Fill: Find a Way to You - Chapter Eight
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 Eight
The night of John's scheduled return, Sherlock emerged from the lake in silence and went immediately to his shelter. Neither Lestrade nor Molly attempted to speak with him. They gave him a wide berth and left him to his silence. And if the soft breathing coming from within the primitive hut was a bit less steady than usual, if there were soft and broken vocalisations with each exhale, well, they pretended not to notice.
He was grateful, though he never said as much.
He knew the Key now. All of it. He knew his place in it, what John had to do, what they would do together. But it occurred to him, as he lay on his side on the earthen floor with his sleeve tucked under his cheek to catch the salty drops of water, just how futile it all was if it turned out John wasn't coming back at all.
He curled up by himself, listening to the silent wail of a heart that had been breaking for two years, and wept John's name into the night.
~~~
Greg was not having a good week.
Really, he was having an absolute shit week.
And it wasn't stopping.
*Fucking lunatic.* He grumbled. *"Oh, he's so sweet and charming and his sodding smiles light up the sodding room."* He mocked, in something far too falsetto to be an imitation of Sherlock's voice. *Fuck that. You never told me he was completely psychotic!*
He huffed and fluffed up his feathers against the rain. It was pissing it down, but there was John bloody Watson out in the post-apocalyptic wasteland of the back garden. He was actually crawling under razor wire. Who did that sort of thing? Wasn't it just in films?
Oh, and now he was going over the wall again. What was that, twelve times now? And there was his mate, Mike or Mark or something, getting drenched despite the rain poncho and umbrella, eyes intent on John and the stopwatch.
Greg sighed and shuffled further into the shelter of the leaves and branches overhead.
*Why can't he just take off those fucking tags?* He snarled to himself. He was doing that a lot since leaving the lake. He was starting to worry a bit. He wasn't used to being alone for so long. Jim usually only kept him out for a few days, but he'd been in Sussex for more than a week watching Sherlock's insane boyfriend work himself into the ground.
And still no opportunity had presented itself. Without the necklace Jim had taken, Greg was just a bird. He was getting their attention, finally, but they all seemed to assume he'd set up house in the woods around here.
He checked the bullet casing from Moran's basement arsenal again. He'd lost count now of how many times he'd done it, but that damned bit of metal was the key to their whole plan. Perhaps more than any of the data from that sick attic, it made their little break-in worthwhile.
He prodded at the casing with a talon. Still intact, still with the watery lock of Molly's hair safely sealed away with wax from the candle they'd stolen from the kitchen.
It was interesting, Greg reflected, what people did when they thought no one was watching. Take Sherlock's brother. Mycroft, the kid had said. He was a downright terrifying chap at first glance, manoeuvring his agents and contacts about like the goddamned chess master. At first, Greg had stood in awe of him.
Right up until he saw the (young, they're all so fucking young) man collapse to his knees in front of John's pretty younger sister and sob into her skirt as she combed her fingers through his increasingly curly hair.
One night, Greg had been tree hopping around the house and had come across Mycroft in his en suite, staring hard into the mirror with his hands gripping the sink so hard his knuckles were white. He was saying something through gritted teeth to his reflection.
Intrigued, Greg had flown as close as he dared and strained his hearing. The night had been calm, and Greg could just make out Mycroft's voice through the glass.
'Remember.' Mycroft had snarled. 'Remember. Come on, just remember.' He closed his eyes and bowed his head, then looked up with eyes blazing.
'Remember, dammit!' He cried as he slammed his fist against the mirror. The composure, the unflappable calm was stripped away and he stood, raw and exposed in a way Greg figured no one had seen him before.
Except maybe Harry. He seemed willing to crumble in front of her, anyway. She was tiny and sweet-faced, but Mycroft seemed to build his entire defence structure around her. And if those longing looks Greg had seen her cast at the merlot were any indication, the dependence was mutual.
John never saw any of this. John, it seemed, didn't see anything beyond his single minded pursuit, so it was just typical that now, amidst a truly heroic downpour, Greg was jerked back to awareness by the sound of John dragging the garage door open.
'Are you sure?' Mike (or Mark) called through the sheeting rain. 'I mean…it's not exactly a day for it!'
