sherlock fic: that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers are irresistibly drained
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Lestrade, John/Sarah, Molly/Jim. Though only one of those is onscreen porn.
Rating: 18
Wordcount: ~6,300
Disclaimer: Non profit fanwork; I don't own any creative rights to Rocky Horror or Sherlock or pretend to.
A/N: Rocky Horror AU for this prompt. Lestrade and Donovan investigate a mysterious house and encounter a silk gown wearing madman and his gold panted creature. As ridiculous as you think it will be. Like Rocky Horror this is kind of dark and twisty, and contains cross-dressing, sex and character death.
--
"I can see what the brief meant," Donovan gets out of the car and nods at the locked gates. High, forbidding and unpleasant looking in the watery September sunlight, they would look more at home in a Hammer Horror than in the real world.
Lestrade makes a little hum of agreement. "Side gate's this way, apparently. And we're to take the fork in the path going left than right: is longer, but apparently it's better to go around than through the trees."
They head off. And though the whole set up may look about as substantial as a paper hallowe'en mask, the shiny new padlock on the rust crumbling gate says maybe, maybe not.
--
"The property is yours, then?"
"Of course," the man yawns from his sofa. "If you cared to check the paperwork-- well. You wouldn't be standing here, would you? Though if the flagrantly obvious were something you'd care to consider then you'd be more aware of your wife's needs and wouldn't be meeting with that solicitor this weekend."
Lestrade blinks and tries to close his open mouth. He makes a shocked, strangled sound when he tries to speak.
Donovan steps in before he makes an angry retort that he'll regret. "The building's listed as, well, listed. And uninhabited." She doesn't add, "As it bloody well should be, this dump," but the pale bastard reads it in her face anyway.
He sneers and draws his silk dressing gown tighter about himself. "At the danger of repeating myself -- and why do I suspect this may become a habit while you are here -- the inherently obvious should tell you that it isn't."
The building doesn't do much to agree with his statement. Filthy, the walls are covered in bullet holes and animal heads, like the gun owner didn't care that the things were no longer alive but that he would take pot shots at them anyway. Things are piled up everywhere, odd things that have so little to do with each other it looks like the work of an insane magpie: a stack of books about trees under coiled lengths of blue ribbon, a pile of twisting glassware and dark feathers, a series of delicate tea cups filled with tinsel next to eight dolls' arms.
And cobwebs. Cobwebs stretching across the ceiling, unnaturally thick and woven together in the way that spiders don't do.
"What's that smell?"
The man grins like a switch has been flicked somewhere and bounds to his feet. "That," and oh, he sounds like a child at Christmas, "will be my laboratory." He seizes Lestrade by the arm and drags him over to a cage lift, a disgusting thing of old concertina sliding doors and rust. "You must come and see; everyone's here for the special day."
Lestrade raises his eyebrows at Sally, who shrugs back.
(The word 'laboratory' though, in a house like this? Sally doesn't feel quite as collected as she'd like to give on.)
--
Somehow the easiest question isn't what-- or how-- or why-- but: "I'm sorry, Mister--?"
"Holmes," the man says. "Sherlock Holmes." He holds his hand out. The sweet looking old lady at his elbow tries to give Lestrade a glass of champagne and a party squeaker.
The stark light in the lab make his eyes look worse; downstairs they were like silver, cold and bright and sharp: now they seem utterly inhuman. The You're under arrest, sits under Lestrade's tongue but doesn't make it out. He's not keen on his or Donovan's fingers, ears or whatever-elses being added to the piles of human disjecta membra lying around the lab.
The silvery eyes watch him and what he's not saying.
Lestrade coughs. "Can I use your phone? Mine and my sergeant's don't appear to be working."
The woman nudges Lestrade's elbow with the champagne flute. Sherlock looks to it, then back into Lestrade's eyes.
Feeling like he's having a staring contest with a cat, Lestrade takes it.
A beat, then Sherlock nods. Lestrade mentally breathes out.
"You may use it momentarily. But now, do come into the pink room. You will, of course, need to suit up first."
Another woman and a man have appeared at the back of the room, making Donovan start when she turns and sees them. Similarly to the fluffy old lady at Sherlock's elbow, they're in blue contamination suits and holding up empty ones.
Sherlock throws an apron on over his dressing gown and strides out.
Lestrade swaps a look with Donovan.
If they only had to deal with these four then maybe they'd try to be more forceful or maybe make a break for it -- but the corridor outside is rammed with homeless looking types, and growing more full as they stand there. Not a reassuring crowd.
What else is there to do but take the next step down the rabbit hole?
--
It's something in the eyes of everyone here; an undefinable haunted quality, too bright, too desperate, too manic -- sanity a fraying thread that's about to snap.
Molly wears her desperation for Sherlock's approval like a cheap scent, scuttling to fetch and carry at each imperious tone. If this were another time, another place -- if Sally Donovan wasn't stood here in a paper suit over her underwear half frightened for her life -- she would be annoyed at any woman, no, any person debasing themselves for another like that. But she is, so she just folds her arms over her chest to keep her restless hands still.
Jim almost skips around the lab, practically clapping his hands together in pleasure and delight at everything. He winks at Lestrade and pulls a lollipop out from a jar of eyes. Lestrade tries not to react. Jim winks again, a giggle bubbling out of him.
Next to the others, Mrs. Hudson almost seems normal, which only makes her more oddly worrying; the little old lady is told to take care of the rest of the guests and they get to see her cheerfully hustling a dozen or so of the homeless into a viewing gallery. They each get a jolly little paper hat, a bow tie and a football rattle.
The lights go down in most of the room, small spotlights coming up to illuminate what can only be called a dais with a tank on it at the end. The sides of the tank are transparent, too bright light throwing distorting shadows that make it look like that there's rather more than an eye or a finger in there.
From the darkness behind Sherlock climbs up the ladder behind it to stand on the walkway. He's taken a moment to slick on lipstick and eyeliner, a little blusher feathering under his cheekbones; Lestrade feels like he's staring inappropriately, which is stupid when the man's wanting to be the focus of everyone's attention. He strokes the edge of the tank, looking halfway between smug and rapturous.
As he starts to talk, of life and death, of secrets found and controlled, manipulated and pinned to obey his whims, Lestrade takes a step closer to Donovan so their elbows are touching. It's no comfort to either of them.
--
"John," Sherlock breathes when they've caught and calmed his creation. He unties the apron, drops the dressing gown off his arms unselfconsciously, and somehow what he's wearing beneath is no bloody surprise at all. John's hands go to his waist, stroking at the fine satin of the corset.
There's a room full of people staring and Sherlock doesn't seem to see them, just stands and strokes John's face, fingertips ghosting over the scars on his body, then up his jaw, cheek and into his ash blonde hair. John also ignores them, but from him it seems more like he hasn't realised yet that the normal thing is to be discomfited by such scrutiny.
"We're going to be perfect," Sherlock whispers, the loudest thing in the silent room.
--
Lestrade lies in the dark on the covers and stares at the ceiling. He had tried to argue against this but Molly had frowned when he had objected, forehead puckering slowly with unhappiness. "But Sherlock insisted that everyone was allowed their own room--"
"Yes," he had nodded and smiled encouragingly, "but I don't need one. We wanted to use your phone--"
"In the morning."
"Now--"
"No phone until the morning."
"Well, in that case, we'll not prey on your hospitality."
"Not a problem," she had chirped. "We have lots of rooms."
Oh for -- He had glanced over to his DS: Donovan wasn't looking like she was faring any better with Mrs. Hudson. "It's about time we should be off anyway--"
"Don't be silly. Jim'll've locked the front door by now anyway."
Lestrade licked his lower lip. "Any chance of him unlocking it again?"
"Not until morning."
"I see."
Molly had nodded and turned away. "So that's settled."
