Fill: Find a Way to You - Chapter Three
Story Type: Prompt Fill
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic.
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.
Chapter Three
Sherlock had never had much cause to reflect on the cleverness inherent in the design of the human body, not until he lost his. Now, though, now he'd kill for fingers. He'd knock over a bank if it would give him proper knees or feet without that ridiculous webbing. He craved eyes on the front of his head. This business of gazing out either side gave him a headache.
He solved the problem by sleeping. He wasn't sure if swans were meant to be nocturnal, but he didn't really have a great deal of options during the day. Float, preen, swim, practise 'talking' with Molly, the same dreary repetition every single day.
*I hate this body.* He grumbled.
'I know. But it's nearly midday. Not much longer.' Molly assured him.
*The moon is getting smaller. I don't think I can bear it. Three nights without changing. I'll go mad.* He stamped his webbed foot down on the ground, packing the mud more solidly.
'I'm sure you'll cope. How's it coming?'
Sherlock swivelled his head, trying to bring things into proper focus. Bloody eyes. They were too far apart! *Not as well as it would be if I had hands.* He snarled. *Or any reach to speak of. *
He regarded his shelter critically. Jim so far hadn't deigned to give him any way to protect himself from the weather, so Sherlock was endeavouring to build himself something suitable. It was slow going, though. At night he was hampered by his night vision. During the day, he was hampered by everything else.
He stamped his way across the clearing, foolishly grateful that swans at least had the dignity not to waddle like geese. Even so, he took care how he moved his body. The body. The swan. He wondered if he should hate the birds now, if that would be the 'normal' reaction. But he didn't want to hate them. He didn't want to look at John's necklace and feel revulsion. He wouldn't let Jim take that away, too.
Something prickled at the back of his skull, just at the tip of the black wedge of feathers that crowned his head, and he whipped round to see what had caused it. The clearing was unchanged, but he could make out the shapes of Moriarty and Seb walking down the path.
No sooner had the men reached the clearing than a dusty brown cannon ball shot out of the sky in a suicide plummet. The projectile resolved itself into a sharp-eyed bird of prey, a falcon by the looks of things, and pulled out of its dive just in time to avoid collision with the ground. It alighted smoothly at Moriarty's feet, and in the next breath the bird was replaced by a man, early to mid-thirties. He towered over Moriarty, but was dwarfed by Seb. He had dark brown hair edging toward the colour of granite, he wore dusty, well broken-in motorcycle leathers in red and black, and the expression he aimed toward Moriarty fairly dripped with disdain.
'Well?' Moriarty prompted.
The bird man sighed. 'Nothing to report. Simkins never got close to the safe house. Your boys led him off well before he reached the perimeter.'
'What about Pellor?'
'He's dead.'
'Excellent. And the shipments?'
'Not a hitch. Your whole bloody empire is shaping up like clockwork. Now would you please untie me?'
Moriarty sneered, but he clicked his fingers at Seb, who crouched down and removed something from the man's right ankle. It looked to be a length of leather cord. The moment Seb pulled it free, the tension drained from the man's body and he let out a near-obscene sigh.
'Thanks mate.' He said to Seb. 'Always good to hear the sound of your voice. Gives me chills.' His own voice was gravelly and rough.
Seb said nothing, just stood up beside Jim and waited. Jim held out his hand, and Seb dropped the cord into his palm.
'Don't wander too far. I may have more work for you.' Moriarty tilted his head, much like a lizard would, and turned away.
'He-hey! Look at what we have here.' The man called out with a grin, bringing Moriarty and Seb to a halt. He began to move toward Sherlock with the loose-limbed gate of the perpetually cocky. 'Another bird-brain for the collection.'
He turned to face Jim with an exaggerated pout. 'Oh, Jimmy. Am I not man enough for you anymore? Is this how you break up with me?'
'You were only ever a place-holder. You know that.' Moriarty called back with a smirk.
The man nodded slowly, a look of comprehension spreading over his features. 'Aah. So this is the infamous "him".' He came to rest in front of Sherlock and crouched down on his haunches. 'Wouldn't have pegged you for the swan type, Jimmy. Figured he'd be a hawk or a fox or something. Something with bite.'
'Don't underestimate him.' Jim warned. 'He's worth a thousand of you.'
*Oh, Jim. I didn't know you cared.* Sherlock sneered.
The man barked out a laugh, and Jim frowned.