John dragged the motorbike out of the garage, his head ducked and the collar of his jacket turned up. 'I don't know what the weather will be like when I find him!' He called back. 'If I have to use this thing, I need to know I can handle it in unfavourable conditions!'
Greg groaned to himself. The bike was a thing of beauty, and it just about made Greg cry to see it, if falcons could cry. It was a beast, gleaming and new where John hadn't already managed to splatter it with mud or oil, bullet sleek and hungry. Even on Moriarty's missions, Greg rarely got this close to a bike, and never to a bike like John's. Mycroft had to have given him the money, because no way a soldier at the beginning of his career could afford a sodding BMW.
Not that he seemed to care. The bike was gorgeous, enough to make Greg's non-existent fingers ache for the throttle, for the ghosts of his legs and hips to damn near scream for the perfect support of the seat, for his ears to remember the scream of tyres on road, his nose the smell of petrol and leather. He wanted that bike. No, fuck that. He wanted his bike.
'What if you crash? John?' Mike called, but John slipped on his helmet and paid him no mind.
The engine revved, John settled into the seat, his soaked fatigues clinging to his legs and weighing him down. He and the bike tore away down the road, and Greg just didn't have the heart to follow him.
He sighed a heavy sigh and leaned his tiny body against the tree. John had to slip up soon. He couldn't take this much longer.
~~~
John was soaked. That fact had weaselled its way into his brain bit by bit until it was all he could think about, despite the kinetic frenzy of the bike below him. His experiment (heh) had been more or less successful. He'd done a fair bit of careening on sharp turns, but thus far he still had all his limbs and digits so he counted it as a win. Though he was starting to see the appeal of leathers, since something water-resistant and pavement-proof would come in remarkably handy right about now.
He liked the bike. He really liked the bike. It was probably as close to flying as a human would ever get. But even this lost its appeal after a good hour and a half of constant deluge.
Christ he was even starting to sound like him. Nearly two weeks, barely sleeping, eating the bare minimum to keep his body functioning, bringing the military with him, and he was starting to crack.
He finally spotted the house in the distance, and his whole body sagged in relief. He rolled back on the throttle and the bike leapt forward, carrying him home.
He returned the motorbike to the garage and stumbled into the house. The heat hit him like a fist and he had to brace himself against the wall for a bit before he could take off his boots. They squelched against the floor and dripped steadily.
'John?'
He looked up, blinking into the warm light of the kitchen. 'Mum.'
'What happened to you?'
John slipped out of his jacket and attempted to hang it on the hook. Wasn't it green before? 'Had a bit of a joyride. The bike.'
'In this?' She demanded.
John shrugged and watched with mild interest as a clump of mud sloughed off of the back of his jacket to splatter on the cupboard floor. 'Yeah…'
'John, you'll catch your death. Get out of those wet clothes this minute!'
John smirked, his eyelids drooping. 'Yes, mum. Should I tell Harry it's bed time?'
'Jonathan Hamish Watson!'
John flinched. 'Sorry.'
Ann deflated. 'John…stop. Just stop. You're killing yourself.'
'Bollocks.' He sighed. 'I'm fine.'
'You're falling asleep on your feet!'
'Jus' riding…'
'John!'
'I'm fine, mum!' He snapped. 'Stay out of it.'
Ann glared at him as he moved to the door across the room and crossed her arms over her chest. 'You won't rest until we're mourning you as well, will you?'
John froze, his hand on the door frame. He curled it into a fist and slammed it against the wood. 'Shut up!' He snarled. Then he rounded on her, eyes blazing, 'We are not fucking mourning him, you understand? He's not fucking dead! Don't you ever say that again!'
He span round and stomped out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him and leaving his mother to stare, open mouthed, at the space where he'd been.
~~~
Falcons have good ears.
Really, they do. It's a bird thing. But even with his human ears Greg would've had no trouble hearing the row in the kitchen. He wanted to wince. By all of Sherlock's accounts, John Watson was not the sort of man to go spare at his own mother, but Greg had been watching the man for more than a week now. He knew desperation when he saw it. He could practically see the cracks in the poor guy's spirit growing wider and crumbling at the edges.