"No," he had tried to be firm, followed her as she pottered around the lab, picking up things and putting them down again. "No, I'd like to leave, and so would my Sergeant."
"She's already gone with Mrs. Hudson." Molly waved at the door. Using the hand with the meat cleaver in it.
A good reminder of why he was trying to do this the polite way. "Right, right. Where's she gone? We'd like to, uh, share a room."
"Oh no, everyone gets their own room."
It had been like trying to reason with mould. All he could hope was that Donovan would have the same idea, would lie quiet until the house was asleep and try to climb out through a ground window while it was dark. If she didn't--
A flush of shame burnt along the back of his neck as he thought of it. He didn't want to abandon his DS but checking random rooms for her would be risky; as soon as he could get a hold of someone they could return with backup.
(Why the hell hadn't anyone come to check on them? It had been hours since they had radioed in. Was there no one at the station monitoring where their officers were?)
Quiet now: quiet enough to try and make a break for it?
Footsteps in the corridor outside. Hurrying.
There is a tap at the door, followed by a familiar female voice hissing, "Sir? You in there?"
Donovan. Grinning as the relief rushes through him, Lestrade opens the door.
"Hello, Detective Inspector," says Sherlock Holmes.
--
"What are you doing in here?"
"Not much, Molly, love," Jim smiles. "Just seeing if Sherlock's pet was settling in okay."
Molly tries to turn her lips upwards, push a little more happiness to the surface. "You're very thoughtful."
Jim grabs her hand and twirls her around, spinning her around and then twisting her back against his chest. "And you're very pretty," he tells her startled eyes. "Shall we dance?"
Molly giggles, and they dance to the music in Jim's head out of the little bedroom, through the lab and down the stairs, away, away from the empty pile of bedclothes.
--
There must have been drugs somewhere along the line. He didn't do anything more than touch the champagne glass to his lips, didn't even consider any of the weird little canapes offered to him. How did they do it, how did they--
Sherlock's tongue dips lower, slides further down and back, running the edge of the sensitive skin there. Gregory Lestrade's previously ragged breath now abandons him in one long torn moan.
Sherlock had arrived at the door, confidence and arrogance wrapped around him like a scarf. Sherlock had swept in, dissected everything he had done that day by looking at his cuffs and fingernails, then coolly told him Hannah was two dates into an affair. Sherlock--
shifts his grip, spreads Greg wider with his thumbs and pushes his evil bastard clever tongue in again again again.
--
Sally's clawing at the window in the study, almost managing to get the sash a half inch up when she hears the dogs. Her heart sinks. There's the sudden urge to scream, but that never helps anyone, so she swallows it down and goes to hunt for the phone. Can always say she needed a drink of water, right?
--
Mrs. Hudson opens the door to the cupboard under the stairs and tries to put the vacuum away, only to discover a hunched up man in the spot it lives in.
"Hello, dear. Are you quite all right in there?"
John shivers, rainwater and blood trickling down his face from his hair. He looks confused, and tries to curl himself a little tighter.
"I must be getting on, dear. Could you be a love and step out of there? I dare say I could make you a cup of tea."
This doesn't get a response. Mrs. Hudson tuts, patience tried. "Young man! You come out of there this minute!"
John scrambles out, and she smiles. He waits uncertainly while she puts the hoover away. "Now you come with me, we'll get you a hot drink and something warmer to wear than those gold pants you've got. Won't that be nice?"
--
After the zen room, the music room, the room of mirrors and pictures of snakes, the Disney room and the room filled with plaster statues of nude people, Donovan finds a room that looks almost normal, resembling nothing so much as an old lady's sitting room, down to the telly and crocheted covers on the backs of the chairs. Still no phone, though.
The door behind her squeaks open and there's a dreadful moment when her heart jack-hammers in her chest.
"Hello," Mrs. Hudson smiles, unbothered by the unexpected woman in front of her. "Do you fancy a cup of tea too?"
"Um, says Donovan. "Yes please?" She glances at John, who trails into the room and is suddenly fascinated by the wallpaper. She nearly smiles; it is pretty ugly wallpaper.
Mrs. Hudson's tugging at her blue paper suit and Donovan looks away before she realises that, unlike her, Mrs. Hudson has a sensible wool dress on underneath. "Right. If you put the kettle on and fetch the cups, I'll have a rummage in my chest for something for the young man to wear. Something belonging to my husband should fit him."
Donovan nods, trying to be friendly and steer the conversation towards phones and where they may be. "Your husband?"
"Yes, dreadful old bastard, he's passed on thankfully. Not a big man though, so it's all to the good."
"Er-" Donovan covers her hesitation by pretending to look for things. "Teabags?" she asks weakly.
"In the box marked 'sugar', dear." Mrs. Hudson makes a little hum of consideration as she finds something and tries to attract John's attention. He's too fascinated by the repeating pattern on the wall, following it with a fingertip as it loops, twists, repeats, so she just pulls the jumper on over his head and tucks his arms in afterwards.
He stops tracing the pattern and strokes the arms of the thing, an expression of utter pleasure playing around his mouth. Donovan's never seen someone look so happy to be given a jumper that looks so much like uncooked pastry before.
Mrs. Hudson looks pleased, and doubly so when Donovan gives her a cup of tea. "We'll have to work on some trousers, but those can wait until after we've had a sit down and a biscuit, can't they?"
John has to be pushed into his chair and have the cup pressed into his hands. Donovan manages to stop him before he takes a mouthful of scalding tea. "Blow on it first," she tells him, miming for his benefit.
He does so and then smiles. Pity twists in Sally's chest, coiling around revolted anger at that curly haired freak upstairs. She forces herself to smile. "Yes. Um. So," she says to Mrs. Hudson. "I was wondering if you have a phone? I wouldn't want my mother to worry," she quickly adds when the old lady pauses, "just let her know where I've got to."
That gets a pleasant smile. "I don't have a phone, no. Dreadful noisy things." Donovan's heart, already low, sinks further. "Sherlock's terribly keen on them, though, texting at all hours -- you'd think his was glued to his hand."
Treacherous lifting hope now. "No landline?"
"Oh no, Sherlock's always losing his mobile and getting another rather than look for it. Why," Mrs. Hudson laughs fondly, "his room must have two dozen in it, lurking behind cushions and whatnot."
Sally manages to last the rest of the conversation until her tea is gone, where she makes a show of slapping her knees and saying that she must be going. John stands at the same time as her and moves to follow her out the door.
"No, no, you stay here -- get some trousers on."
Mrs. Hudson gives a little chuckle. "No, love, I've things to be doing, you take him along to play with you."
John gives her a hopeful little look and Sally sighs inside. Oh, hell.
--
Lestrade leans over and steals the remainder of the cigarette from between Sherlock's pale fingers. Ash falls carelessly onto the sheets.
"Two years' worth of effort so easily undone." Sherlock doesn't sound concerned about Lestrade's smoking relapse, just bored by the predictability of an addict always remaining an addict.
It's a cheap blow and Lestrade wonders if he is supposed to be surprised by it after all the other observations, then decides that he doesn't want to play to the bastard's ego -- and realises he's being watched again. It makes him feel more naked than he already is. He sucks down a drag of the fag angrily.
Eyes drifting elsewhere, Sherlock wears a brief little bitter smile like he's won.
The doorbell rings loudly from downstairs.
Lestrade tries to will some fluidity back into his suddenly rigid muscles. Another drag, a steady breath out. "Aren't you going to answer that?"
"It's what servants are for."
"I thought they'd put away the keys already?" Shit. Does he sound too keen? Nonchalance, nonchalance.
"They can just take them out again then. They're only keys."
Cigarette finished, Lestrade realises there's nowhere to put the stub. He holds it out towards Sherlock questioningly, but Sherlock only gives him a superior look.
"I don't want it."
