Fill: Find a Way to You - Chapter Fifteen
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.
A/N: Bit of a shorter chapter this time, mostly lead-up.
Chapter Fifteen
John's dog tags glinted in the waxing moonlight, swaying gently as they hung from Sherlock's hand. He hadn't yet dared to put them around his neck, but instead kept them secreted away in a hidden hole in his shelter. Holding them, watching their drunken dance through the night air, he could almost fancy he felt the heat of John's heart still radiating from the metal.
His throat aching, he held one gently between his fingers and stroked the etched letters of John's name. The tags were dirty, caked with mud and dirt and oil, and Sherlock could read a hundred secrets in them, whether he wanted to or not. And he didn't. He didn't want to think of a John who hid things from him, who kept him at arm's length, who felt ashamed.
He closed his eyes, clutched the discs against his breast, and remembered.
John's hand, stroking reverently across his chest, as though Sherlock were some priceless, unearthed masterpiece rather than flesh and blood. John's fingers, alternately dancing and stumbling over the buttons of his shirt, baring skin to the cool air.
John pausing, stilling, resting a hand over Sherlock's breastbone, where the necklace had always rested. Should have rested now.
'Do I want to know?'
Sherlock wrapped his own hand around John's, met his eye. 'You already know.'
'When did he take it?'
'When I gave it to him.'
John flinched, closed his eyes, turned his head. 'Lie to me. For God's sake.'
Sherlock shook his head. 'It was all I had to give.'
'For?'
'I couldn't let them kill him.'
John tensed. It was as though Sherlock could see the jealousy, the anger, written in the air. Then the shame, hot and sharp, and John sagged.
Sherlock bit his lip and ran a hand down John's chest, resting his fingers lightly over the skin above his waistband. 'Please, John. This is all we get. Please, don't let it pass by.'
John shuddered, arched his neck. Then he took a deep breath and slipped his hand into a pocket. When he pulled it out, there was a dull chain hanging from his fingers. He adjusted his grip, and the round tags tumbled out of his hand to hang and sway above Sherlock's chest. John gently lowered them over Sherlock's heart, a bit higher than the swan would have sat on his chest, and let the chain spool slowly onto Sherlock's skin. He then took Sherlock's hand and rested the palm against the tags, pressing it there with his own as he dipped down to place a kiss on Sherlock's lips.
'Hold them. Please?'
Sherlock let out a shaking breath, felt his own heart pounding under his fingers, and nodded.
'Don't let go.'
Sherlock shook his head, wrapped his fingers around the discs, and reached his free hand up to pull John to him at last.
Sherlock gathered up the tags into his hand and pressed them against his chest. They were so different, so utterly unlike the swan. John had poured his kindness, his optimism, his generosity and his love into the swan. It had been all the best parts of him, condensed and solidified into something Sherlock could hold in the palm of his hand.
But the tags. One glance and Sherlock could see the anger, the hate, the blood and sweat that John had sacrificed since he first wore them. He could smell faint traces of gunpowder, see a plethora of different mud and soil types. There was blood on the metal, worked into the grooves where the letters had been etched. They hadn't been cleaned, hadn't been cared for. They were all of John's rough edges, his dark secrets, all the parts of himself he wanted to conceal, to bury, to wish away.
These tags were all the things John had never told him.
He loved them desperately.
He looked up at Molly, far in the distance, dancing with the water. He watched shapes and forms rise into the air and sweep around her before crashing back into the lake. He wondered if she liked him watching, if she even cared or noticed. He wondered what it was like, those four years before Greg was imprisoned with her, what it was like to be completely alone.
Something of what he was thinking must have bled into her, or else she was just that observant, because Sherlock felt an echo of his own gaping emptiness, the hard-edged hole in his heart that seemed to grow with every second John was away from him. He felt it reflected and intensified to the point where it was all he could do just to breathe.
*Just like that.* Molly's voice whispered in his mind. *Always.*
He nodded, let the tags tumble from his hand to hang by their chain, then slipped it over his head and around his neck.
I won't leave without you. He didn't say. Couldn't say. Could barely think.
*Yes.* Molly's voice was faint and small. *You will.*
~~~
Greg hadn't flown this hard since he got wings. Back and forth to and from Sussex, it was nearly enough to make his feathers fall out. He was so bloody tired, so unbearably sore, and he'd probably end up doing it all over again before the Big Night.
It was, he reflected, bloody negligent for all those star-cross'd lovers stories to gloss over all the hard work done by the supporting cast, as it were. Nobody ever gave a thought to the poor bloke running messages and tokens between the two mooning sods. It wasn't an easy job, and it's not like you get paid for it. You just get knots all through your back and half the time you don't even get to whinge about it to your mates because the whole sodding ordeal is a big secret.
And, of course, no sooner had he touched down and gone bipedal than Sherlock was on him with a demanding, 'Well?'