John didn't have much time. None of them did.
*You did this, kid.* He whispered to a boy a world away who couldn't hear him. *You came into our lives and now everything is happening. It's like we were waiting for you.*
He flew around the house, trying to glimpse John through the windows, before he realised that he knew just where John would be tonight.
He flapped his protesting wings through the cool night air and lighted on a branch near the unlocked window of Sherlock's bedroom.
~~~
John knew what hate felt like. He'd felt it for Mycroft in those few months after his last phone call to England. He felt it for the monster who'd taken Sherlock from him. He felt it for the arrogant bastard who'd left the taunting bullet casing at the crash site.
But lately his hate was turning inward, nearly choking him with its intensity. He hated the man he was becoming. Hated him down to the bone. He stood in the shower and let the water pound against his back and tried to remember the John Watson he used to be, the John Watson who had been worthy of Sherlock's heart.
He couldn't manage it. He sank to his knees and willed the hot water to burn him away, to burn out all of the hard that had worked its way into his skin, leaving just him in its wake. He wanted to wash away all the anger, the desire to hurt, the need to draw blood, to watch it flow. For Sherlock's sake he was becoming a monster, and he couldn't say for certain if there'd be anything else left by the time all of this was over.
If it was ever over.
'Sherlock…' He sobbed, his voice all but lost to the spray. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry.'
Sherlock's bedroom still smelled of him. John tried not to sleep there too often, unwilling to let his scent crowd Sherlock's out of the space before he got him back. He held his dog tags loosely in his hand. They were caked in mud and grit and his own sweat, and he couldn't stand to feel them on his body any longer. Soldiers wore tags, and just for tonight he didn't want to be a soldier. He pulled back the duvet and crept into Sherlock's bed.
Yes, he decided. It would have been just like this, if they'd dared that night. He'd slip under the covers gingerly, shy of moving too fast, of doing too much. Sherlock would be waiting for him, tucked away where he couldn't be seen. He might already be naked, John wouldn't be able to tell until he felt those long, wiry arms wrap around him, until he was pulled against that warm, solid chest. They'd kiss to start, eager to explore this new secret they'd just unlocked, to perfect it. They'd do it, too. They'd raise kissing to an art form. They'd redefine it.
John softly flexed his fingers over the empty mattress beside him. It was cold. It was always cold. He was starting to have trouble imagining it any other way. He lay there, absently stroking the sheet and breathing in a memory, until he drifted off to sleep.
~~~
Greg watched with keen predator's eyes for John's breathing to even out, to deepen until there was no doubt that he was asleep, then he took a deep breath, flew down to the grass below, and used one foot to bring the bullet casing to his beak.
He was nervous. God knew he'd practised enough, drilling under Sherlock's inexhaustible eye for nights on end until he could reliably prize the wax away with his beak without spilling the precious water inside, but one mistake here would cost them everything.
He clicked his beak in agitation, then carefully, so carefully slipped the wicked hook of it under the wax and twisted his neck just…so…
The wax crumbled away, exposing Molly's hair droplets to the open air. Greg took another deep breath, gently lowered his foot, and concentrated on the body he wanted.
He opened his eyes, licked his lips and smiled. He spared a second, just a second, to run his impossible fingers over his impossible face, and he thanked whatever passed for God these days for the existence of Sherlock Holmes.
He climbed the ivy trellis up to the window, one eye constantly on the casing and its precious cargo. Thanks to the efforts of the household cleaning staff, the window slid up effortlessly and nearly without a sound. Even so, Greg scarcely dared breathe as he brought one boot, then the other to rest on Sherlock's carpet.
So this is it, eh kid? He thought, looking around the bedroom. Not bad. Bit mad scientist for my taste. Is that…stuff supposed to move like that?
He shook his head and made himself focus on the task at hand. He just needed the tags. In the morning he could fly around with them dangling from his talons. That'd get John's attention, no question.
He moved as quietly as he could, hunched over with his hand extended toward the muddied dog tags on the bedside table. He was close enough now that he only needed lower his hand just…so…
Something cold, hard, and very, very sharp appeared against the skin of his neck, and an arm snaked around his chest tight enough to make breathing a bit of an effort. His hands went up instantly, open and empty in surrender. He licked his lips and tried not to swallow.