"Neither do I!"
The doorbell rings again.
"Sounds like they're busy."
Sherlock sighs, terribly put upon by the whole thing. He rolls over and fishes in his dropped gown, comes back holding a PDA. He jabs at the screen twice and waits while Lestrade tries to not be too obvious in his shifting that he's trying to get a glimpse of what's on the screen. It looks like the feed from a security camera.
Slow to load, it shows a grainy little figure in black and white on the door step. A moment, then Sherlock hisses like a scalded cat. On the screen, the door opens. Sherlock swears and leaps up, barely remembering to snatch his dressing gown before he swirls out of the door.
In any other situation a man dressed only in fishnets, garter belt and silk robe would be downright hilarious. Lestrade promises himself he'll laugh until he cries when he gets out of this mess, but right now concerns himself with finding something to throw on as fast as he bloody well can.
--
Donovan and John are in the hall when the doorbell goes, trying to open the door to the room she and Lestrade went into all those hours ago. Or at least, Donovan is trying to with what little she knows of lock picking. John stands to the side, seemingly content to put his fingers in the mouths of stuffed creatures and rub over the fur on their heads and the glass beads they have in their heads instead of eyes.
At the sound John drops into a half crouch, looking around for where it came from. Donovan goes still. She had been considering going back up to the lab and taking the lift back down to the study but if someone comes to answer the door -- someone with keys comes to the door -- there's a window of opportunity right there.
She hustles John in through a dark doorway, motioning for him to be quiet while she leaves the door ajar and peers out.
Wait until the door's open, ask if they don't mind calling the dogs in, smack them if they do, then run like the clappers. Not a brilliant plan, she'll admit, but it's all she's got for the moment.
Jim dances into the hall holding an invisible partner, something quick-quick-slow, quick-quick-slow, sidling up to the door to finish with a flourish that would work better with an actual person. He blows a kiss to an invisible audience, waves at such cheering hordes and accepts invisible flowers from another invisible person, then takes a bow.
It should not be as hard as it has been, Donovan thinks, to pick a winner for 'Most Insane Bastard in the House'.
After drawing back one, two bolts, then lifting the bar Jim pulls a ring of keys from inside his jacket and unlocks the door. He doesn't hold it open very wide though, just enough of a narrow sliver so he can look out into the torrential rain.
"Good evening."
"Hello," says a female voice. "I'm Dr. Sawyer and I was wondering if I could come in?"
"You're wet."
There's a pause. "It's raining. May I come in, please?"
"Hmm. Perhaps you'd better." This is the moment she's been waiting for. Sally slips out from their hiding place, dashing towards the open door. "Seeing as you have that open," she blurts, one hand upraised and halfway there and about to make it if she doesn't immediately collide with the woman who has just come through it.
Sadly though, Dr. Sawyer cries: "John!" and darts forward. She doesn't smack right into Donovan but it's enough of a delay that Jim has slammed the door, spun the key and dropped the bar back into place by the time Donovan's next to him.
The DS makes a snatch for the keys in his hand. Jim yanks them away with a "Uh-uh!" and a waggling finger. The grab for him is no better as, with two little odd twists, he has slipped out from under her grip, shifted his hands and is now gripping her. Donovan jerks in his hold, trying to head-butt him. Jim ducks to the side and whispers, "Don't want to miss the rest of the par-ty, do we?" into her ear, before shoving her hard against the wall and jarring her shoulder badly.
Donovan turns in time to see a door down the corridor close and is about to give chase when Sherlock comes down the stairs, barely dressed and smeared with make-up and hickies -- and looking like a thunderstorm.
"Get away from him."
The little blonde doctor straightens up where she stands, unquailing before Sherlock. She has John's hand in her own and doesn't look to be willingly dropping it any time soon. "What have you done?"
"If you do not leave my house now I will drag you out by your hair, I will cut you into fragments much too small for even a rat to eat, I will break your arms with rocks, I will beat you and drown you and burn you and hurt you and hurt you and if I stop then that shall be mercy."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"You're too stupid to be."
Donovan knows she ought to be intervening at some point. The doctor lifts her chin, glares right at Sherlock and tugs John further behind her. He looks as vaguely interested in what is happening before him as he has been by the furnishings.
She takes a step towards the door and that appears to be it for Sherlock. He snarls, "He was yours when he was alive," and leaps at her.
Donovan and Lestrade manage to unfreeze in time to seize each of them and drag them unwillingly apart before they do too much to hurt each other, Dr. Sawyer being incredibly reluctant to let go of Sherlock's hair.
With pink cheeks they glare at each other hatefully. John stands by, momentarily forgotten until Sherlock calls his name. He looks up.
"Come here," Sherlock commands. John takes a step towards him.
"No, John! Come to me," Dr. Sawyer urges, and John hesitates, frowning.
"Come here."
"To me, darling, please!"
"To me!"
"No, to me!"
(He looks so confused.)
"John!"
"John!"
"SHUT IT THE PAIR OF YOU." That gets silence, and Lestrade coughs. "Good."
There is a moment which looks like it's going to be awkward but is swiftly swallowed by the sound of a gong, a fantastic summoning crash.
Molly appears at the top of the stairs. "Dinner's ready," she says happily. Then takes in the situation in front of her. "Oh dear."
--
At the front gate a large black saloon pulls up. Someone standing close to would say it must be an electric car as it doesn't make a sound as it moves. Which does explain the lack of engine noise, but not how it manages to ride over the gravel without crunching.
--
"I am not hungry."
Lestrade has two children and knows exactly what a petulant child looks like. He's also seen a petulant child rip the wings off a fly and watch it sink in water. Petulant child is a state which often needs careful handling, so he lowers his voice as he murmurs into Sherlock's ear: "Dinner is an excellent idea--"
"Are you master of this house?"
Lestrade tries to look calm. He tries to feel it too. He manages to keep his voice low and reassuring. "Well, I'm sure John could do with something."
That gives Sherlock pause. "He's only been here for seven hours."
"That's long enough for people to start feeling hungry."
"Do you? I mean: is it?"
Such a small gap of uncertainty, Lestrade is quick to wedge his verbal foot in the door of opportunity before it shuts. "It is." He lets go of Sherlock and steps back, still between him and the doctor. "So if you'd lead the way?"
--
"Nice dressing gown," Donovan whispers to Lestrade on the way to the dinner table. "Didn't think purple was your colour."
"I was trying to find a way out of here," he tells her.
She gives him a sceptical eyebrow that he probably deserves.
--
The table is set up for dinner, though none of the cutlery or plates have much in common with each other; no more than three of anything match on the table.
"I used what was clean," Molly smiles happily. "I didn't touch anything that might have been used to keep anything--" she frowns, looking for a word, "--icky in it."
Not-icky's good. Even though it seems to come as washed out jam-jars and empty yoghurt pots and chipped mugs with Bart's and London School of Medicine and Dentistry on the side instead of drinking glasses.
"Tea," Sherlock commands and Molly scurries to fetch the pot.
Dr. Sawyer's seated at the opposite end of the table to Sherlock, which is great in terms of distance but not in terms of eye line. They continue to glare at each other.
"The words of the contract are, ''Til death do you part''. You have no recourse here."
"Only you would call it a 'contract'," Dr. Sawyer snaps. "And he's not dead any more."
"I did not revive him for you."
"You good as killed him yoursel--"
Donovan scrapes her chair back loudly, which draws their attention away from each other for a moment. "What's for dinner?" she asks.
With excellent timing Molly returns, pushing a little trolley with a teapot and a frankly massive silver covered dish on it. Smiles and biscuits and a little jug for the milk and Lestrade has to bite the inside of his mouth to hold back Twinkle, twinkle little bat, how I wonder what you're at?, no matter how appropriate it may feel.