'He can't hear you, Sherlock.' The man said. 'It's the best bit really. You can call him a pasty-arsed little ponce!' He shouted the insult in Jim's direction, then turned back to Sherlock and softened his tone. 'And he'd never know.'
*You're not…* But Sherlock didn't know how to finish the sentence.
The man did it for him. 'Afraid? Of Jimmy? Please. Little prat can't even figure out how to get rid of me.'
'Matter of time fly-boy.' Jim called.
The man rolled his eyes. 'PC Greg Lestrade. Been this arsehole's errand boy for two years now.' He jerked his thumb at Jim.
'And you do it so well.' Jim chirped.
Lestrade ignored that and put out his hand, palm up, with his fingers curved up so his hand made a sort of cup. Sherlock stared at it for a moment, then realised what Lestrade wanted, and jabbed his bill into the fleshy centre of Lestrade's palm. As close to a handshake as he could get right now.
'Welcome to the club, pretty boy.' Lestrade said, and his voice was tinged with weariness.
'Keep an eye on him, won't you Greg? I'll be back in the morning.' Jim called as he and Seb resumed walking away.
Lestrade flipped them the V without turning around and rolled his eyes. He kept his eyes on Sherlock. 'I suppose he's got you on one of those day and night deals, eh?'
*Moonlight on the lake.* Sherlock groused. *It's insulting, really.*
Lestrade rolled his eyes and collapsed against a nearby tree. 'Yeah, tell me about it. Every time he puts that bloody leash around my leg I want to kill meself. I don't know why he can't just ask me to fly wherever he wants.'
He jerked up suddenly. 'Moll!' And in a blink he was on his feet and rushing to the water's edge. 'Come on out, gorgeous. He's gone now.'
Molly fountained out of the lake and drifted to Lestrade. He waited for her to reach the shallows before slogging in himself, heedless of the mud and silt clinging to his boots. As soon as they were in reach, the pair embraced like lovers, seemingly unaware that Sherlock was even still there.
'You're back.' Molly said weakly, and beside Lestrade it was suddenly far too easy to see just how young she was.
'Hey, none of that.' Lestrade said, his voice soft. He hunched his shoulders and lowered his head to seek out her eyes. 'I'd never do that to you, kid. Together or not at all, right?'
Molly nodded and sniffled. It touched something in Sherlock, to see this woman who had been so strong for him suddenly turn so fragile. He blamed John, and even thinking the name made his body feel too heavy, made his chest burn.
Lestrade rubbed his hands up and down Molly's arms. 'So cold. Come here.' He walked backward, bringing her to the very edge of the water. Once he was past the shoreline, he sat down on the ground, bringing Molly with him. She sat atop the water, bobbing and shifting with the tiny waves. Lestrade removed his leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
They sat there like that, fingers laced and heads touching, in a kind of quiet intimacy Sherlock had only ever dreamed about. He wanted it. He craved it down to his bones. At that moment, in that place, Sherlock would have given his life to have John hold him just the way Greg Lestrade was holding Molly, even if it were only for a moment.
They were speaking, now. Too quietly for Sherlock to hear. He moved closer, slipping into the water and gliding over to them.
'…find it, Moll. I promise. He'll slip up, I know it. They always do.'
'Tell me what it's like, Greg.'
'Much the same, really. TVs get bigger, computers get cheaper but you still can't afford one and still feed yourself. People take the tube to work. City boys have their secretaries pick up the dry cleaning. All the same, Moll. Just waiting for you, just how you left it.'
Sherlock wanted to ask, oh, so many things. But Molly was crying. They were those same silent, unacknowledged tears Sherlock had wept more times than he cared to remember. John would have gone to her. John would have wrapped her in his warmth and given her one of those beautiful, shining smiles of his.
Sherlock could only arch his laughably long neck over her thigh and rest his head on her lap. She sniffled.
'Hello Sherlock.' She said with a broken smile.
*Hello.*
Lestrade's hand rested gently on Sherlock's head and stroked the inky black feathers there. 'Never seen a swan like you.' He said softly.
Sherlock closed his eyes and said nothing. He didn't know what swans usually looked like. He hadn't ever bothered to remember. The only swan he'd ever cared about was etched in silhouette on white gold. For all he knew, every swan was snowy white with black-tipped wings and a shock of black feathers atop the head. And if not, well, he didn't see why he should care.
'He's a sick son of a bitch,' said Lestrade. 'But the bastard's got style.'
Molly laughed a mirthless laugh and ran a soothing hand along one of Sherlock's wings. 'Not too long now.' She said. 'Nearly sunset.'
