? Knowing about Moriarty and the people he killed?”
“And your part in the little game?” Methos smirked openly. “Do you really believe you and Moriarty were that clever, Sherlock?” Methos laughed out loud at the look of shocked disbelief that crossed the other man’s face. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I offend you?”
A pregnant pause and a smile played across Sherlock’s face as the tension visibly released from his body. “Ah, I see. You’re a genius too, then?”
Methos smiled knowingly and met the other man’s gaze without flinching. “That’s hardly for me to say. It’s all fleeting, Sherlock - your genius, Moriarty’s plans, our world today. Moriarty thought he was a criminal mastermind; no one had ever reached his level of genius. The truth is that the world doesn’t change. Not in five hundred years, not in five thousand. It’s only the details that change. Evil is not a new commodity. Do you really think there won’t be someone to take his place? That’s why we need people like you to fight the good fight.”
Sherlock shot up from the couch angrily, stepping across the coffee table as if it wasn’t there, and began pacing like a caged animal. The air bristled with contained emotion as he tried to sort out his feelings. “People like me? He almost destroyed me. How could I have missed it?” His voice rose sharply as he turned to look Methos in the eye. “Me?”
“Despite what you think about yourself, Sherlock, you are still just a man. And men are flawed. Even men with your extraordinary intellect.”
Sherlock walked around Methos’ chair, oddly self-contained for a man who spoke so passionately only moments before. “Flawed? Yes, I suppose I am. John has said he doesn’t think I’m human at times. He was so disappointed in me. I told him there were no heroes and if there were, I wouldn’t be one of them. Yet, I let him influence me against my better judgment. I let someone get close enough to be used against me. It caused me to falter when my mind should have been sharp and focused.”
Methos sighed loudly in disgust. “Spare me the melodrama. I get enough of that at home. People need other people in their lives. You can’t block them out because they may come to harm. Pushing them away will not keep them safe.”
“Push them away? I didn’t push them away. I never should have let them in. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. I should have been focused on Moriarty. I should have been ahead of the game."
Methos fell silent as his guest walked across the room. He had known men like Sherlock Holmes during his long lifetime. He knew Sherlock was trying to come to grips with his thoughts, and put them into a framework he could live with. With a hushed snort, he recalled the times during his own life when he thought the only way he would survive was by pushing people away. Caring about someone too much put him into perilous situations. Ironic, then, when Duncan pushed them all away after O’Rourke. On one hand he was thankful for the respite. It took a long time before he could admit to himself how much it hurt. He and Duncan had come a long way although their relationship still had its hardships - most of which were his own doing. Who was he to be lecturing Sherlock Holmes about relationships?
He was so lost in his own internal dialog that he did not notice Sherlock had gone still as stone, his eyes narrowed in thought as he studied Methos. He had the oddest sensation the man could read his thoughts.
~~~~~~
Methos walked around the flat, giving the appearance of being busy as he picked up journals and straightened the couch cushions. Sherlock was pecking away at the computer keyboard, trying to catch the latest updates on his death. Once the dishes were washed and the living room clearly put to rights, he sat back down, fighting the urge to sprawl a la Adam Pierson. Justin Adams, however, did not sprawl.
He sat back and closed his eyes, the click of the computer keys lulling him into peacefulness. When he allowed himself to get still, he thought about Duncan. The past sixteen years had been rough, and wild, and filled with joy. Through it all they had survived as a couple. Of course, sixteen years in the life of an immortal was just a spit in the wind, and he smiled as that thought filtered across his mind. They still had problems, but he loved the man more than his own life.
He frowned as the truthfulness of that statement hit him squarely in the chest. That would have scared the shit out of him at one time. But, now -- he had been telling Sherlock the truth. Now he knew his love for Duncan made him stronger. There was very little they could not battle together.
Oh, they still had their problems. When they first met, he made the mistake of showing Duncan only one side of himself - shy, gawky Adam Pierson. Later he had shattered Duncan’s perceptions when he found out how much a lie that had been. He still did not think Duncan fully understood Methos’ transition into different personas. With Duncan, he might use a different name, pick a different vocation, wear glasses or change the color of his hair. But always his essence was Duncan MacLeod.