Molly nods eagerly at all of them, "All settled? Good, good," then uncovers the dish.
Whatever Lestrade had expected, however weird or prosaic or utterly incongruous the dish he was expecting to see, he was not expecting a small television screen. It has bacon draped in a jolly fashion all around it but still: a television screen. Molly turns it on.
"Hell-lo there, boys and girls!" Jim crows. "Isn't this jolly!"
--
Outside, the rain stops. Which is a pity, the man stepping out of the car reflects, as it really is a magnificent umbrella.
--
Sherlock doesn't seem surprised by the treachery; he rolls his eyes and sighs. "Really, Jim?"
"Really really, Sherlock."
"This is going to be some demand for my notes. How tedious."
"Wrong!" Jim mimes striking a bell. "I could have had those any time."
"My encryption codes are excellent."
"They are just lovely. So elegant and," Jim sighs, "simple."
Sherlock narrows his eyes. "And you've convinced Molly to assist you." He looks at her then, and Molly straightens and smiles. "So desperate for my attention she really will believe anything, won't she?"
"No!" Molly snaps. "Jim and me are together." Her grip on her cleaver grows tighter, rubbed red knuckles going white under the skin.
"Of course."
"We are!"
Sherlock dismisses her with a little flutter of his fingers. "You're in the pool room, I take it?" he asks Jim. "Shall I come down and we have our little tête-à-tête there?"
"Yes, let's." His grin matches his eyes then, shark sharp and scenting blood. "Molly, dear, be an angel and let Sherlock out to see me? Do kill the rest if they're tiresome at all."
There's a mulish set to Molly's eyes then, but she does as she's instructed and allows Sherlock to stand and sweep out.
--
"Molly," Donovan tries again. Sherlock's been gone nearly ten minutes, the electronic eye of the television screen blank for nearly as long as that and they are still no closer to getting out of the damn house.
"Stop saying my name!"
"Okay, okay--"
"And stop talking to me like I'm, I'm soft in the head! I'm a doctor, you know, I'm smart and intelligent and you should all stop talking to me like this!"
"Sherlock's always told you what to do--"
"Stop with the placating hands! Stay where you are and, and stop! Just, just, stop."
Donovan stays where she is and doesn't try to come closer. If it were only the meat cleaver maybe they could try force but the little remote with the red button in Molly's other hand is something worth pausing over. So she clears her throat and says in a direct tone: "How is doing what Jim wants better than doing what Sherlock wants?"
"Don't you try and trick me!"
"No tricks. I'd just like to know the difference between them. Sherlock's obviously cracked -- I mean," she huffs out a little laugh, "who in this room would disagree with me, right? But I haven't spoken to Jim, so I don't know how he's better."
"He just is! He loves me, you hear? He loves me."
"He loves you so much he's asked you to blow yourself up?"
Molly's eyes are shiny with tears. "You can't take this away from me."
Donovan tries to say without pity: "Jim already has."
Molly draws in a shaky breath and nods. She puts the remote down on the sideboard and murmurs a small, broken, "Excuse me," and flees out the doors.
The first to unfreeze is Lestrade, who snatches the remote up, snaps the back off it and shakes the batteries out into his palm. "Good work," he tells Donovan. "Now, we're going to head downstairs, get the door open and then you're going to take those two and try and get hold of someone."
Donovan nods, not liking the And I'm going to try and stop three nutters from murdering each other and myself while you do it that Lestrade hasn't said. "Yes, sir."
--
They don't bother with the main door, heavy oaken thing that it is, but break the lock on one of the large sash windows in the music room. There's no sound of the dogs and it has stopped raining; it nearly bodes well for a random dash, in the dark, heading towards an exit they've only seen once, that may or may not be approachable from this side of the house.
Yeah.
Donovan gets out first, then the doctor and then it's John's turn and he doesn't move.
"Go on," Lestrade gestures.
The two women outside make encouraging noises, but John looks at them, looks at Lestrade and then turns and leaves the room.
Lestrade swears and slams the window shut before the doctor tries to climb back in, then takes off after John.
--
When Sherlock had said 'pool' Lestrade had thought of billiards. But of course, he thinks as he enters, why should anything in this house be even slightly normal.
No one turns as he enters the room. They are stood all at the far side of the pool in a loose semi-circle; John stands with his hands clenched, frowning intently at the others, Jim waves cheerfully at Lestrade, the only one to acknowledge him, and little Molly squares up to Sherlock, tendrils of hair working mad and loose as she wails at him, "--nearly happy. Why do you always have to spoil things?"
Sherlock may be standing back, head up and slightly aloof from Molly and her eyes shining with unsaid tears but it's not him who answers in a bored drawl: "Natural talent?"
She wheels around and makes shaking steps towards Jim, one angry finger jabbing at the air between them. "And you-! How could you? How could you?"
"Very easily, as it turns out."
Molly flings a sudden childish arm around in a loose arc, an open palm with no real thought or power behind it.
It doesn't manage to connect; Jim's hand is on her wrist before it is even close to meeting his face. Furious, Molly tries to yank her hand free. His fingers tighten and Jim tips his head, gently chiding. "Tut, tut. Where have you picked up your manners, my girl?"
"I'm not 'your girl'!"
Jim's free hand moves. A sudden flash and a moment's delay before the mind sees the blade, and it is gone as soon as recognised as what it is. Jim smiles wider and steps forward into the arterial spray.
Molly's fingers claw at the slash in her neck, eyes wide and hopeless in shock; Jim catches her by the sides of her head and draws her close for a kiss, while her breath and blood gurgle over her lips and from her open throat.
Lestrade's knees are frozen and his useless body only lets him move again when he hears the grunt that escapes from John as Sherlock intercepts him, holds him where he is.
"Already dead," Sherlock hisses in John's ear. "Already-- stay still, damn you!"
Jim releases his grip on Molly and she hits the floor like a wet sack of sticks. "That applies to you as well, Inspector. Well," he adds after a beat, clapping his hands together, "this has been lovely but I really must be off now. Have to do it again soon, and all that."
"You aren't leaving."
"Oh, but I am. And before you offer to kill me, do remember that you have your hands a little full at the moment."
"No."
"No? Dear me, I never thought you'd be struck by deafness and stupidity. Your housekeeper has trotted off to bedfordshire for the evening, don't you know? Which leaves you running a little low on allies." Jim makes a little moue of regret. "So--"
The door at the far end of the room swings open and a gent with an umbrella steps in. 'Gent' being the the operative word; to the hips he looks like the classic city commuter in his grey three piece suit. That the trousers have been cut into Daisy Dukes and he's wearing fishnets and high heels is almost no-nevermind.
"Good evening."
Jim falters but rallies magnificently. "Oh, hello."
"How do you do, Mr. Moriarty?"
"Oh, how lovely! A friend of yours, Sherlock?"
"Worse," Sherlock snaps. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"
"I thought I'd drop by. For a little chat," the man Mycroft brushes invisible dirt from his cuff. "Check how you are doing."
"I don't need your interference."
Jim's pleased smile starts to crumple at being talked over.
"Of course not. I thought I should see you, satisfy my own curiosity. That sort of thing."
"Satisfied now?"
"Sadly, not. But I have grown accustomed to being-- disappointed."
Sherlock snorts.
Mycroft inspects the end of his umbrella. "When you are done being childish, you really will see I am correct--"
"I'm terribly sorry to interrupt," Moriarty says, more snarl in his smile than before, "but--"
He doesn't get to finish his sentence; Mycroft levels his umbrella at him and a thin jet of red light shoots out. The noise it makes (like a small child blowing raspberries on its arm) is almost comical. The scream Moriarty makes as he seizes and dies, is not.
Mycroft offers a tight, apologetic smile. "There is no excuse for insincerity in one's apologies."