*No hurry.* Sherlock lied. He snuggled into Molly's lap and let the water rock his body into a quiet doze.
'You know, Sherlock,' said Lestrade on the edge of Sherlock's awareness. 'If you like, you could fly with me.'
*Fly?* He hadn't considered it, not after he'd learned why he could never leave the lake.
'Yeah.' Lestrade breathed. 'I mean, it doesn't change anything but, sometimes when you're up there there's this moment when…when it's almost okay.'
Sherlock lifted his head and focussed on Greg. The man had a far away look in his eyes as he absently rubbed Molly's arm.
*Oh. Okay then.* He let his head fall back onto Molly's leg and closed his eyes.
Fly… He thought. I can fly.
~~~
'What do you mean, "nothing"?' John demanded. 'It can't be nothing!'
'I'm sorry John.' Mycroft kept his voice infuriatingly calm. 'We've no leads. Everything that could help us is above my security clearance.' He at least had the decency to twist his mouth into a moue of frustration at that.
'Above you? What's above you?' John demanded.
Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes upward. 'Whatever my brother has written, I can assure you that the vast majority of British governance is out of my hands and over my head. I'm only twenty-six, John. Even I can only rise so fast.'
John sighed and slumped down into the kitchen chair. 'I'm sorry.' He muttered.
Mycroft took a deep breath. 'John, please, listen to me. I am doing everything I possibly can. For Sherlock's sake I've called in favours I only just earned. I'm pushing my security clearance to the absolute limit. I've bribed, cajoled, even dabbled in blackmail to get as far as I have, and there. Is. Nothing.'
'Have you at least found a name to match the initials? Even a list of them. I'll go door-to-door if I have to, Mycroft.'
Mycroft sighed and produced a leather-bound journal from his jacket. 'There are approximately six thousand men and women in the UK with those initials who might have access to the sort of ammunition you found at the scene.'
John's face fell and his heart plummeted. He took the journal and leafed through it. The writing was tiny and cramped and it filled every sodding page.
'What about the bullet itself?' John asked weakly. 'The alloy in the casing, powder residue, anything.'
Mycroft shook his head. 'I'm sorry, John. Wherever that bullet was manufactured it wasn't registered. It may have been hand-made. Possibly it was done overseas. My associates aren't as well-connected to the munitions underworld as I'd like.' He rubbed the bridge of his nose and winced. 'Forgive me, John.'
Mycroft said that a lot. John had yet to respond, and it wrenched at him. He knew, really, that Sherlock's abduction wasn't Mycroft's fault. And yet…
'He was happy.' John said, surprising himself with the words. He looked up to Mycroft's blank face. 'Right? That night, just before it happened. You said he was happy?'
Mycroft nodded slowly.
John licked his lips. 'He'll find a way, Mycroft. I don’t know how, but this is Sherlock we're talking about. He will find a way to reach us.'
Mycroft tilted his head, considering. 'To reach you, certainly.' He gave a wry smile. 'He does so hate to be denied the things he wants.'
John blushed and looked down at his hands.
'Thank you, Mye.'
~~~
The wave receded and Sherlock blinked in the fading light. The sun had mostly gone, leaving only a faded orange smudge above the treeline.
He thanked Molly with a curt nod of his head and walked out of the lake. He had long since given up on wearing shoes. The unfortunate things were doomed from the first night. He strolled across the clearing and rapped smartly on a thick, towering oak.
'Wake up, Lestrade!' He called.
The falcon poked its head out over its branch and ruffled its feathers. A heartbeat later Lestrade sat in its place, his legs dangling in the air, and yawned. 'Go 'way, Sherlock. 'M tired.'
'I'm aware of that.' Sherlock snapped. 'That is precisely the reason I want you down here!'
Lestrade rolled his eyes, but he hefted himself up with the aid of a thick branch and made his way swiftly to the ground. He jumped the last few feet and landed with a soft grunt.
'Okay, okay, I'm here. What do you want to know?'
'Start with the leash.' Sherlock said, his body moving into a comfortable pace as he waited and his thoughts began to shift into higher function.
Lestrade winced. 'Do I have to?'
'Quit whining! Even the slightest detail could prove crucial.'
'Look, how about we just rest, right? You've got your flying lesson tomorrow, I feel like shit--'
'Greg!'
Lestrade sighed. 'It's this sort of leather strap, right? He ties it around my boot, mutters something I can't understand and then I have to fly wherever he tells me to.'