'Who are you and what do you want with my tags?' The voice behind him did not even remotely sound like 'the lyrical lilt of a piccolo offset by the gentle undertones of a viola'. It sounded like something small, quick and angry. With teeth. Poisonous teeth.
'Sh-Sherlock!' He managed, desperately trying to keep himself from moving a muscle. 'Sherlock told me to say-- to thank you. For not saying it.'
He felt the body behind him grow more tense. 'You're lying.' It was almost, very nearly, a question.
'N-no.' Greg fought back the urge to shake his head. 'No, he said--he wanted to know…if you liked the photos.'
The knife wavered, pulled just slightly away from his throat. Greg pressed on. 'He says he hopes you like the birthday one, because there's no way Harry is getting him into one of those ridiculous hats again.'
There was a sound, either a laugh or a sob, or maybe some cross between the two, and the knife lowered to his collarbone. 'No…no you can't…he can't…'
The hand holding the knife went limp, and the weapon clattered to the floor where Greg kicked it away. John released his hold and collapsed back against the wardrobe. Greg turned to face him, mindful of the water around his neck, and saw a shattered man sinking to the floor, his face grey and his eyes sunken.
'Where is he?' The steel was back in John's voice, colder now. Harder. 'Where. Is. Sherlock?' He looked up at Greg, and Greg had seen wolverines with saner eyes than those.
Greg knelt in front of him, keeping his body open and unthreatening. 'My name is PC Greg Lestrade. I'm a friend of Sherlock's. Sort of a cell mate.'
John's eyes flashed and he shifted his weight into something with intent, and Greg could have slapped himself for that wording.
'No, no it's…he's not…' He sighed and licked his lips. 'Look, this is incredibly complicated and you're guaranteed not to believe most of it, but I've got until this water evaporates to tell you everything you've got to know to save him, so I need you to sit there, shut up, and let me talk.'
John kept his eyes locked on Greg's and nodded.
Greg let out a low breath. 'Okay, mate, here's how this works:'
~~~
Chapter Nine
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 Eight
The night of John's scheduled return, Sherlock emerged from the lake in silence and went immediately to his shelter. Neither Lestrade nor Molly attempted to speak with him. They gave him a wide berth and left him to his silence. And if the soft breathing coming from within the primitive hut was a bit less steady than usual, if there were soft and broken vocalisations with each exhale, well, they pretended not to notice.
He was grateful, though he never said as much.
He knew the Key now. All of it. He knew his place in it, what John had to do, what they would do together. But it occurred to him, as he lay on his side on the earthen floor with his sleeve tucked under his cheek to catch the salty drops of water, just how futile it all was if it turned out John wasn't coming back at all.
He curled up by himself, listening to the silent wail of a heart that had been breaking for two years, and wept John's name into the night.
~~~
Greg was not having a good week.
Really, he was having an absolute shit week.
And it wasn't stopping.
*Fucking lunatic.* He grumbled. *"Oh, he's so sweet and charming and his sodding smiles light up the sodding room."* He mocked, in something far too falsetto to be an imitation of Sherlock's voice. *Fuck that. You never told me he was completely psychotic!*
He huffed and fluffed up his feathers against the rain. It was pissing it down, but there was John bloody Watson out in the post-apocalyptic wasteland of the back garden. He was actually crawling under razor wire. Who did that sort of thing? Wasn't it just in films?
Oh, and now he was going over the wall again. What was that, twelve times now? And there was his mate, Mike or Mark or something, getting drenched despite the rain poncho and umbrella, eyes intent on John and the stopwatch.
Greg sighed and shuffled further into the shelter of the leaves and branches overhead.
*Why can't he just take off those fucking tags?* He snarled to himself. He was doing that a lot since leaving the lake. He was starting to worry a bit. He wasn't used to being alone for so long. Jim usually only kept him out for a few days, but he'd been in Sussex for more than a week watching Sherlock's insane boyfriend work himself into the ground.
And still no opportunity had presented itself. Without the necklace Jim had taken, Greg was just a bird. He was getting their attention, finally, but they all seemed to assume he'd set up house in the woods around here.