'Yeah, give us a second, will you? I'm done in!'
Sherlock bit his lip, and behind him Molly bounced on the balls of her feet and clutched at the fabric of her skirt. 'Come on! Tell us, tell us, tell us!' She chirped.
Greg rolled his eyes. 'Yeah, nice to see you, too, gorgeous.' He slipped out of his leather jacket with a wince and a hiss, then tried to pull off his shirt and whimpered, letting his arms fall back down in defeat.
Sherlock scoffed. 'Here.' He snapped, and grabbed hold of the shirt, pulling it up and off of him with deceptively gentle hands. 'Now talk!'
Greg let Sherlock pull the fabric away and sighed. 'It's all set. Well, nearly. Your boyfriend is about ready to start punching people. The car will be waiting on the other side at nine, so we need to be out of the wood by then. Harry will be in charge of your clothes, so don't worry. They're holding it at the Queen's House, near the Royal Observatory. Apparently Mycroft picked it out even before he knew about the whole moon thing.'
Sherlock blinked and frowned. 'Mycroft knows?'
Greg rotated his shoulders and rocked his head. 'Yeah. Everything. You, me, Molls. The lot. He gave me this.' He reached into a pocket and pulled out an ornate glass phial on a leather cord. 'Don't know if it'll work, but at least it's classier than hanging Seb's rubbish around my neck. And I can get it open with my beak if I have to. We tested it.'
Sherlock took the phial in hand and examined it. 'I see. The hypothesis being, of course, that since your boundary is a visual one, a transparent vessel might allow you to transform freely without risk of the liquid evaporating.'
'That's about the size of it.' Greg confirmed.
'Could that work?' Molly asked.
'Let's find out.' Sherlock flipped the stopper back on its hinge and handed it to Molly.
She frowned in concentration and several strands of her hair turned liquid and flowed through the air into the glass, filling it up before she carefully replaced the stopper, sealing her hair inside.
'I'm going to go bald before this is all over.' She quipped, with a slight smile.
'You won't have the chance.' Sherlock told her. 'I'll see to it.'
Molly smiled, tight and brittle. 'So you keep saying.'
Sherlock glowered and clenched his fists. 'Why do you two have such trouble believing me? I told you I'd free you!'
'Relax, kid.' Greg held up a placating hand. 'You'll ruin your spine, you keep carrying the world on your shoulders. Molls and I have been doing this whole captive thing for a long time. We're good at it. Probably shite at anything else at this point. Don't worry about us, just focus on getting yourself out.'
Sherlock fixed him with an accusing glare. 'Whatever happened to "together or not at all" then?' He demanded.
Greg and Molly exchanged an indulging look. 'Sherlock,' Molly said. 'That's a vow for people who never had a hope of getting out in the first place.'
Greg shrugged. 'All that's different now. And, yeah, maybe you can break us out somewhere down the line, but in the meantime you've got a real shot. You can't risk losing it for our sakes. We won't let you. Think about us after you can get a sunburn again, deal?'
Sherlock drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. 'Very well.' He said. He held out a hand to Molly and she placed the phial in his palm. He held it up to the moonlight and squinted. 'There's oil in here.' He said with a smirk. 'He always was a master of contingencies.'
Greg shifted his weight. 'Think it'll work?'
Sherlock handed him the glass. 'One way to find out.'
'Good luck.' Said Molly.
They walked together to the edge of Greg's boundary, the tiny sliver of lake water glittering through the trees behind them, and Greg slipped the leather cord over his head. With a sidelong glance at Sherlock, he took a step forward.
He felt a bit dizzy, a little winded, but apart from that nothing happened. He looked down at the water sloshing gently behind the glass and took another step. It was only a little wobbly.
His head hurt. It was a bit like crossing his eyes and seeing two images where there should be one. Two different yet eerily similar perceptions danced and vied for his attention. He winced and shut his eyes, his hand flying to his head.
'Greg?' Sherlock sounded worried, but Greg waved him off and forced himself to move again. The dizzy headache intensified and he yelped, but the pain of it sapped the strength from his legs and he stumbled further past his boundary line and the pain vanished.
He let out a sigh and let himself sink to the soft, damp leaves and mosses below him, panting and shaking more than perhaps he'd like to admit. Not that Sherlock would miss it.
Sure enough the kid was kneeling beside him, one hand hovering uncertainly over Greg's shoulder.
'I'm fine.'
'You don't look fine.'
'I wasn't, a second ago. It's okay now. I think it got confused for a bit, but it's alright here.'
'Greg…' Sherlock ventured. 'You know what this means.'
Greg nodded, reached up a hand to clutch at the glass container. 'I know.'
'You could…I mean, if you wanted to. You don't have to stay anymore.'