'How often does he use the leash?'
Lestrade shrugged. 'Any time he wants some eyes in the sky. He's got some cameras and shit, but paranoid people look for those. Nobody notices a bird flying about and thinks they're being watched. He likes me to keep an eye on his henchmen for him.'
'Where did he send you yesterday?' Sherlock asked, steepling his fingers in front of his lips.
'London. It's almost always London. He's got a big concentration there. This one was Maxwell Gardens, just off Brixton Road.'
Sherlock struggled to think back to his last day of freedom, in London with Mycroft. He shook his head. 'Don't know it.'
'He had me spy on this flat. One of his boys was using it to have a bit too much fun on company time.'
'Prostitute?'
'Drugs. Made the copper in me all sorts of excited, but you can't really arrest people when you're eighteen inches tall and covered in feathers. Nowhere to put the cuffs.'
Sherlock muttered to himself and kept on pacing. 'Oh! Yes! The lake!' He rounded on Lestrade. 'You don't need to use the lake to transform. Molly and I are both bound to it. Why aren't you?'
'I am.' Lestrade said.
Sherlock eyed him. 'How?'
'If I can't see it from where I am, I can't change. I stay a bird. I don't need the water touching me, no. But I need to be in sight of the lake at all times if I want to be human.'
'Why?' Sherlock demanded. 'If I'm not in the water it's…' But he shook his head, unwilling to think about those first mornings.
Lestrade's face softened. 'Yeah, I know. You're not the first person Jimmy's done this to. Usually they crack, give him what he wants, then he buys them back from the lake. But I was his first change. He still had a lot of kinks to work out in the formula. Nowadays when he binds people, he does it properly. But I was a test run, just to see if it worked, so I got off a bit easier.'
'What about Molly?' Sherlock said. 'Why can't she leave the water?'
Lestrade shrugged. 'Before my time. Probably she was Jim's first…anything. She won't talk about it and I don't ask.'
Sherlock stopped short. 'That's just foolish!' He said. 'Why refuse a discussion that could lead to your benefit?'
Lestrade's expression clouded and he glared at Sherlock. 'Because it can't. There's no way to free either of us without our Keys, and Molly's been looking for hers for years.'
Sherlock froze. 'Key? What Key?'
Lestrade sighed. 'It's part of the whole deal. Equal and opposite reaction sort of thing. Whenever Jim casts a spell, he creates a sort of…I don't know, loose thread. If you pull it, the whole thing comes apart. It has to do with whatever he wanted to get out of the spell in the first place.'
Sherlock's eyes widened, and he felt a warm, fizzy excitement begin to bubble in his veins. 'Go on.' He urge, almost breathless.
Lestrade slumped against his tree. 'Well, I know mine. Jim told me. He wants to get rid of me, but he can't figure out how to buy me back from the lake. Like I said, I was a prototype. Full of bugs.'
'What is it?'
Lestrade rolled his shoulders and looked up at the sky. 'Well, I got him and Moran on a traffic violation. They conveniently forgot that you're supposed to stop at a red light, not speed up. Especially when you've got an arsenal of guns in the boot.'
'Keep going.' Sherlock prodded.
'So I tried to arrest 'em, Seb made it all go black, Jimmy decided to teach me a little lesson about the food chain. So since he turned me into a bird to prove his superiority, if I want to break the spell I have to," he cleared his throat and recited, '"Make him yield to me before the eyes of Britian" end quote.'
Sherlock mentally stumbled. 'You have to what?'
'They're all like that. Fucking esoteric bullshit. I mean, how the fuck am I supposed to make Jim do as I say, much less get the BBC to cover it?'
'So…if we want to find Molly's Key, we need to find out what he wanted to achieve by imprisoning her in the lake?'
'That's about it, pretty boy.'
'And when Jim changed me, I got a Key as well.'
'Yep. Built in. Magic's got to balance itself or it all falls to bits. If you can figure out what Jim wanted the most when he bound you, you're halfway there. The rest is just figuring out just how far the spell needs you to go. Like, it's not enough for me to just overpower Jim, I've got to do it in such a way that he can't deny it. The whole bloody country's got to see it happen.'
'Which Jim can never allow.'
'Got it in one.'
Sherlock stalked down to the lakeshore and called for Molly. She rose up into her solid body and looked around nervously. 'What is it?'
'Tell me how Jim captured you.'
Molly blanched and her shape wavered. 'Wh-why do you want to know that?'
Sherlock smiled. 'It's time I work a little magic of my own.'