Methos could not do that. Truth be told, Methos was no longer sure what or who his underlying essence was any longer. He had been many things, he had told MacLeod. “Who are you now?” He could still hear his lover ask. He never answered him, but now as then the answer that whispered across his mind was, “I don’t know.”
In the past, when it was time to change personas he would fully immerse himself in his new character’s personality. Whereas Adam Pierson was sloppy, sprawling on the furniture and flicking beer caps behind the fridge, Justin Adams was contained and proper. He liked tea instead of beer, contemporary music instead of rock. He was still in research, but now as a physician trying to find the newest treatment to ease the suffering of cancer patients. It was lucrative to say the least.
However, he found out very quickly that Duncan could not handle Methos’ personality changes. He suspected his lover still felt he had never uncovered the real Methos. How could he make him understand there might not be a ‘real’ Methos to discover? Sometimes he didn’t know where he ended and his persona began. But waking up and finding a completely different person in his bed was something Duncan could not come to terms with. It had been the one obstacle that had almost ended their relationship.
Now, he had learned to make the transition gradually. First, he would change his name and make basic modifications to his appearance. He would add particular quirks while dropping others slowly over a long period of time to let Duncan get used to them. In some aspects, that had made the transition much harder. Reaching for a beer was as automatic as taking a breath. Sprawling was a natural inclination, and he had to continually remind himself to sit up straighter in Justin’s more contained manner.
He still did many things, not because he wanted to, but because it was expected of him. Coming to this flat for two weeks out of the year was one of them. He had used this hide-away for decades, using different excuses over the years so he could be alone and leave the mortal world behind. He told Duncan it was because he was afraid of losing himself in their relationship. Clichéd, and he knew it for the lie it was even then. Secretly, he was afraid Duncan was relieved when he was gone. After all, togetherness for an immortal could be a very long time.
It wasn’t as if the time was gone to waste, he told himself. He had told Sherlock the truth. Even Duncan did not know how many connections Methos had to some of the most secretive and powerful people in the world. He would certainly be shocked since the Methos he had met almost twenty years ago had lived by the sacred tenets of hiding, blending in and running away. However, as he had also told Sherlock, that was now obsolete and much too dangerous. It was much too easy to be found and hunted. Like Sherlock, he had his own game to play and he wasn’t above using any means available to keep himself and Duncan MacLeod safe.
Only four more days until his flight back to Seacouver and his lover’s arms. He could picture Duncan in his mind, naked, his dark brown hair falling around his shoulders, unhindered by the usual clasp he wore during the day to keep it in place. His cock began to stir, and he mentally pushed the vision away. Thankfully, before he could embarrass himself, he heard one final click of the keyboard, and his guest was scooting back the chair from the computer to join him in the living room area.
Sherlock walked around the coffee table, seemingly unsure if he needed to sit or stand, his actions as anticipatory as resigned.
“Any news?” Methos asked, not waiting for Sherlock to make up his mind.
Sherlock turned to look at him, seemingly surprised that Methos was still in the room with him. It was clear the man’s thoughts were intensely inward and Methos wondered if he was aware of his surroundings at all. It shocked him on some level since Sherlock was known for his skills of observation and deduction.
“What?” Sherlock’s brows creased with a frown. “Oh, yes.” He sat down on the couch and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“I caught up on the news. It appears my suicide was accepted. No one is questioning the validity.” He looked up with a sly grin that was quickly replaced with a scowl. “Be that as it may, my brother is quite perturbed with my actions. I’ve been given strict orders for retrieval.”
“I see. And your friends?”
“Safe for the moment. But, as I pointed out, Moriarty is sure to have contingency plans in play if I were suddenly to reappear alive and well.”
“Your friend John?”
Sherlock frowned and looked at him questionably. “As I stated, he’s fine for the moment.”
“I’m sorry. I thought perhaps there was more involvement between the two of you.”
“Involvement? Oh….” The shadows cleared from his eyes as comprehension dawned on him within a heartbeat.