John makes that distressed noise again and Sherlock lifts his chin at Mycroft as he tries to turn his creature around in the circle of his arms. "Don't you even consider it," he warns.
Mycroft nods. "Then we'll be off?"
Sherlock's lips tighten, and Mycroft seems to take that as assent. He turns and looks at Lestrade, who is suddenly glad to have been ignored by those flint sharp eyes for as long as he has. "It would be best if you left the house quickly, Detective Inspector. There's a good chap."
--
Lestrade makes it out to the cover of the trees before the house doesn't so much as explode as take the fuck off.
--
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Lestrade, John/Sarah, Molly/Jim. Though only one of those is onscreen porn.
Rating: 18
Wordcount: ~6,300
Disclaimer: Non profit fanwork; I don't own any creative rights to Rocky Horror or Sherlock or pretend to.
A/N: Rocky Horror AU for this prompt. Lestrade and Donovan investigate a mysterious house and encounter a silk gown wearing madman and his gold panted creature. As ridiculous as you think it will be. Like Rocky Horror this is kind of dark and twisty, and contains cross-dressing, sex and character death.
--
"I can see what the brief meant," Donovan gets out of the car and nods at the locked gates. High, forbidding and unpleasant looking in the watery September sunlight, they would look more at home in a Hammer Horror than in the real world.
Lestrade makes a little hum of agreement. "Side gate's this way, apparently. And we're to take the fork in the path going left than right: is longer, but apparently it's better to go around than through the trees."
They head off. And though the whole set up may look about as substantial as a paper hallowe'en mask, the shiny new padlock on the rust crumbling gate says maybe, maybe not.
--
"The property is yours, then?"
"Of course," the man yawns from his sofa. "If you cared to check the paperwork-- well. You wouldn't be standing here, would you? Though if the flagrantly obvious were something you'd care to consider then you'd be more aware of your wife's needs and wouldn't be meeting with that solicitor this weekend."
Lestrade blinks and tries to close his open mouth. He makes a shocked, strangled sound when he tries to speak.
Donovan steps in before he makes an angry retort that he'll regret. "The building's listed as, well, listed. And uninhabited." She doesn't add, "As it bloody well should be, this dump," but the pale bastard reads it in her face anyway.
He sneers and draws his silk dressing gown tighter about himself. "At the danger of repeating myself -- and why do I suspect this may become a habit while you are here -- the inherently obvious should tell you that it isn't."
The building doesn't do much to agree with his statement. Filthy, the walls are covered in bullet holes and animal heads, like the gun owner didn't care that the things were no longer alive but that he would take pot shots at them anyway. Things are piled up everywhere, odd things that have so little to do with each other it looks like the work of an insane magpie: a stack of books about trees under coiled lengths of blue ribbon, a pile of twisting glassware and dark feathers, a series of delicate tea cups filled with tinsel next to eight dolls' arms.
And cobwebs. Cobwebs stretching across the ceiling, unnaturally thick and woven together in the way that spiders don't do.
"What's that smell?"
The man grins like a switch has been flicked somewhere and bounds to his feet. "That," and oh, he sounds like a child at Christmas, "will be my laboratory." He seizes Lestrade by the arm and drags him over to a cage lift, a disgusting thing of old concertina sliding doors and rust. "You must come and see; everyone's here for the special day."
Lestrade raises his eyebrows at Sally, who shrugs back.
(The word 'laboratory' though, in a house like this? Sally doesn't feel quite as collected as she'd like to give on.)
--
Somehow the easiest question isn't what-- or how-- or why-- but: "I'm sorry, Mister--?"
"Holmes," the man says. "Sherlock Holmes." He holds his hand out. The sweet looking old lady at his elbow tries to give Lestrade a glass of champagne and a party squeaker.
The stark light in the lab make his eyes look worse; downstairs they were like silver, cold and bright and sharp: now they seem utterly inhuman. The You're under arrest, sits under Lestrade's tongue but doesn't make it out. He's not keen on his or Donovan's fingers, ears or whatever-elses being added to the piles of human disjecta membra lying around the lab.
The silvery eyes watch him and what he's not saying.
Lestrade coughs. "Can I use your phone? Mine and my sergeant's don't appear to be working."
The woman nudges Lestrade's elbow with the champagne flute. Sherlock looks to it, then back into Lestrade's eyes.
Feeling like he's having a staring contest with a cat, Lestrade takes it.
A beat, then Sherlock nods. Lestrade mentally breathes out.
"You may use it momentarily. But now, do come into the pink room. You will, of course, need to suit up first."
Another woman and a man have appeared at the back of the room, making Donovan start when she turns and sees them. Similarly to the fluffy old lady at Sherlock's elbow, they're in blue contamination suits and holding up empty ones.
Sherlock throws an apron on over his dressing gown and strides out.
Lestrade swaps a look with Donovan.
If they only had to deal with these four then maybe they'd try to be more forceful or maybe make a break for it -- but the corridor outside is rammed with homeless looking types, and growing more full as they stand there. Not a reassuring crowd.
What else is there to do but take the next step down the rabbit hole?
--
It's something in the eyes of everyone here; an undefinable haunted quality, too bright, too desperate, too manic -- sanity a fraying thread that's about to snap.
Molly wears her desperation for Sherlock's approval like a cheap scent, scuttling to fetch and carry at each imperious tone. If this were another time, another place -- if Sally Donovan wasn't stood here in a paper suit over her underwear half frightened for her life -- she would be annoyed at any woman, no, any person debasing themselves for another like that. But she is, so she just folds her arms over her chest to keep her restless hands still.
Jim almost skips around the lab, practically clapping his hands together in pleasure and delight at everything. He winks at Lestrade and pulls a lollipop out from a jar of eyes. Lestrade tries not to react. Jim winks again, a giggle bubbling out of him.
Next to the others, Mrs. Hudson almost seems normal, which only makes her more oddly worrying; the little old lady is told to take care of the rest of the guests and they get to see her cheerfully hustling a dozen or so of the homeless into a viewing gallery. They each get a jolly little paper hat, a bow tie and a football rattle.
The lights go down in most of the room, small spotlights coming up to illuminate what can only be called a dais with a tank on it at the end. The sides of the tank are transparent, too bright light throwing distorting shadows that make it look like that there's rather more than an eye or a finger in there.
From the darkness behind Sherlock climbs up the ladder behind it to stand on the walkway. He's taken a moment to slick on lipstick and eyeliner, a little blusher feathering under his cheekbones; Lestrade feels like he's staring inappropriately, which is stupid when the man's wanting to be the focus of everyone's attention. He strokes the edge of the tank, looking halfway between smug and rapturous.
As he starts to talk, of life and death, of secrets found and controlled, manipulated and pinned to obey his whims, Lestrade takes a step closer to Donovan so their elbows are touching. It's no comfort to either of them.
--
"John," Sherlock breathes when they've caught and calmed his creation. He unties the apron, drops the dressing gown off his arms unselfconsciously, and somehow what he's wearing beneath is no bloody surprise at all. John's hands go to his waist, stroking at the fine satin of the corset.
There's a room full of people staring and Sherlock doesn't seem to see them, just stands and strokes John's face, fingertips ghosting over the scars on his body, then up his jaw, cheek and into his ash blonde hair. John also ignores them, but from him it seems more like he hasn't realised yet that the normal thing is to be discomfited by such scrutiny.
"We're going to be perfect," Sherlock whispers, the loudest thing in the silent room.
--
Lestrade lies in the dark on the covers and stares at the ceiling. He had tried to argue against this but Molly had frowned when he had objected, forehead puckering slowly with unhappiness. "But Sherlock insisted that everyone was allowed their own room--"
"Yes," he had nodded and smiled encouragingly, "but I don't need one. We wanted to use your phone--"
"In the morning."
"Now--"
"No phone until the morning."
"Well, in that case, we'll not prey on your hospitality."