---
Chapter Four
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic.
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.
Chapter Three
Sherlock had never had much cause to reflect on the cleverness inherent in the design of the human body, not until he lost his. Now, though, now he'd kill for fingers. He'd knock over a bank if it would give him proper knees or feet without that ridiculous webbing. He craved eyes on the front of his head. This business of gazing out either side gave him a headache.
He solved the problem by sleeping. He wasn't sure if swans were meant to be nocturnal, but he didn't really have a great deal of options during the day. Float, preen, swim, practise 'talking' with Molly, the same dreary repetition every single day.
*I hate this body.* He grumbled.
'I know. But it's nearly midday. Not much longer.' Molly assured him.
*The moon is getting smaller. I don't think I can bear it. Three nights without changing. I'll go mad.* He stamped his webbed foot down on the ground, packing the mud more solidly.
'I'm sure you'll cope. How's it coming?'
Sherlock swivelled his head, trying to bring things into proper focus. Bloody eyes. They were too far apart! *Not as well as it would be if I had hands.* He snarled. *Or any reach to speak of. *
He regarded his shelter critically. Jim so far hadn't deigned to give him any way to protect himself from the weather, so Sherlock was endeavouring to build himself something suitable. It was slow going, though. At night he was hampered by his night vision. During the day, he was hampered by everything else.
He stamped his way across the clearing, foolishly grateful that swans at least had the dignity not to waddle like geese. Even so, he took care how he moved his body. The body. The swan. He wondered if he should hate the birds now, if that would be the 'normal' reaction. But he didn't want to hate them. He didn't want to look at John's necklace and feel revulsion. He wouldn't let Jim take that away, too.
Something prickled at the back of his skull, just at the tip of the black wedge of feathers that crowned his head, and he whipped round to see what had caused it. The clearing was unchanged, but he could make out the shapes of Moriarty and Seb walking down the path.
No sooner had the men reached the clearing than a dusty brown cannon ball shot out of the sky in a suicide plummet. The projectile resolved itself into a sharp-eyed bird of prey, a falcon by the looks of things, and pulled out of its dive just in time to avoid collision with the ground. It alighted smoothly at Moriarty's feet, and in the next breath the bird was replaced by a man, early to mid-thirties. He towered over Moriarty, but was dwarfed by Seb. He had dark brown hair edging toward the colour of granite, he wore dusty, well broken-in motorcycle leathers in red and black, and the expression he aimed toward Moriarty fairly dripped with disdain.
'Well?' Moriarty prompted.
The bird man sighed. 'Nothing to report. Simkins never got close to the safe house. Your boys led him off well before he reached the perimeter.'
'What about Pellor?'
'He's dead.'
'Excellent. And the shipments?'
'Not a hitch. Your whole bloody empire is shaping up like clockwork. Now would you please untie me?'
Moriarty sneered, but he clicked his fingers at Seb, who crouched down and removed something from the man's right ankle. It looked to be a length of leather cord. The moment Seb pulled it free, the tension drained from the man's body and he let out a near-obscene sigh.
'Thanks mate.' He said to Seb. 'Always good to hear the sound of your voice. Gives me chills.' His own voice was gravelly and rough.
Seb said nothing, just stood up beside Jim and waited. Jim held out his hand, and Seb dropped the cord into his palm.
'Don't wander too far. I may have more work for you.' Moriarty tilted his head, much like a lizard would, and turned away.
'He-hey! Look at what we have here.' The man called out with a grin, bringing Moriarty and Seb to a halt. He began to move toward Sherlock with the loose-limbed gate of the perpetually cocky. 'Another bird-brain for the collection.'
He turned to face Jim with an exaggerated pout. 'Oh, Jimmy. Am I not man enough for you anymore? Is this how you break up with me?'
'You were only ever a place-holder. You know that.' Moriarty called back with a smirk.
The man nodded slowly, a look of comprehension spreading over his features. 'Aah. So this is the infamous "him".' He came to rest in front of Sherlock and crouched down on his haunches. 'Wouldn't have pegged you for the swan type, Jimmy. Figured he'd be a hawk or a fox or something. Something with bite.'
'Don't underestimate him.' Jim warned. 'He's worth a thousand of you.'
*Oh, Jim. I didn't know you cared.* Sherlock sneered.
The man barked out a laugh, and Jim frowned.
'He can't hear you, Sherlock.' The man said. 'It's the best bit really. You can call him a pasty-arsed little ponce!' He shouted the insult in Jim's direction, then turned back to Sherlock and softened his tone. 'And he'd never know.'