Greg looked up at him, saw the careful blankness of his features, and shook his head. 'I never had to stay, Sherlock. I could've flown away at any time. I never had to let Jim put that leash on me, or put up with Seb's moods, I never had to do any of it. Fuck, I never even had to risk my damn neck trying to convince Molly to trust me. I definitely didn't have to fly my feathery arse across southern England for you. I don't do things because I have to do them, and I don't run away. Clear?'
Sherlock ducked his head and averted his eyes. He didn't answer.
Greg sighed. 'It's borrowed freedom, anyway. Anything happens to this thing and that's it. I'm fucked. I figure it's worth holding out for the real thing.' He gently shoved at Sherlock's shoulder, forcing him to topple over until he caught himself with an out flung arm.
'Right.' Sherlock offered a sickly sort of smile, but it was good enough.
'Now, let's see what we can do about making you look respectable again, eh?' He stood up and offered a hand to Sherlock, who took it and allowed Greg to help him to his feet.
They turned back, and Greg slung a companionable arm around Sherlock's shoulder, and they both pretended it had nothing to do with keeping Greg upright as they crossed the boundary once more.
~~~
'Progress report.' Harry seemed to materialise from thin air to drop a blue folder on Mycroft's desk. Mycroft blinked and resisted the urge to shake his head.
'Thank you.' He said.
'I peeked at it.' Harry went on. 'It says Sherlock is recovering faster than expected, but they want to hold him for observation.'
'That's good news, then.'
'It doesn't say what he's recovering from. There's nothing at all in there about where he was found.'
'Such information would only be redacted.' Mycroft lied smoothly, and tried to ignore the twist in his abdomen. 'Any document containing sensitive information would be delivered much more securely, I assure you.'
'But I'm--'
'Not cleared for that information.' Mycroft insisted. 'I am sorry, Harry. But that level of involvement would compromise too much of your life. It is regrettable when such measures intrude upon one's personal life, but I cannot rewrite the rules to suit myself, or you. '
'But John, that's perfectly okay.' She sniped.
Mycroft sighed. 'John is a soldier. As far as the government is concerned he is still on active duty. And he led the extraction team that found Sherlock in the first place. So yes, his clearance exceeds yours. Do feel free to enlist any time you feel left out.'
Harry narrowed her eyes. 'You think I can't tell when you're lying. You're wrong.'
Mycroft actually had to concentrate to keep his face from betraying the churning, roiling wrongness in his belly. 'If that will be all?'
Harry glowered at him, but she didn't respond. She turned on her heel and strode out of the office, shutting the door just slightly harder than necessary behind her.
Mycroft collapsed into his chair. He hated lying to her. When it was all over, he resolved, he'd take her to Vienna, or possibly Sydney. One of the cities whose post cards decorated her bedroom wall. He'd do something, at least.
He stood again and moved to the window where John was pacing in front of the house, speaking into a cordless phone through gritted teeth and attempting to tug at his exceedingly short hair. The party itself was shaping up nicely, every aspect on schedule and under control, or as much as could be expected on such short notice and with such a delicate guest list. But to see John go on about it one would think the whole thing was falling apart around their ears.
Mycroft wasn't a fool. He knew that John's unease and frustration had more to do with Sherlock than any politics or logistics. He could see the tension and strain coiled under John's skin with each jerky movement. John was like an addict cut off from his substance, and each day the longing, the physical need grew visibly worse.
And while Mycroft preferred not to dwell on precisely which physical needs John was feeling, he could sympathise with the sentiment. Sherlock's absence clawed at him, raked against the interior of his cranium and slashed at the space under his sternum. And now, to be so very close…
He reluctantly turned his attention to the pile of security alerts on his desk. Such a lot of important people inspired quite a lot of opportunistic predators, and Mycroft was determined to weed out each and every one of them.
He'd failed to protect his younger brother once. He would not be so careless again.
~~~
Sherlock, as a rule, was not prone to excessive preening. After all, there were only so many ways to arrange one's feathers so they're all pointing more or less in the same direction. But today he couldn't help fussing with them, ruffling then smoothing them over and over in restless anticipation because tonight was the night.
He shivered, and somewhere deep inside of him callused fingers were stroking gently up the inside of his thigh, soft lips were ghosting warm air over the shell of his ear, and in his head there was a ceaseless litany of tonight, tonight, tonight.
*Would you stop that? You look beautiful.*
Swans cannot roll their eyes. This, Sherlock thought, was one of life's greatest injustices. *I am not, contrary to what you may imagine, a Byronic heroine, Molly.* He sneered.
Molly sighed, and the sensation was like the brush of water lily petals in his mind. *Handsome, then. Though I think "beautiful" is more apt.*
Sherlock scoffed. Then paused. Well, no sense avoiding it. 'Was my hair alright? Before I changed?'
Molly giggled. It was like tiny bubbles bursting against his skin. *You looked lovely. You'll look amazing in your suit, I'm sure.*
Sherlock smiled, internally at any rate. *Do you think we'll--* something tugged in his chest and his words died in his head. He gasped, and the pulling, shifting sensation intensified.