“No,” he stated firmly. “I’m married to my work. That’s all that matters.”
Methos studied him solemnly. “No one at all? Can’t you have both?”
“What? No. I know people think love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive. You should never let your heart overrule your head. Don’t you see?”
Methos nodded and went to open the drapes to peer outside. “Like you did tonight? Well, last night actually. It’s almost daylight now.”
Sherlock’s response was silence. Methos allowed him the moment, suspecting he would never come to terms with his true feelings. Denial was a wonderful friend. He should know. It had been his constant for millennia. He turned back to look at Sherlock, not surprised to see him walking about as if he could not contain his energy. Understandable, he mused. He was feeling a bit edgy himself. Of course, he had taken a quickening a few hours ago and had yet to work off the excess tension from his body.
“What about you?” Sherlock spoke at last.
Methos leaned against the window and crossed his arms across his chest. “Me?”
“Yes, you. Are you involved with anyone?”
Methos paused, aware the other man was watching him intently. Walking over to his coat hanging on the rack by the door, he reached into the folds and retrieved his Ivanhoe from its hidden sheath. Normally he cleaned his blade as soon as possible after a battle unless Duncan was there to help him burn off the excess energy as the quickening seared his nerve endings, leaving him over stimulated and horny as hell. Even then, he never left his blade unattended for long. Finding Sherlock Holmes, of all people, witnessing a beheading and subsequent quickening had certainly led to an interesting turn of events. Still, he chastised himself, an immortal’s blade was an extension of himself. Its upkeep should take priority. “You’re sloppy, old man,” he thought to himself mockingly.
Detouring to his desk to retrieve his sword maintenance kit, he sat down with his sword balanced neatly across his lap. Picking up the rice paper cloth to clean the blade, and seemingly focused on the task at hand, he began to speak.
“Yes, I’m involved. His name is Duncan MacLeod.” He paused and looked up at his guest to gauge his reaction. Seeing no surprise or recrimination in the other man’s gaze, he continued. ‘We’ve been together sixteen years, give or take.” Methos paused and leaned over to pick up the powder ball. Cleaning his sword was like a meditation for him. It always had been. With the peace and familiarity of an old friend, he began to relate his story.
When all was said and done, he had omitted the fact that his lover was immortal. While he had already ascertained Sherlock was not a threat - clearly, and he smiled to himself, there was no reason to betray Duncan’s immortality to a mortal.
He had never spoken the words out loud. All his insecurities had been firmly planted in his own mind. It dawned on him as he was relaying his feelings that he had never actually sat down with Duncan and discussed these things. The man wasn’t stupid. Quite the contrary, in fact. If Duncan still didn’t know who Methos was under all his fake personas, whose fault was that? And maybe Duncan would surprise him. After all, he had been sharing the man’s bed for nearly two decades.
Many things had changed over that period of time. At first, they were both afraid their relationship would lead headhunters to their door. Joe had tried to tell him it would be a deterrent, and damn if he hadn’t been right.
He didn’t know what the future would bring. None of them did. He was now protecting them from harm by infiltrating some of the highest offices in the world; secretly and completely removed from his public life. He was sure Duncan was monitoring the Watchers just as closely now that Joe was retired. He didn’t know how aware they were of Duncan’s scrutiny, but if they knew Methos was still accessing their files, and Duncan was also keeping tabs on them, it was a subject they never breeched under the immortal’s watchful eyes.
Once he had completed his tale, his sword now cleaned and placed safely within reach -- and when had that happened? He sat back silently and waited while Sherlock read the text messages that had been beeping angrily on his phone for at least the past fifteen minutes.
Sherlock stood and put on his coat. “I’m afraid I must go,” he said while sliding his phone into his coat pocket. He went to the window and peered out.
Methos joined him. “Before you leave, one thing?”
Sherlock raised a brow in question.
“Impress me, Sherlock Holmes. What have you ascertained by our time together?”