*You're not…* But Sherlock didn't know how to finish the sentence.
The man did it for him. 'Afraid? Of Jimmy? Please. Little prat can't even figure out how to get rid of me.'
'Matter of time fly-boy.' Jim called.
The man rolled his eyes. 'PC Greg Lestrade. Been this arsehole's errand boy for two years now.' He jerked his thumb at Jim.
'And you do it so well.' Jim chirped.
Lestrade ignored that and put out his hand, palm up, with his fingers curved up so his hand made a sort of cup. Sherlock stared at it for a moment, then realised what Lestrade wanted, and jabbed his bill into the fleshy centre of Lestrade's palm. As close to a handshake as he could get right now.
'Welcome to the club, pretty boy.' Lestrade said, and his voice was tinged with weariness.
'Keep an eye on him, won't you Greg? I'll be back in the morning.' Jim called as he and Seb resumed walking away.
Lestrade flipped them the V without turning around and rolled his eyes. He kept his eyes on Sherlock. 'I suppose he's got you on one of those day and night deals, eh?'
*Moonlight on the lake.* Sherlock groused. *It's insulting, really.*
Lestrade rolled his eyes and collapsed against a nearby tree. 'Yeah, tell me about it. Every time he puts that bloody leash around my leg I want to kill meself. I don't know why he can't just ask me to fly wherever he wants.'
He jerked up suddenly. 'Moll!' And in a blink he was on his feet and rushing to the water's edge. 'Come on out, gorgeous. He's gone now.'
Molly fountained out of the lake and drifted to Lestrade. He waited for her to reach the shallows before slogging in himself, heedless of the mud and silt clinging to his boots. As soon as they were in reach, the pair embraced like lovers, seemingly unaware that Sherlock was even still there.
'You're back.' Molly said weakly, and beside Lestrade it was suddenly far too easy to see just how young she was.
'Hey, none of that.' Lestrade said, his voice soft. He hunched his shoulders and lowered his head to seek out her eyes. 'I'd never do that to you, kid. Together or not at all, right?'
Molly nodded and sniffled. It touched something in Sherlock, to see this woman who had been so strong for him suddenly turn so fragile. He blamed John, and even thinking the name made his body feel too heavy, made his chest burn.
Lestrade rubbed his hands up and down Molly's arms. 'So cold. Come here.' He walked backward, bringing her to the very edge of the water. Once he was past the shoreline, he sat down on the ground, bringing Molly with him. She sat atop the water, bobbing and shifting with the tiny waves. Lestrade removed his leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
They sat there like that, fingers laced and heads touching, in a kind of quiet intimacy Sherlock had only ever dreamed about. He wanted it. He craved it down to his bones. At that moment, in that place, Sherlock would have given his life to have John hold him just the way Greg Lestrade was holding Molly, even if it were only for a moment.
They were speaking, now. Too quietly for Sherlock to hear. He moved closer, slipping into the water and gliding over to them.
'…find it, Moll. I promise. He'll slip up, I know it. They always do.'
'Tell me what it's like, Greg.'
'Much the same, really. TVs get bigger, computers get cheaper but you still can't afford one and still feed yourself. People take the tube to work. City boys have their secretaries pick up the dry cleaning. All the same, Moll. Just waiting for you, just how you left it.'
Sherlock wanted to ask, oh, so many things. But Molly was crying. They were those same silent, unacknowledged tears Sherlock had wept more times than he cared to remember. John would have gone to her. John would have wrapped her in his warmth and given her one of those beautiful, shining smiles of his.
Sherlock could only arch his laughably long neck over her thigh and rest his head on her lap. She sniffled.
'Hello Sherlock.' She said with a broken smile.
*Hello.*
Lestrade's hand rested gently on Sherlock's head and stroked the inky black feathers there. 'Never seen a swan like you.' He said softly.
Sherlock closed his eyes and said nothing. He didn't know what swans usually looked like. He hadn't ever bothered to remember. The only swan he'd ever cared about was etched in silhouette on white gold. For all he knew, every swan was snowy white with black-tipped wings and a shock of black feathers atop the head. And if not, well, he didn't see why he should care.
'He's a sick son of a bitch,' said Lestrade. 'But the bastard's got style.'
Molly laughed a mirthless laugh and ran a soothing hand along one of Sherlock's wings. 'Not too long now.' She said. 'Nearly sunset.'