He checked the bullet casing from Moran's basement arsenal again. He'd lost count now of how many times he'd done it, but that damned bit of metal was the key to their whole plan. Perhaps more than any of the data from that sick attic, it made their little break-in worthwhile.
He prodded at the casing with a talon. Still intact, still with the watery lock of Molly's hair safely sealed away with wax from the candle they'd stolen from the kitchen.
It was interesting, Greg reflected, what people did when they thought no one was watching. Take Sherlock's brother. Mycroft, the kid had said. He was a downright terrifying chap at first glance, manoeuvring his agents and contacts about like the goddamned chess master. At first, Greg had stood in awe of him.
Right up until he saw the (young, they're all so fucking young) man collapse to his knees in front of John's pretty younger sister and sob into her skirt as she combed her fingers through his increasingly curly hair.
One night, Greg had been tree hopping around the house and had come across Mycroft in his en suite, staring hard into the mirror with his hands gripping the sink so hard his knuckles were white. He was saying something through gritted teeth to his reflection.
Intrigued, Greg had flown as close as he dared and strained his hearing. The night had been calm, and Greg could just make out Mycroft's voice through the glass.
'Remember.' Mycroft had snarled. 'Remember. Come on, just remember.' He closed his eyes and bowed his head, then looked up with eyes blazing.
'Remember, dammit!' He cried as he slammed his fist against the mirror. The composure, the unflappable calm was stripped away and he stood, raw and exposed in a way Greg figured no one had seen him before.
Except maybe Harry. He seemed willing to crumble in front of her, anyway. She was tiny and sweet-faced, but Mycroft seemed to build his entire defence structure around her. And if those longing looks Greg had seen her cast at the merlot were any indication, the dependence was mutual.
John never saw any of this. John, it seemed, didn't see anything beyond his single minded pursuit, so it was just typical that now, amidst a truly heroic downpour, Greg was jerked back to awareness by the sound of John dragging the garage door open.
'Are you sure?' Mike (or Mark) called through the sheeting rain. 'I mean…it's not exactly a day for it!'
John dragged the motorbike out of the garage, his head ducked and the collar of his jacket turned up. 'I don't know what the weather will be like when I find him!' He called back. 'If I have to use this thing, I need to know I can handle it in unfavourable conditions!'
Greg groaned to himself. The bike was a thing of beauty, and it just about made Greg cry to see it, if falcons could cry. It was a beast, gleaming and new where John hadn't already managed to splatter it with mud or oil, bullet sleek and hungry. Even on Moriarty's missions, Greg rarely got this close to a bike, and never to a bike like John's. Mycroft had to have given him the money, because no way a soldier at the beginning of his career could afford a sodding BMW.
Not that he seemed to care. The bike was gorgeous, enough to make Greg's non-existent fingers ache for the throttle, for the ghosts of his legs and hips to damn near scream for the perfect support of the seat, for his ears to remember the scream of tyres on road, his nose the smell of petrol and leather. He wanted that bike. No, fuck that. He wanted his bike.
'What if you crash? John?' Mike called, but John slipped on his helmet and paid him no mind.
The engine revved, John settled into the seat, his soaked fatigues clinging to his legs and weighing him down. He and the bike tore away down the road, and Greg just didn't have the heart to follow him.
He sighed a heavy sigh and leaned his tiny body against the tree. John had to slip up soon. He couldn't take this much longer.
~~~
John was soaked. That fact had weaselled its way into his brain bit by bit until it was all he could think about, despite the kinetic frenzy of the bike below him. His experiment (heh) had been more or less successful. He'd done a fair bit of careening on sharp turns, but thus far he still had all his limbs and digits so he counted it as a win. Though he was starting to see the appeal of leathers, since something water-resistant and pavement-proof would come in remarkably handy right about now.
He liked the bike. He really liked the bike. It was probably as close to flying as a human would ever get. But even this lost its appeal after a good hour and a half of constant deluge.
Christ he was even starting to sound like him. Nearly two weeks, barely sleeping, eating the bare minimum to keep his body functioning, bringing the military with him, and he was starting to crack.