"Not a problem," she had chirped. "We have lots of rooms."
Oh for -- He had glanced over to his DS: Donovan wasn't looking like she was faring any better with Mrs. Hudson. "It's about time we should be off anyway--"
"Don't be silly. Jim'll've locked the front door by now anyway."
Lestrade licked his lower lip. "Any chance of him unlocking it again?"
"Not until morning."
"I see."
Molly had nodded and turned away. "So that's settled."
"No," he had tried to be firm, followed her as she pottered around the lab, picking up things and putting them down again. "No, I'd like to leave, and so would my Sergeant."
"She's already gone with Mrs. Hudson." Molly waved at the door. Using the hand with the meat cleaver in it.
A good reminder of why he was trying to do this the polite way. "Right, right. Where's she gone? We'd like to, uh, share a room."
"Oh no, everyone gets their own room."
It had been like trying to reason with mould. All he could hope was that Donovan would have the same idea, would lie quiet until the house was asleep and try to climb out through a ground window while it was dark. If she didn't--
A flush of shame burnt along the back of his neck as he thought of it. He didn't want to abandon his DS but checking random rooms for her would be risky; as soon as he could get a hold of someone they could return with backup.
(Why the hell hadn't anyone come to check on them? It had been hours since they had radioed in. Was there no one at the station monitoring where their officers were?)
Quiet now: quiet enough to try and make a break for it?
Footsteps in the corridor outside. Hurrying.
There is a tap at the door, followed by a familiar female voice hissing, "Sir? You in there?"
Donovan. Grinning as the relief rushes through him, Lestrade opens the door.
"Hello, Detective Inspector," says Sherlock Holmes.
--
"What are you doing in here?"
"Not much, Molly, love," Jim smiles. "Just seeing if Sherlock's pet was settling in okay."
Molly tries to turn her lips upwards, push a little more happiness to the surface. "You're very thoughtful."
Jim grabs her hand and twirls her around, spinning her around and then twisting her back against his chest. "And you're very pretty," he tells her startled eyes. "Shall we dance?"
Molly giggles, and they dance to the music in Jim's head out of the little bedroom, through the lab and down the stairs, away, away from the empty pile of bedclothes.
--
There must have been drugs somewhere along the line. He didn't do anything more than touch the champagne glass to his lips, didn't even consider any of the weird little canapes offered to him. How did they do it, how did they--
Sherlock's tongue dips lower, slides further down and back, running the edge of the sensitive skin there. Gregory Lestrade's previously ragged breath now abandons him in one long torn moan.
Sherlock had arrived at the door, confidence and arrogance wrapped around him like a scarf. Sherlock had swept in, dissected everything he had done that day by looking at his cuffs and fingernails, then coolly told him Hannah was two dates into an affair. Sherlock--
shifts his grip, spreads Greg wider with his thumbs and pushes his evil bastard clever tongue in again again again.
--
Sally's clawing at the window in the study, almost managing to get the sash a half inch up when she hears the dogs. Her heart sinks. There's the sudden urge to scream, but that never helps anyone, so she swallows it down and goes to hunt for the phone. Can always say she needed a drink of water, right?
--
Mrs. Hudson opens the door to the cupboard under the stairs and tries to put the vacuum away, only to discover a hunched up man in the spot it lives in.
"Hello, dear. Are you quite all right in there?"
John shivers, rainwater and blood trickling down his face from his hair. He looks confused, and tries to curl himself a little tighter.
"I must be getting on, dear. Could you be a love and step out of there? I dare say I could make you a cup of tea."
This doesn't get a response. Mrs. Hudson tuts, patience tried. "Young man! You come out of there this minute!"
John scrambles out, and she smiles. He waits uncertainly while she puts the hoover away. "Now you come with me, we'll get you a hot drink and something warmer to wear than those gold pants you've got. Won't that be nice?"
--
After the zen room, the music room, the room of mirrors and pictures of snakes, the Disney room and the room filled with plaster statues of nude people, Donovan finds a room that looks almost normal, resembling nothing so much as an old lady's sitting room, down to the telly and crocheted covers on the backs of the chairs. Still no phone, though.
The door behind her squeaks open and there's a dreadful moment when her heart jack-hammers in her chest.
"Hello," Mrs. Hudson smiles, unbothered by the unexpected woman in front of her. "Do you fancy a cup of tea too?"
"Um, says Donovan. "Yes please?" She glances at John, who trails into the room and is suddenly fascinated by the wallpaper. She nearly smiles; it is pretty ugly wallpaper.
Mrs. Hudson's tugging at her blue paper suit and Donovan looks away before she realises that, unlike her, Mrs. Hudson has a sensible wool dress on underneath. "Right. If you put the kettle on and fetch the cups, I'll have a rummage in my chest for something for the young man to wear. Something belonging to my husband should fit him."
Donovan nods, trying to be friendly and steer the conversation towards phones and where they may be. "Your husband?"
"Yes, dreadful old bastard, he's passed on thankfully. Not a big man though, so it's all to the good."
"Er-" Donovan covers her hesitation by pretending to look for things. "Teabags?" she asks weakly.
"In the box marked 'sugar', dear." Mrs. Hudson makes a little hum of consideration as she finds something and tries to attract John's attention. He's too fascinated by the repeating pattern on the wall, following it with a fingertip as it loops, twists, repeats, so she just pulls the jumper on over his head and tucks his arms in afterwards.
He stops tracing the pattern and strokes the arms of the thing, an expression of utter pleasure playing around his mouth. Donovan's never seen someone look so happy to be given a jumper that looks so much like uncooked pastry before.
Mrs. Hudson looks pleased, and doubly so when Donovan gives her a cup of tea. "We'll have to work on some trousers, but those can wait until after we've had a sit down and a biscuit, can't they?"
John has to be pushed into his chair and have the cup pressed into his hands. Donovan manages to stop him before he takes a mouthful of scalding tea. "Blow on it first," she tells him, miming for his benefit.
He does so and then smiles. Pity twists in Sally's chest, coiling around revolted anger at that curly haired freak upstairs. She forces herself to smile. "Yes. Um. So," she says to Mrs. Hudson. "I was wondering if you have a phone? I wouldn't want my mother to worry," she quickly adds when the old lady pauses, "just let her know where I've got to."
That gets a pleasant smile. "I don't have a phone, no. Dreadful noisy things." Donovan's heart, already low, sinks further. "Sherlock's terribly keen on them, though, texting at all hours -- you'd think his was glued to his hand."
Treacherous lifting hope now. "No landline?"
"Oh no, Sherlock's always losing his mobile and getting another rather than look for it. Why," Mrs. Hudson laughs fondly, "his room must have two dozen in it, lurking behind cushions and whatnot."
Sally manages to last the rest of the conversation until her tea is gone, where she makes a show of slapping her knees and saying that she must be going. John stands at the same time as her and moves to follow her out the door.
"No, no, you stay here -- get some trousers on."
Mrs. Hudson gives a little chuckle. "No, love, I've things to be doing, you take him along to play with you."
John gives her a hopeful little look and Sally sighs inside. Oh, hell.
--
Lestrade leans over and steals the remainder of the cigarette from between Sherlock's pale fingers. Ash falls carelessly onto the sheets.
"Two years' worth of effort so easily undone." Sherlock doesn't sound concerned about Lestrade's smoking relapse, just bored by the predictability of an addict always remaining an addict.
It's a cheap blow and Lestrade wonders if he is supposed to be surprised by it after all the other observations, then decides that he doesn't want to play to the bastard's ego -- and realises he's being watched again. It makes him feel more naked than he already is. He sucks down a drag of the fag angrily.
Eyes drifting elsewhere, Sherlock wears a brief little bitter smile like he's won.
The doorbell rings loudly from downstairs.