*No hurry.* Sherlock lied. He snuggled into Molly's lap and let the water rock his body into a quiet doze.
'You know, Sherlock,' said Lestrade on the edge of Sherlock's awareness. 'If you like, you could fly with me.'
*Fly?* He hadn't considered it, not after he'd learned why he could never leave the lake.
'Yeah.' Lestrade breathed. 'I mean, it doesn't change anything but, sometimes when you're up there there's this moment when…when it's almost okay.'
Sherlock lifted his head and focussed on Greg. The man had a far away look in his eyes as he absently rubbed Molly's arm.
*Oh. Okay then.* He let his head fall back onto Molly's leg and closed his eyes.
Fly… He thought. I can fly.
~~~
'What do you mean, "nothing"?' John demanded. 'It can't be nothing!'
'I'm sorry John.' Mycroft kept his voice infuriatingly calm. 'We've no leads. Everything that could help us is above my security clearance.' He at least had the decency to twist his mouth into a moue of frustration at that.
'Above you? What's above you?' John demanded.
Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes upward. 'Whatever my brother has written, I can assure you that the vast majority of British governance is out of my hands and over my head. I'm only twenty-six, John. Even I can only rise so fast.'
John sighed and slumped down into the kitchen chair. 'I'm sorry.' He muttered.
Mycroft took a deep breath. 'John, please, listen to me. I am doing everything I possibly can. For Sherlock's sake I've called in favours I only just earned. I'm pushing my security clearance to the absolute limit. I've bribed, cajoled, even dabbled in blackmail to get as far as I have, and there. Is. Nothing.'
'Have you at least found a name to match the initials? Even a list of them. I'll go door-to-door if I have to, Mycroft.'
Mycroft sighed and produced a leather-bound journal from his jacket. 'There are approximately six thousand men and women in the UK with those initials who might have access to the sort of ammunition you found at the scene.'
John's face fell and his heart plummeted. He took the journal and leafed through it. The writing was tiny and cramped and it filled every sodding page.
'What about the bullet itself?' John asked weakly. 'The alloy in the casing, powder residue, anything.'
Mycroft shook his head. 'I'm sorry, John. Wherever that bullet was manufactured it wasn't registered. It may have been hand-made. Possibly it was done overseas. My associates aren't as well-connected to the munitions underworld as I'd like.' He rubbed the bridge of his nose and winced. 'Forgive me, John.'
Mycroft said that a lot. John had yet to respond, and it wrenched at him. He knew, really, that Sherlock's abduction wasn't Mycroft's fault. And yet…
'He was happy.' John said, surprising himself with the words. He looked up to Mycroft's blank face. 'Right? That night, just before it happened. You said he was happy?'
Mycroft nodded slowly.
John licked his lips. 'He'll find a way, Mycroft. I don’t know how, but this is Sherlock we're talking about. He will find a way to reach us.'
Mycroft tilted his head, considering. 'To reach you, certainly.' He gave a wry smile. 'He does so hate to be denied the things he wants.'
John blushed and looked down at his hands.
'Thank you, Mye.'
~~~
The wave receded and Sherlock blinked in the fading light. The sun had mostly gone, leaving only a faded orange smudge above the treeline.
He thanked Molly with a curt nod of his head and walked out of the lake. He had long since given up on wearing shoes. The unfortunate things were doomed from the first night. He strolled across the clearing and rapped smartly on a thick, towering oak.
'Wake up, Lestrade!' He called.
The falcon poked its head out over its branch and ruffled its feathers. A heartbeat later Lestrade sat in its place, his legs dangling in the air, and yawned. 'Go 'way, Sherlock. 'M tired.'
'I'm aware of that.' Sherlock snapped. 'That is precisely the reason I want you down here!'
Lestrade rolled his eyes, but he hefted himself up with the aid of a thick branch and made his way swiftly to the ground. He jumped the last few feet and landed with a soft grunt.
'Okay, okay, I'm here. What do you want to know?'
'Start with the leash.' Sherlock said, his body moving into a comfortable pace as he waited and his thoughts began to shift into higher function.
Lestrade winced. 'Do I have to?'
'Quit whining! Even the slightest detail could prove crucial.'
'Look, how about we just rest, right? You've got your flying lesson tomorrow, I feel like shit--'
'Greg!'
Lestrade sighed. 'It's this sort of leather strap, right? He ties it around my boot, mutters something I can't understand and then I have to fly wherever he tells me to.'
'How often does he use the leash?'