He finally spotted the house in the distance, and his whole body sagged in relief. He rolled back on the throttle and the bike leapt forward, carrying him home.
He returned the motorbike to the garage and stumbled into the house. The heat hit him like a fist and he had to brace himself against the wall for a bit before he could take off his boots. They squelched against the floor and dripped steadily.
'John?'
He looked up, blinking into the warm light of the kitchen. 'Mum.'
'What happened to you?'
John slipped out of his jacket and attempted to hang it on the hook. Wasn't it green before? 'Had a bit of a joyride. The bike.'
'In this?' She demanded.
John shrugged and watched with mild interest as a clump of mud sloughed off of the back of his jacket to splatter on the cupboard floor. 'Yeah…'
'John, you'll catch your death. Get out of those wet clothes this minute!'
John smirked, his eyelids drooping. 'Yes, mum. Should I tell Harry it's bed time?'
'Jonathan Hamish Watson!'
John flinched. 'Sorry.'
Ann deflated. 'John…stop. Just stop. You're killing yourself.'
'Bollocks.' He sighed. 'I'm fine.'
'You're falling asleep on your feet!'
'Jus' riding…'
'John!'
'I'm fine, mum!' He snapped. 'Stay out of it.'
Ann glared at him as he moved to the door across the room and crossed her arms over her chest. 'You won't rest until we're mourning you as well, will you?'
John froze, his hand on the door frame. He curled it into a fist and slammed it against the wood. 'Shut up!' He snarled. Then he rounded on her, eyes blazing, 'We are not fucking mourning him, you understand? He's not fucking dead! Don't you ever say that again!'
He span round and stomped out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him and leaving his mother to stare, open mouthed, at the space where he'd been.
~~~
Falcons have good ears.
Really, they do. It's a bird thing. But even with his human ears Greg would've had no trouble hearing the row in the kitchen. He wanted to wince. By all of Sherlock's accounts, John Watson was not the sort of man to go spare at his own mother, but Greg had been watching the man for more than a week now. He knew desperation when he saw it. He could practically see the cracks in the poor guy's spirit growing wider and crumbling at the edges.
John didn't have much time. None of them did.
*You did this, kid.* He whispered to a boy a world away who couldn't hear him. *You came into our lives and now everything is happening. It's like we were waiting for you.*
He flew around the house, trying to glimpse John through the windows, before he realised that he knew just where John would be tonight.
He flapped his protesting wings through the cool night air and lighted on a branch near the unlocked window of Sherlock's bedroom.
~~~
John knew what hate felt like. He'd felt it for Mycroft in those few months after his last phone call to England. He felt it for the monster who'd taken Sherlock from him. He felt it for the arrogant bastard who'd left the taunting bullet casing at the crash site.
But lately his hate was turning inward, nearly choking him with its intensity. He hated the man he was becoming. Hated him down to the bone. He stood in the shower and let the water pound against his back and tried to remember the John Watson he used to be, the John Watson who had been worthy of Sherlock's heart.
He couldn't manage it. He sank to his knees and willed the hot water to burn him away, to burn out all of the hard that had worked its way into his skin, leaving just him in its wake. He wanted to wash away all the anger, the desire to hurt, the need to draw blood, to watch it flow. For Sherlock's sake he was becoming a monster, and he couldn't say for certain if there'd be anything else left by the time all of this was over.
If it was ever over.
'Sherlock…' He sobbed, his voice all but lost to the spray. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry.'
Sherlock's bedroom still smelled of him. John tried not to sleep there too often, unwilling to let his scent crowd Sherlock's out of the space before he got him back. He held his dog tags loosely in his hand. They were caked in mud and grit and his own sweat, and he couldn't stand to feel them on his body any longer. Soldiers wore tags, and just for tonight he didn't want to be a soldier. He pulled back the duvet and crept into Sherlock's bed.
Yes, he decided. It would have been just like this, if they'd dared that night. He'd slip under the covers gingerly, shy of moving too fast, of doing too much. Sherlock would be waiting for him, tucked away where he couldn't be seen. He might already be naked, John wouldn't be able to tell until he felt those long, wiry arms wrap around him, until he was pulled against that warm, solid chest. They'd kiss to start, eager to explore this new secret they'd just unlocked, to perfect it. They'd do it, too. They'd raise kissing to an art form. They'd redefine it.