Lestrade tries to will some fluidity back into his suddenly rigid muscles. Another drag, a steady breath out. "Aren't you going to answer that?"
"It's what servants are for."
"I thought they'd put away the keys already?" Shit. Does he sound too keen? Nonchalance, nonchalance.
"They can just take them out again then. They're only keys."
Cigarette finished, Lestrade realises there's nowhere to put the stub. He holds it out towards Sherlock questioningly, but Sherlock only gives him a superior look.
"I don't want it."
"Neither do I!"
The doorbell rings again.
"Sounds like they're busy."
Sherlock sighs, terribly put upon by the whole thing. He rolls over and fishes in his dropped gown, comes back holding a PDA. He jabs at the screen twice and waits while Lestrade tries to not be too obvious in his shifting that he's trying to get a glimpse of what's on the screen. It looks like the feed from a security camera.
Slow to load, it shows a grainy little figure in black and white on the door step. A moment, then Sherlock hisses like a scalded cat. On the screen, the door opens. Sherlock swears and leaps up, barely remembering to snatch his dressing gown before he swirls out of the door.
In any other situation a man dressed only in fishnets, garter belt and silk robe would be downright hilarious. Lestrade promises himself he'll laugh until he cries when he gets out of this mess, but right now concerns himself with finding something to throw on as fast as he bloody well can.
--
Donovan and John are in the hall when the doorbell goes, trying to open the door to the room she and Lestrade went into all those hours ago. Or at least, Donovan is trying to with what little she knows of lock picking. John stands to the side, seemingly content to put his fingers in the mouths of stuffed creatures and rub over the fur on their heads and the glass beads they have in their heads instead of eyes.
At the sound John drops into a half crouch, looking around for where it came from. Donovan goes still. She had been considering going back up to the lab and taking the lift back down to the study but if someone comes to answer the door -- someone with keys comes to the door -- there's a window of opportunity right there.
She hustles John in through a dark doorway, motioning for him to be quiet while she leaves the door ajar and peers out.
Wait until the door's open, ask if they don't mind calling the dogs in, smack them if they do, then run like the clappers. Not a brilliant plan, she'll admit, but it's all she's got for the moment.
Jim dances into the hall holding an invisible partner, something quick-quick-slow, quick-quick-slow, sidling up to the door to finish with a flourish that would work better with an actual person. He blows a kiss to an invisible audience, waves at such cheering hordes and accepts invisible flowers from another invisible person, then takes a bow.
It should not be as hard as it has been, Donovan thinks, to pick a winner for 'Most Insane Bastard in the House'.
After drawing back one, two bolts, then lifting the bar Jim pulls a ring of keys from inside his jacket and unlocks the door. He doesn't hold it open very wide though, just enough of a narrow sliver so he can look out into the torrential rain.
"Good evening."
"Hello," says a female voice. "I'm Dr. Sawyer and I was wondering if I could come in?"
"You're wet."
There's a pause. "It's raining. May I come in, please?"
"Hmm. Perhaps you'd better." This is the moment she's been waiting for. Sally slips out from their hiding place, dashing towards the open door. "Seeing as you have that open," she blurts, one hand upraised and halfway there and about to make it if she doesn't immediately collide with the woman who has just come through it.
Sadly though, Dr. Sawyer cries: "John!" and darts forward. She doesn't smack right into Donovan but it's enough of a delay that Jim has slammed the door, spun the key and dropped the bar back into place by the time Donovan's next to him.
The DS makes a snatch for the keys in his hand. Jim yanks them away with a "Uh-uh!" and a waggling finger. The grab for him is no better as, with two little odd twists, he has slipped out from under her grip, shifted his hands and is now gripping her. Donovan jerks in his hold, trying to head-butt him. Jim ducks to the side and whispers, "Don't want to miss the rest of the par-ty, do we?" into her ear, before shoving her hard against the wall and jarring her shoulder badly.
Donovan turns in time to see a door down the corridor close and is about to give chase when Sherlock comes down the stairs, barely dressed and smeared with make-up and hickies -- and looking like a thunderstorm.
"Get away from him."
The little blonde doctor straightens up where she stands, unquailing before Sherlock. She has John's hand in her own and doesn't look to be willingly dropping it any time soon. "What have you done?"
"If you do not leave my house now I will drag you out by your hair, I will cut you into fragments much too small for even a rat to eat, I will break your arms with rocks, I will beat you and drown you and burn you and hurt you and hurt you and if I stop then that shall be mercy."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"You're too stupid to be."
Donovan knows she ought to be intervening at some point. The doctor lifts her chin, glares right at Sherlock and tugs John further behind her. He looks as vaguely interested in what is happening before him as he has been by the furnishings.
She takes a step towards the door and that appears to be it for Sherlock. He snarls, "He was yours when he was alive," and leaps at her.
Donovan and Lestrade manage to unfreeze in time to seize each of them and drag them unwillingly apart before they do too much to hurt each other, Dr. Sawyer being incredibly reluctant to let go of Sherlock's hair.
With pink cheeks they glare at each other hatefully. John stands by, momentarily forgotten until Sherlock calls his name. He looks up.
"Come here," Sherlock commands. John takes a step towards him.
"No, John! Come to me," Dr. Sawyer urges, and John hesitates, frowning.
"Come here."
"To me, darling, please!"
"To me!"
"No, to me!"
(He looks so confused.)
"John!"
"John!"
"SHUT IT THE PAIR OF YOU." That gets silence, and Lestrade coughs. "Good."
There is a moment which looks like it's going to be awkward but is swiftly swallowed by the sound of a gong, a fantastic summoning crash.
Molly appears at the top of the stairs. "Dinner's ready," she says happily. Then takes in the situation in front of her. "Oh dear."
--
At the front gate a large black saloon pulls up. Someone standing close to would say it must be an electric car as it doesn't make a sound as it moves. Which does explain the lack of engine noise, but not how it manages to ride over the gravel without crunching.
--
"I am not hungry."
Lestrade has two children and knows exactly what a petulant child looks like. He's also seen a petulant child rip the wings off a fly and watch it sink in water. Petulant child is a state which often needs careful handling, so he lowers his voice as he murmurs into Sherlock's ear: "Dinner is an excellent idea--"
"Are you master of this house?"
Lestrade tries to look calm. He tries to feel it too. He manages to keep his voice low and reassuring. "Well, I'm sure John could do with something."
That gives Sherlock pause. "He's only been here for seven hours."
"That's long enough for people to start feeling hungry."
"Do you? I mean: is it?"
Such a small gap of uncertainty, Lestrade is quick to wedge his verbal foot in the door of opportunity before it shuts. "It is." He lets go of Sherlock and steps back, still between him and the doctor. "So if you'd lead the way?"
--
"Nice dressing gown," Donovan whispers to Lestrade on the way to the dinner table. "Didn't think purple was your colour."
"I was trying to find a way out of here," he tells her.
She gives him a sceptical eyebrow that he probably deserves.
--
The table is set up for dinner, though none of the cutlery or plates have much in common with each other; no more than three of anything match on the table.
"I used what was clean," Molly smiles happily. "I didn't touch anything that might have been used to keep anything--" she frowns, looking for a word, "--icky in it."
Not-icky's good. Even though it seems to come as washed out jam-jars and empty yoghurt pots and chipped mugs with Bart's and London School of Medicine and Dentistry on the side instead of drinking glasses.
"Tea," Sherlock commands and Molly scurries to fetch the pot.
Dr. Sawyer's seated at the opposite end of the table to Sherlock, which is great in terms of distance but not in terms of eye line. They continue to glare at each other.
"The words of the contract are, ''Til death do you part''. You have no recourse here."
"Only you would call it a 'contract'," Dr. Sawyer snaps. "And he's not dead any more."
"I did not revive him for you."