Lestrade shrugged. 'Any time he wants some eyes in the sky. He's got some cameras and shit, but paranoid people look for those. Nobody notices a bird flying about and thinks they're being watched. He likes me to keep an eye on his henchmen for him.'
'Where did he send you yesterday?' Sherlock asked, steepling his fingers in front of his lips.
'London. It's almost always London. He's got a big concentration there. This one was Maxwell Gardens, just off Brixton Road.'
Sherlock struggled to think back to his last day of freedom, in London with Mycroft. He shook his head. 'Don't know it.'
'He had me spy on this flat. One of his boys was using it to have a bit too much fun on company time.'
'Prostitute?'
'Drugs. Made the copper in me all sorts of excited, but you can't really arrest people when you're eighteen inches tall and covered in feathers. Nowhere to put the cuffs.'
Sherlock muttered to himself and kept on pacing. 'Oh! Yes! The lake!' He rounded on Lestrade. 'You don't need to use the lake to transform. Molly and I are both bound to it. Why aren't you?'
'I am.' Lestrade said.
Sherlock eyed him. 'How?'
'If I can't see it from where I am, I can't change. I stay a bird. I don't need the water touching me, no. But I need to be in sight of the lake at all times if I want to be human.'
'Why?' Sherlock demanded. 'If I'm not in the water it's…' But he shook his head, unwilling to think about those first mornings.
Lestrade's face softened. 'Yeah, I know. You're not the first person Jimmy's done this to. Usually they crack, give him what he wants, then he buys them back from the lake. But I was his first change. He still had a lot of kinks to work out in the formula. Nowadays when he binds people, he does it properly. But I was a test run, just to see if it worked, so I got off a bit easier.'
'What about Molly?' Sherlock said. 'Why can't she leave the water?'
Lestrade shrugged. 'Before my time. Probably she was Jim's first…anything. She won't talk about it and I don't ask.'
Sherlock stopped short. 'That's just foolish!' He said. 'Why refuse a discussion that could lead to your benefit?'
Lestrade's expression clouded and he glared at Sherlock. 'Because it can't. There's no way to free either of us without our Keys, and Molly's been looking for hers for years.'
Sherlock froze. 'Key? What Key?'
Lestrade sighed. 'It's part of the whole deal. Equal and opposite reaction sort of thing. Whenever Jim casts a spell, he creates a sort of…I don't know, loose thread. If you pull it, the whole thing comes apart. It has to do with whatever he wanted to get out of the spell in the first place.'
Sherlock's eyes widened, and he felt a warm, fizzy excitement begin to bubble in his veins. 'Go on.' He urge, almost breathless.
Lestrade slumped against his tree. 'Well, I know mine. Jim told me. He wants to get rid of me, but he can't figure out how to buy me back from the lake. Like I said, I was a prototype. Full of bugs.'
'What is it?'
Lestrade rolled his shoulders and looked up at the sky. 'Well, I got him and Moran on a traffic violation. They conveniently forgot that you're supposed to stop at a red light, not speed up. Especially when you've got an arsenal of guns in the boot.'
'Keep going.' Sherlock prodded.
'So I tried to arrest 'em, Seb made it all go black, Jimmy decided to teach me a little lesson about the food chain. So since he turned me into a bird to prove his superiority, if I want to break the spell I have to," he cleared his throat and recited, '"Make him yield to me before the eyes of Britian" end quote.'
Sherlock mentally stumbled. 'You have to what?'
'They're all like that. Fucking esoteric bullshit. I mean, how the fuck am I supposed to make Jim do as I say, much less get the BBC to cover it?'
'So…if we want to find Molly's Key, we need to find out what he wanted to achieve by imprisoning her in the lake?'
'That's about it, pretty boy.'
'And when Jim changed me, I got a Key as well.'
'Yep. Built in. Magic's got to balance itself or it all falls to bits. If you can figure out what Jim wanted the most when he bound you, you're halfway there. The rest is just figuring out just how far the spell needs you to go. Like, it's not enough for me to just overpower Jim, I've got to do it in such a way that he can't deny it. The whole bloody country's got to see it happen.'
'Which Jim can never allow.'
'Got it in one.'
Sherlock stalked down to the lakeshore and called for Molly. She rose up into her solid body and looked around nervously. 'What is it?'
'Tell me how Jim captured you.'
Molly blanched and her shape wavered. 'Wh-why do you want to know that?'
Sherlock smiled. 'It's time I work a little magic of my own.'
---
Chapter Four