Sherlock grinned slyly as they walked back toward the front door. In rapid-fire sequence, he began to speak. “I know that you are immortal. Yes, you told me, but I had already observed you during battle, how your wound instantly healed and how your body absorbed the other man’s power. You would not tell me your age, in fact, you became angry and protective when I asked. Therefore, I believe you are very old….”
“Now, how did you come up with that assumption?” Methos interjected coldly.
“Please do not interrupt, Mr. Adams. As I stated, you became agitated when I asked your age. Yet several things you mentioned such as the world not changing in five hundred years or five thousand. You talked about evil as it were something you had been intimately involved in. You told me about a time when you could ride into a town and change your identity without worry, before standardized means of identification. So, from experience then, not theory. Your journals date back to the early nineteen fifties with your name and careers changing every ten to fifteen years. By your career choices it appears you hold several degrees including PhDs and medical licensure. Yes, I’m aware you could have obtained those in the past one hundred years, but you speak of life in terms of centuries instead of decades. I noticed your accent changed while we were speaking. It was quite nondescript during your fight, but was a more distinct Welsh accent when speaking to me.” He paused and reached for his phone. Holding it up, he continued. “I looked up some of your past identities using the names on your journals. You have been British, French and Italian over the past thirty years. You’re used to changing your physical traits and nationality to match the place and situation you find yourself at any one time. Your sword….” He swept his hand to indicate Methos’ weapon lying on the table. “…is a medieval broadsword, probably around the thirteenth century. You talk about your persona changes, and you’re afraid your lover does not comprehend who you really are. Not the worries of a young man. Your lover is clearly immortal as well….”
“How could you possibly know that?” Methos asked irritably.
“I observe, Mr. Adams. You spoke of your relationship of twenty years. Of all the problems you were concerned about, your lover aging wasn’t one of them. Your problems revolved around your immortality, not his lack of the same. You feel you must leave your home two weeks out of every year, but that’s habit, not necessity. In fact, you don’t want to be here. You’ve gotten up at least four times tonight to check your lover’s whereabouts and safety, another clue to his immortality, and the webpage was already bookmarked when I arrived. A calendar ….” He walked to the computer desk and pulled out the top drawer. “…is clearly marked off every day. You can’t wait to get home. It’s not that you need the time away, you’re afraid your lover won’t accept the fact that you don’t.”
“Very good.” Methos walked back to the window and looked out. Dawn was creeping in, light grays and orange creating a tapestry across the morning sky as the sun waited patiently to announce its presence. A black sedan pulled up beside the flat. “I believe it’s for you,” he remarked.
“Clearly. Good day.” Sherlock bowed his head minutely to Methos as he hurried to the door.
“Mr. Holmes?” Methos let go of the drapes and turned to face the room as Sherlock reached for the door knob. Sherlock stopped and turned.
Methos walked toward him. “John Watson. He’s more than a friend.”
Sherlock’s brows creased with a frown as he stepped away from the door to meet him halfway. “Why would you think that?”
“By your own definition, Sherlock. You let your heart overrule your head.”
Sherlock stilled with a long inhaled breath. Closing his eyes in thought, he let out the breath slowly. A heartbeat passed, and he opened his eyes, meeting Methos’ gaze with a smile barely touching his lips. “One more observation, Mr. Adams. You’re not afraid your lover won’t accept you. You’re afraid he will.” Then, with a knowing wink and a swish of his coat, he was gone.
Methos stood in place one long moment before turning to go to his bedroom. It had been a hell of a night. He had fought for his life, taken a quickening, and spent the rest of the night intellectually dueling with the infamous Sherlock Holmes.
Walking past the computer desk, he noticed the opened drawer and reached to push it closed. The calendar caught his eye, the days clearly marked off with a red circle around the day he would be returning home.
“I must be out of my mind,” he said out loud, but the detective’s words had hit home with frightening accuracy.
A call to the airlines was taken care of handily. “So here it is,” he thought. Hitting the speed dial on his cell, he waited as the phone rang, and then a familiar voice was saying his name.
“Justin?”
“Duncan, I’m coming home.”
The End
This entry is also posted at http://pat-t.dreamwidth.org/742845.html with
comments.