*Sherlock?* Molly fountained out of the water and formed her body to kneel by him in concern.
*Mol--* He broke off with a cry as something inside of him seemed to melt and flow and there was no pain but it was unlike anything he'd felt before. His heart pounded in his chest once, twice, three times, and he was flat on his back, blinking into the sunlight, and utterly human.
'Sherlock!' Molly gasped.
Sherlock blinked and groaned. The sun had already begun to set, and the light was far dimmer than it had been, but it was still far too bright for his human eyes to handle and he clenched them shut.
'Sherlock, what…?'
Before Sherlock could answer, another voice cut in, and they both froze.
'Do you like it?' Jim asked, sauntering into the clearing. 'I've been practicing. All for you, darling.'
Sherlock clambered to his feet dripping and confused but still standing.
'Wondered when you'd turn up again.' Sherlock said. 'I can't say I missed you overmuch.'
Jim smirked and slipped his hands into his pockets. 'Well, I have been busy. You'd be amazed what proper motivation will do to improve a guy's study habits. And, you know, I think I have found the perfect way to kill you.'
'Took you that long, did it?' Sherlock challenged.
'Sherlock.' Molly warned.
'Stay out of this, little girl.' Moriarty drawled. 'Sherlock and I have business to take care of.'
'Piss off, Jim.' Molly snapped. 'You can't bully me anymore.'
Jim arched an eyebrow, feigning surprise. 'Oh, can't I?' He raised a hand and Sherlock felt something like a very strong, very localised wind push against his back. He tumbled forward, clear of the lake, and landed hard on his back on the stony shore.
His mind instantly lit up with a thousand warning flashes of Not safe. Vulnerable. Exposed. And he tried to scramble back to the water only to be jerked to a halt by something clamped around his ankle. He looked down, and one gnarled tree root had wrapped itself tightly around his trouser leg and was holding him in an unyielding grip mere inches from the safety of Molly's domain.
'Your boyfriend has been busy.' Jim said. 'Very, very busy. He and your brother have been raising all sorts of red flags. Did you honestly think I wouldn't notice?'
Sherlock forced himself onto his hands and knees. His head was pounding and he still felt unsteady from the unexpected transformation. He managed to get to his feet, but he couldn't manage anything like a balanced stance with the root clutching at his leg.
'He'll come for me.' He told Jim. 'He won't stop. He'll try again and again until we've beaten you.'
'I'm sure he would.' Jim smirked. 'But I don't intend to give him that chance.' He raised his hand again, and several of the trees around them shook and convulsed, then they began to melt into the earth, great sheets of bark sloughing to the ground and then sinking into the soil. Sherlock whipped his head around, trying to follow their progress, but he already knew where it was all heading.
'No.' He breathed.
Jim grinned. 'Yes.'
Molly surged forward, but before she could raise so much as a rivulet a wooden spike shot out of the ground. The tip was sharpened to a wicked point, and it grew in the blink of an eye until it rested just against Sherlock's throat. He swallowed, and felt the tip sink into skin. He knew it had drawn blood.
Molly paled and dropped her hand.
'I have your attention? Good.' Jim began to walk a loose circle around Sherlock just as the first shoots began to emerge from the ground, surrounding Sherlock at six inch intervals and rising into the air at a slight angle, all reaching toward the same apex some three feet over Sherlock's head.
'It's not easy, changing you at will. That's what the day and night cycle is for. But I thought it'd be worth it to see your face when you realise just how badly you've lost.'
The bars, for they were bars, for a prison cell or a cage, had risen to waist-height now, but Jim just kept talking as though nothing were happening at all.
'You could have had everything, Sherlock. You and I, we could have taken this world apart. We would have been limitless. But you just couldn't see it, could you? You'd rather let some gun-toting ape run your life.' He shrugged. 'Your wish, Sherlock. But I did warn you. You won't live to see tomorrow morning.'
Sherlock glanced down at the sharpened stake, at the rising bars now as high as his shoulders.
'And this is your perfect death? You're going to impale me?'
Jim snorted, then laughed, wiping imaginary tears from his eye. 'Oh no, Sherlock, not at all.' He snapped his fingers and the pointed stake receded into the ground. The bars joined at their apex, sealing Sherlock in a cage with no doors or locks.
'I'm not going to kill you tonight, Sherlock.' Jim said. He reached a hand through the bars to caress Sherlock's cheek. 'I don't have to.'
He pulled his hand back, pressed a kiss to the first two fingers, then pressed them against Sherlock's lips.
'Not when John is going to do it for me.'
He smirked, playing up sadness with his eyebrows and his lips, and let his hand fall. Then he turned on his heel and strode toward the house.
Sherlock looked after him, stunned and motionless. He barely noticed when his human shape fell from him like the skin of a snake, and he was a swan once more.