John softly flexed his fingers over the empty mattress beside him. It was cold. It was always cold. He was starting to have trouble imagining it any other way. He lay there, absently stroking the sheet and breathing in a memory, until he drifted off to sleep.
~~~
Greg watched with keen predator's eyes for John's breathing to even out, to deepen until there was no doubt that he was asleep, then he took a deep breath, flew down to the grass below, and used one foot to bring the bullet casing to his beak.
He was nervous. God knew he'd practised enough, drilling under Sherlock's inexhaustible eye for nights on end until he could reliably prize the wax away with his beak without spilling the precious water inside, but one mistake here would cost them everything.
He clicked his beak in agitation, then carefully, so carefully slipped the wicked hook of it under the wax and twisted his neck just…so…
The wax crumbled away, exposing Molly's hair droplets to the open air. Greg took another deep breath, gently lowered his foot, and concentrated on the body he wanted.
He opened his eyes, licked his lips and smiled. He spared a second, just a second, to run his impossible fingers over his impossible face, and he thanked whatever passed for God these days for the existence of Sherlock Holmes.
He climbed the ivy trellis up to the window, one eye constantly on the casing and its precious cargo. Thanks to the efforts of the household cleaning staff, the window slid up effortlessly and nearly without a sound. Even so, Greg scarcely dared breathe as he brought one boot, then the other to rest on Sherlock's carpet.
So this is it, eh kid? He thought, looking around the bedroom. Not bad. Bit mad scientist for my taste. Is that…stuff supposed to move like that?
He shook his head and made himself focus on the task at hand. He just needed the tags. In the morning he could fly around with them dangling from his talons. That'd get John's attention, no question.
He moved as quietly as he could, hunched over with his hand extended toward the muddied dog tags on the bedside table. He was close enough now that he only needed lower his hand just…so…
Something cold, hard, and very, very sharp appeared against the skin of his neck, and an arm snaked around his chest tight enough to make breathing a bit of an effort. His hands went up instantly, open and empty in surrender. He licked his lips and tried not to swallow.
'Who are you and what do you want with my tags?' The voice behind him did not even remotely sound like 'the lyrical lilt of a piccolo offset by the gentle undertones of a viola'. It sounded like something small, quick and angry. With teeth. Poisonous teeth.
'Sh-Sherlock!' He managed, desperately trying to keep himself from moving a muscle. 'Sherlock told me to say-- to thank you. For not saying it.'
He felt the body behind him grow more tense. 'You're lying.' It was almost, very nearly, a question.
'N-no.' Greg fought back the urge to shake his head. 'No, he said--he wanted to know…if you liked the photos.'
The knife wavered, pulled just slightly away from his throat. Greg pressed on. 'He says he hopes you like the birthday one, because there's no way Harry is getting him into one of those ridiculous hats again.'
There was a sound, either a laugh or a sob, or maybe some cross between the two, and the knife lowered to his collarbone. 'No…no you can't…he can't…'
The hand holding the knife went limp, and the weapon clattered to the floor where Greg kicked it away. John released his hold and collapsed back against the wardrobe. Greg turned to face him, mindful of the water around his neck, and saw a shattered man sinking to the floor, his face grey and his eyes sunken.
'Where is he?' The steel was back in John's voice, colder now. Harder. 'Where. Is. Sherlock?' He looked up at Greg, and Greg had seen wolverines with saner eyes than those.
Greg knelt in front of him, keeping his body open and unthreatening. 'My name is PC Greg Lestrade. I'm a friend of Sherlock's. Sort of a cell mate.'
John's eyes flashed and he shifted his weight into something with intent, and Greg could have slapped himself for that wording.
'No, no it's…he's not…' He sighed and licked his lips. 'Look, this is incredibly complicated and you're guaranteed not to believe most of it, but I've got until this water evaporates to tell you everything you've got to know to save him, so I need you to sit there, shut up, and let me talk.'
John kept his eyes locked on Greg's and nodded.
Greg let out a low breath. 'Okay, mate, here's how this works:'
~~~
Chapter Nine