~~~
Chapter Sixteen
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.
A/N: Bit of a shorter chapter this time, mostly lead-up.
Chapter Fifteen
John's dog tags glinted in the waxing moonlight, swaying gently as they hung from Sherlock's hand. He hadn't yet dared to put them around his neck, but instead kept them secreted away in a hidden hole in his shelter. Holding them, watching their drunken dance through the night air, he could almost fancy he felt the heat of John's heart still radiating from the metal.
His throat aching, he held one gently between his fingers and stroked the etched letters of John's name. The tags were dirty, caked with mud and dirt and oil, and Sherlock could read a hundred secrets in them, whether he wanted to or not. And he didn't. He didn't want to think of a John who hid things from him, who kept him at arm's length, who felt ashamed.
He closed his eyes, clutched the discs against his breast, and remembered.
John's hand, stroking reverently across his chest, as though Sherlock were some priceless, unearthed masterpiece rather than flesh and blood. John's fingers, alternately dancing and stumbling over the buttons of his shirt, baring skin to the cool air.
John pausing, stilling, resting a hand over Sherlock's breastbone, where the necklace had always rested. Should have rested now.
'Do I want to know?'
Sherlock wrapped his own hand around John's, met his eye. 'You already know.'
'When did he take it?'
'When I gave it to him.'
John flinched, closed his eyes, turned his head. 'Lie to me. For God's sake.'
Sherlock shook his head. 'It was all I had to give.'
'For?'
'I couldn't let them kill him.'
John tensed. It was as though Sherlock could see the jealousy, the anger, written in the air. Then the shame, hot and sharp, and John sagged.
Sherlock bit his lip and ran a hand down John's chest, resting his fingers lightly over the skin above his waistband. 'Please, John. This is all we get. Please, don't let it pass by.'
John shuddered, arched his neck. Then he took a deep breath and slipped his hand into a pocket. When he pulled it out, there was a dull chain hanging from his fingers. He adjusted his grip, and the round tags tumbled out of his hand to hang and sway above Sherlock's chest. John gently lowered them over Sherlock's heart, a bit higher than the swan would have sat on his chest, and let the chain spool slowly onto Sherlock's skin. He then took Sherlock's hand and rested the palm against the tags, pressing it there with his own as he dipped down to place a kiss on Sherlock's lips.
'Hold them. Please?'
Sherlock let out a shaking breath, felt his own heart pounding under his fingers, and nodded.
'Don't let go.'
Sherlock shook his head, wrapped his fingers around the discs, and reached his free hand up to pull John to him at last.
Sherlock gathered up the tags into his hand and pressed them against his chest. They were so different, so utterly unlike the swan. John had poured his kindness, his optimism, his generosity and his love into the swan. It had been all the best parts of him, condensed and solidified into something Sherlock could hold in the palm of his hand.
But the tags. One glance and Sherlock could see the anger, the hate, the blood and sweat that John had sacrificed since he first wore them. He could smell faint traces of gunpowder, see a plethora of different mud and soil types. There was blood on the metal, worked into the grooves where the letters had been etched. They hadn't been cleaned, hadn't been cared for. They were all of John's rough edges, his dark secrets, all the parts of himself he wanted to conceal, to bury, to wish away.
These tags were all the things John had never told him.
He loved them desperately.
He looked up at Molly, far in the distance, dancing with the water. He watched shapes and forms rise into the air and sweep around her before crashing back into the lake. He wondered if she liked him watching, if she even cared or noticed. He wondered what it was like, those four years before Greg was imprisoned with her, what it was like to be completely alone.
Something of what he was thinking must have bled into her, or else she was just that observant, because Sherlock felt an echo of his own gaping emptiness, the hard-edged hole in his heart that seemed to grow with every second John was away from him. He felt it reflected and intensified to the point where it was all he could do just to breathe.
*Just like that.* Molly's voice whispered in his mind. *Always.*
He nodded, let the tags tumble from his hand to hang by their chain, then slipped it over his head and around his neck.
I won't leave without you. He didn't say. Couldn't say. Could barely think.
*Yes.* Molly's voice was faint and small. *You will.*
~~~
Greg hadn't flown this hard since he got wings. Back and forth to and from Sussex, it was nearly enough to make his feathers fall out. He was so bloody tired, so unbearably sore, and he'd probably end up doing it all over again before the Big Night.
It was, he reflected, bloody negligent for all those star-cross'd lovers stories to gloss over all the hard work done by the supporting cast, as it were. Nobody ever gave a thought to the poor bloke running messages and tokens between the two mooning sods. It wasn't an easy job, and it's not like you get paid for it. You just get knots all through your back and half the time you don't even get to whinge about it to your mates because the whole sodding ordeal is a big secret.
And, of course, no sooner had he touched down and gone bipedal than Sherlock was on him with a demanding, 'Well?'
'Yeah, give us a second, will you? I'm done in!'
Sherlock bit his lip, and behind him Molly bounced on the balls of her feet and clutched at the fabric of her skirt. 'Come on! Tell us, tell us, tell us!' She chirped.
Greg rolled his eyes. 'Yeah, nice to see you, too, gorgeous.' He slipped out of his leather jacket with a wince and a hiss, then tried to pull off his shirt and whimpered, letting his arms fall back down in defeat.
Sherlock scoffed. 'Here.' He snapped, and grabbed hold of the shirt, pulling it up and off of him with deceptively gentle hands. 'Now talk!'
Greg let Sherlock pull the fabric away and sighed. 'It's all set. Well, nearly. Your boyfriend is about ready to start punching people. The car will be waiting on the other side at nine, so we need to be out of the wood by then. Harry will be in charge of your clothes, so don't worry. They're holding it at the Queen's House, near the Royal Observatory. Apparently Mycroft picked it out even before he knew about the whole moon thing.'
Sherlock blinked and frowned. 'Mycroft knows?'
Greg rotated his shoulders and rocked his head. 'Yeah. Everything. You, me, Molls. The lot. He gave me this.' He reached into a pocket and pulled out an ornate glass phial on a leather cord. 'Don't know if it'll work, but at least it's classier than hanging Seb's rubbish around my neck. And I can get it open with my beak if I have to. We tested it.'
Sherlock took the phial in hand and examined it. 'I see. The hypothesis being, of course, that since your boundary is a visual one, a transparent vessel might allow you to transform freely without risk of the liquid evaporating.'
'That's about the size of it.' Greg confirmed.
'Could that work?' Molly asked.
'Let's find out.' Sherlock flipped the stopper back on its hinge and handed it to Molly.
She frowned in concentration and several strands of her hair turned liquid and flowed through the air into the glass, filling it up before she carefully replaced the stopper, sealing her hair inside.
'I'm going to go bald before this is all over.' She quipped, with a slight smile.
'You won't have the chance.' Sherlock told her. 'I'll see to it.'
Molly smiled, tight and brittle. 'So you keep saying.'
Sherlock glowered and clenched his fists. 'Why do you two have such trouble believing me? I told you I'd free you!'
'Relax, kid.' Greg held up a placating hand. 'You'll ruin your spine, you keep carrying the world on your shoulders. Molls and I have been doing this whole captive thing for a long time. We're good at it. Probably shite at anything else at this point. Don't worry about us, just focus on getting yourself out.'
Sherlock fixed him with an accusing glare. 'Whatever happened to "together or not at all" then?' He demanded.
Greg and Molly exchanged an indulging look. 'Sherlock,' Molly said. 'That's a vow for people who never had a hope of getting out in the first place.'
Greg shrugged. 'All that's different now. And, yeah, maybe you can break us out somewhere down the line, but in the meantime you've got a real shot. You can't risk losing it for our sakes. We won't let you. Think about us after you can get a sunburn again, deal?'
Sherlock drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. 'Very well.' He said. He held out a hand to Molly and she placed the phial in his palm. He held it up to the moonlight and squinted. 'There's oil in here.' He said with a smirk. 'He always was a master of contingencies.'
Greg shifted his weight. 'Think it'll work?'
Sherlock handed him the glass. 'One way to find out.'
'Good luck.' Said Molly.
They walked together to the edge of Greg's boundary, the tiny sliver of lake water glittering through the trees behind them, and Greg slipped the leather cord over his head. With a sidelong glance at Sherlock, he took a step forward.
He felt a bit dizzy, a little winded, but apart from that nothing happened. He looked down at the water sloshing gently behind the glass and took another step. It was only a little wobbly.
His head hurt. It was a bit like crossing his eyes and seeing two images where there should be one. Two different yet eerily similar perceptions danced and vied for his attention. He winced and shut his eyes, his hand flying to his head.
'Greg?' Sherlock sounded worried, but Greg waved him off and forced himself to move again. The dizzy headache intensified and he yelped, but the pain of it sapped the strength from his legs and he stumbled further past his boundary line and the pain vanished.
He let out a sigh and let himself sink to the soft, damp leaves and mosses below him, panting and shaking more than perhaps he'd like to admit. Not that Sherlock would miss it.
Sure enough the kid was kneeling beside him, one hand hovering uncertainly over Greg's shoulder.
'I'm fine.'
'You don't look fine.'
'I wasn't, a second ago. It's okay now. I think it got confused for a bit, but it's alright here.'
'Greg…' Sherlock ventured. 'You know what this means.'
Greg nodded, reached up a hand to clutch at the glass container. 'I know.'
'You could…I mean, if you wanted to. You don't have to stay anymore.'
Greg looked up at him, saw the careful blankness of his features, and shook his head. 'I never had to stay, Sherlock. I could've flown away at any time. I never had to let Jim put that leash on me, or put up with Seb's moods, I never had to do any of it. Fuck, I never even had to risk my damn neck trying to convince Molly to trust me. I definitely didn't have to fly my feathery arse across southern England for you. I don't do things because I have to do them, and I don't run away. Clear?'
Sherlock ducked his head and averted his eyes. He didn't answer.
Greg sighed. 'It's borrowed freedom, anyway. Anything happens to this thing and that's it. I'm fucked. I figure it's worth holding out for the real thing.' He gently shoved at Sherlock's shoulder, forcing him to topple over until he caught himself with an out flung arm.
'Right.' Sherlock offered a sickly sort of smile, but it was good enough.
'Now, let's see what we can do about making you look respectable again, eh?' He stood up and offered a hand to Sherlock, who took it and allowed Greg to help him to his feet.
They turned back, and Greg slung a companionable arm around Sherlock's shoulder, and they both pretended it had nothing to do with keeping Greg upright as they crossed the boundary once more.
~~~
'Progress report.' Harry seemed to materialise from thin air to drop a blue folder on Mycroft's desk. Mycroft blinked and resisted the urge to shake his head.
'Thank you.' He said.
'I peeked at it.' Harry went on. 'It says Sherlock is recovering faster than expected, but they want to hold him for observation.'
'That's good news, then.'
'It doesn't say what he's recovering from. There's nothing at all in there about where he was found.'
'Such information would only be redacted.' Mycroft lied smoothly, and tried to ignore the twist in his abdomen. 'Any document containing sensitive information would be delivered much more securely, I assure you.'
'But I'm--'
'Not cleared for that information.' Mycroft insisted. 'I am sorry, Harry. But that level of involvement would compromise too much of your life. It is regrettable when such measures intrude upon one's personal life, but I cannot rewrite the rules to suit myself, or you. '
'But John, that's perfectly okay.' She sniped.
Mycroft sighed. 'John is a soldier. As far as the government is concerned he is still on active duty. And he led the extraction team that found Sherlock in the first place. So yes, his clearance exceeds yours. Do feel free to enlist any time you feel left out.'
Harry narrowed her eyes. 'You think I can't tell when you're lying. You're wrong.'
Mycroft actually had to concentrate to keep his face from betraying the churning, roiling wrongness in his belly. 'If that will be all?'
Harry glowered at him, but she didn't respond. She turned on her heel and strode out of the office, shutting the door just slightly harder than necessary behind her.
Mycroft collapsed into his chair. He hated lying to her. When it was all over, he resolved, he'd take her to Vienna, or possibly Sydney. One of the cities whose post cards decorated her bedroom wall. He'd do something, at least.
He stood again and moved to the window where John was pacing in front of the house, speaking into a cordless phone through gritted teeth and attempting to tug at his exceedingly short hair. The party itself was shaping up nicely, every aspect on schedule and under control, or as much as could be expected on such short notice and with such a delicate guest list. But to see John go on about it one would think the whole thing was falling apart around their ears.
Mycroft wasn't a fool. He knew that John's unease and frustration had more to do with Sherlock than any politics or logistics. He could see the tension and strain coiled under John's skin with each jerky movement. John was like an addict cut off from his substance, and each day the longing, the physical need grew visibly worse.
And while Mycroft preferred not to dwell on precisely which physical needs John was feeling, he could sympathise with the sentiment. Sherlock's absence clawed at him, raked against the interior of his cranium and slashed at the space under his sternum. And now, to be so very close…
He reluctantly turned his attention to the pile of security alerts on his desk. Such a lot of important people inspired quite a lot of opportunistic predators, and Mycroft was determined to weed out each and every one of them.
He'd failed to protect his younger brother once. He would not be so careless again.
~~~
Sherlock, as a rule, was not prone to excessive preening. After all, there were only so many ways to arrange one's feathers so they're all pointing more or less in the same direction. But today he couldn't help fussing with them, ruffling then smoothing them over and over in restless anticipation because tonight was the night.
He shivered, and somewhere deep inside of him callused fingers were stroking gently up the inside of his thigh, soft lips were ghosting warm air over the shell of his ear, and in his head there was a ceaseless litany of tonight, tonight, tonight.
*Would you stop that? You look beautiful.*
Swans cannot roll their eyes. This, Sherlock thought, was one of life's greatest injustices. *I am not, contrary to what you may imagine, a Byronic heroine, Molly.* He sneered.
Molly sighed, and the sensation was like the brush of water lily petals in his mind. *Handsome, then. Though I think "beautiful" is more apt.*
Sherlock scoffed. Then paused. Well, no sense avoiding it. 'Was my hair alright? Before I changed?'
Molly giggled. It was like tiny bubbles bursting against his skin. *You looked lovely. You'll look amazing in your suit, I'm sure.*
Sherlock smiled, internally at any rate. *Do you think we'll--* something tugged in his chest and his words died in his head. He gasped, and the pulling, shifting sensation intensified.
*Sherlock?* Molly fountained out of the water and formed her body to kneel by him in concern.
*Mol--* He broke off with a cry as something inside of him seemed to melt and flow and there was no pain but it was unlike anything he'd felt before. His heart pounded in his chest once, twice, three times, and he was flat on his back, blinking into the sunlight, and utterly human.
'Sherlock!' Molly gasped.
Sherlock blinked and groaned. The sun had already begun to set, and the light was far dimmer than it had been, but it was still far too bright for his human eyes to handle and he clenched them shut.
'Sherlock, what…?'
Before Sherlock could answer, another voice cut in, and they both froze.
'Do you like it?' Jim asked, sauntering into the clearing. 'I've been practicing. All for you, darling.'
Sherlock clambered to his feet dripping and confused but still standing.
'Wondered when you'd turn up again.' Sherlock said. 'I can't say I missed you overmuch.'
Jim smirked and slipped his hands into his pockets. 'Well, I have been busy. You'd be amazed what proper motivation will do to improve a guy's study habits. And, you know, I think I have found the perfect way to kill you.'
'Took you that long, did it?' Sherlock challenged.
'Sherlock.' Molly warned.
'Stay out of this, little girl.' Moriarty drawled. 'Sherlock and I have business to take care of.'
'Piss off, Jim.' Molly snapped. 'You can't bully me anymore.'
Jim arched an eyebrow, feigning surprise. 'Oh, can't I?' He raised a hand and Sherlock felt something like a very strong, very localised wind push against his back. He tumbled forward, clear of the lake, and landed hard on his back on the stony shore.
His mind instantly lit up with a thousand warning flashes of Not safe. Vulnerable. Exposed. And he tried to scramble back to the water only to be jerked to a halt by something clamped around his ankle. He looked down, and one gnarled tree root had wrapped itself tightly around his trouser leg and was holding him in an unyielding grip mere inches from the safety of Molly's domain.
'Your boyfriend has been busy.' Jim said. 'Very, very busy. He and your brother have been raising all sorts of red flags. Did you honestly think I wouldn't notice?'
Sherlock forced himself onto his hands and knees. His head was pounding and he still felt unsteady from the unexpected transformation. He managed to get to his feet, but he couldn't manage anything like a balanced stance with the root clutching at his leg.
'He'll come for me.' He told Jim. 'He won't stop. He'll try again and again until we've beaten you.'
'I'm sure he would.' Jim smirked. 'But I don't intend to give him that chance.' He raised his hand again, and several of the trees around them shook and convulsed, then they began to melt into the earth, great sheets of bark sloughing to the ground and then sinking into the soil. Sherlock whipped his head around, trying to follow their progress, but he already knew where it was all heading.
'No.' He breathed.
Jim grinned. 'Yes.'
Molly surged forward, but before she could raise so much as a rivulet a wooden spike shot out of the ground. The tip was sharpened to a wicked point, and it grew in the blink of an eye until it rested just against Sherlock's throat. He swallowed, and felt the tip sink into skin. He knew it had drawn blood.
Molly paled and dropped her hand.
'I have your attention? Good.' Jim began to walk a loose circle around Sherlock just as the first shoots began to emerge from the ground, surrounding Sherlock at six inch intervals and rising into the air at a slight angle, all reaching toward the same apex some three feet over Sherlock's head.
'It's not easy, changing you at will. That's what the day and night cycle is for. But I thought it'd be worth it to see your face when you realise just how badly you've lost.'
The bars, for they were bars, for a prison cell or a cage, had risen to waist-height now, but Jim just kept talking as though nothing were happening at all.
'You could have had everything, Sherlock. You and I, we could have taken this world apart. We would have been limitless. But you just couldn't see it, could you? You'd rather let some gun-toting ape run your life.' He shrugged. 'Your wish, Sherlock. But I did warn you. You won't live to see tomorrow morning.'
Sherlock glanced down at the sharpened stake, at the rising bars now as high as his shoulders.
'And this is your perfect death? You're going to impale me?'
Jim snorted, then laughed, wiping imaginary tears from his eye. 'Oh no, Sherlock, not at all.' He snapped his fingers and the pointed stake receded into the ground. The bars joined at their apex, sealing Sherlock in a cage with no doors or locks.
'I'm not going to kill you tonight, Sherlock.' Jim said. He reached a hand through the bars to caress Sherlock's cheek. 'I don't have to.'
He pulled his hand back, pressed a kiss to the first two fingers, then pressed them against Sherlock's lips.
'Not when John is going to do it for me.'
He smirked, playing up sadness with his eyebrows and his lips, and let his hand fall. Then he turned on his heel and strode toward the house.
Sherlock looked after him, stunned and motionless. He barely noticed when his human shape fell from him like the skin of a snake, and he was a swan once more.
~~~
Chapter Sixteen