"You good as killed him yoursel--"
Donovan scrapes her chair back loudly, which draws their attention away from each other for a moment. "What's for dinner?" she asks.
With excellent timing Molly returns, pushing a little trolley with a teapot and a frankly massive silver covered dish on it. Smiles and biscuits and a little jug for the milk and Lestrade has to bite the inside of his mouth to hold back Twinkle, twinkle little bat, how I wonder what you're at?, no matter how appropriate it may feel.
Molly nods eagerly at all of them, "All settled? Good, good," then uncovers the dish.
Whatever Lestrade had expected, however weird or prosaic or utterly incongruous the dish he was expecting to see, he was not expecting a small television screen. It has bacon draped in a jolly fashion all around it but still: a television screen. Molly turns it on.
"Hell-lo there, boys and girls!" Jim crows. "Isn't this jolly!"
--
Outside, the rain stops. Which is a pity, the man stepping out of the car reflects, as it really is a magnificent umbrella.
--
Sherlock doesn't seem surprised by the treachery; he rolls his eyes and sighs. "Really, Jim?"
"Really really, Sherlock."
"This is going to be some demand for my notes. How tedious."
"Wrong!" Jim mimes striking a bell. "I could have had those any time."
"My encryption codes are excellent."
"They are just lovely. So elegant and," Jim sighs, "simple."
Sherlock narrows his eyes. "And you've convinced Molly to assist you." He looks at her then, and Molly straightens and smiles. "So desperate for my attention she really will believe anything, won't she?"
"No!" Molly snaps. "Jim and me are together." Her grip on her cleaver grows tighter, rubbed red knuckles going white under the skin.
"Of course."
"We are!"
Sherlock dismisses her with a little flutter of his fingers. "You're in the pool room, I take it?" he asks Jim. "Shall I come down and we have our little tête-à-tête there?"
"Yes, let's." His grin matches his eyes then, shark sharp and scenting blood. "Molly, dear, be an angel and let Sherlock out to see me? Do kill the rest if they're tiresome at all."
There's a mulish set to Molly's eyes then, but she does as she's instructed and allows Sherlock to stand and sweep out.
--
"Molly," Donovan tries again. Sherlock's been gone nearly ten minutes, the electronic eye of the television screen blank for nearly as long as that and they are still no closer to getting out of the damn house.
"Stop saying my name!"
"Okay, okay--"
"And stop talking to me like I'm, I'm soft in the head! I'm a doctor, you know, I'm smart and intelligent and you should all stop talking to me like this!"
"Sherlock's always told you what to do--"
"Stop with the placating hands! Stay where you are and, and stop! Just, just, stop."
Donovan stays where she is and doesn't try to come closer. If it were only the meat cleaver maybe they could try force but the little remote with the red button in Molly's other hand is something worth pausing over. So she clears her throat and says in a direct tone: "How is doing what Jim wants better than doing what Sherlock wants?"
"Don't you try and trick me!"
"No tricks. I'd just like to know the difference between them. Sherlock's obviously cracked -- I mean," she huffs out a little laugh, "who in this room would disagree with me, right? But I haven't spoken to Jim, so I don't know how he's better."
"He just is! He loves me, you hear? He loves me."
"He loves you so much he's asked you to blow yourself up?"
Molly's eyes are shiny with tears. "You can't take this away from me."
Donovan tries to say without pity: "Jim already has."
Molly draws in a shaky breath and nods. She puts the remote down on the sideboard and murmurs a small, broken, "Excuse me," and flees out the doors.
The first to unfreeze is Lestrade, who snatches the remote up, snaps the back off it and shakes the batteries out into his palm. "Good work," he tells Donovan. "Now, we're going to head downstairs, get the door open and then you're going to take those two and try and get hold of someone."
Donovan nods, not liking the And I'm going to try and stop three nutters from murdering each other and myself while you do it that Lestrade hasn't said. "Yes, sir."
--
They don't bother with the main door, heavy oaken thing that it is, but break the lock on one of the large sash windows in the music room. There's no sound of the dogs and it has stopped raining; it nearly bodes well for a random dash, in the dark, heading towards an exit they've only seen once, that may or may not be approachable from this side of the house.
Yeah.
Donovan gets out first, then the doctor and then it's John's turn and he doesn't move.
"Go on," Lestrade gestures.
The two women outside make encouraging noises, but John looks at them, looks at Lestrade and then turns and leaves the room.
Lestrade swears and slams the window shut before the doctor tries to climb back in, then takes off after John.
--
When Sherlock had said 'pool' Lestrade had thought of billiards. But of course, he thinks as he enters, why should anything in this house be even slightly normal.
No one turns as he enters the room. They are stood all at the far side of the pool in a loose semi-circle; John stands with his hands clenched, frowning intently at the others, Jim waves cheerfully at Lestrade, the only one to acknowledge him, and little Molly squares up to Sherlock, tendrils of hair working mad and loose as she wails at him, "--nearly happy. Why do you always have to spoil things?"
Sherlock may be standing back, head up and slightly aloof from Molly and her eyes shining with unsaid tears but it's not him who answers in a bored drawl: "Natural talent?"
She wheels around and makes shaking steps towards Jim, one angry finger jabbing at the air between them. "And you-! How could you? How could you?"
"Very easily, as it turns out."
Molly flings a sudden childish arm around in a loose arc, an open palm with no real thought or power behind it.
It doesn't manage to connect; Jim's hand is on her wrist before it is even close to meeting his face. Furious, Molly tries to yank her hand free. His fingers tighten and Jim tips his head, gently chiding. "Tut, tut. Where have you picked up your manners, my girl?"
"I'm not 'your girl'!"
Jim's free hand moves. A sudden flash and a moment's delay before the mind sees the blade, and it is gone as soon as recognised as what it is. Jim smiles wider and steps forward into the arterial spray.
Molly's fingers claw at the slash in her neck, eyes wide and hopeless in shock; Jim catches her by the sides of her head and draws her close for a kiss, while her breath and blood gurgle over her lips and from her open throat.
Lestrade's knees are frozen and his useless body only lets him move again when he hears the grunt that escapes from John as Sherlock intercepts him, holds him where he is.
"Already dead," Sherlock hisses in John's ear. "Already-- stay still, damn you!"
Jim releases his grip on Molly and she hits the floor like a wet sack of sticks. "That applies to you as well, Inspector. Well," he adds after a beat, clapping his hands together, "this has been lovely but I really must be off now. Have to do it again soon, and all that."
"You aren't leaving."
"Oh, but I am. And before you offer to kill me, do remember that you have your hands a little full at the moment."
"No."
"No? Dear me, I never thought you'd be struck by deafness and stupidity. Your housekeeper has trotted off to bedfordshire for the evening, don't you know? Which leaves you running a little low on allies." Jim makes a little moue of regret. "So--"
The door at the far end of the room swings open and a gent with an umbrella steps in. 'Gent' being the the operative word; to the hips he looks like the classic city commuter in his grey three piece suit. That the trousers have been cut into Daisy Dukes and he's wearing fishnets and high heels is almost no-nevermind.
"Good evening."
Jim falters but rallies magnificently. "Oh, hello."
"How do you do, Mr. Moriarty?"
"Oh, how lovely! A friend of yours, Sherlock?"
"Worse," Sherlock snaps. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"
"I thought I'd drop by. For a little chat," the man Mycroft brushes invisible dirt from his cuff. "Check how you are doing."
"I don't need your interference."
Jim's pleased smile starts to crumple at being talked over.
"Of course not. I thought I should see you, satisfy my own curiosity. That sort of thing."
"Satisfied now?"
"Sadly, not. But I have grown accustomed to being-- disappointed."
Sherlock snorts.
Mycroft inspects the end of his umbrella. "When you are done being childish, you really will see I am correct--"
"I'm terribly sorry to interrupt," Moriarty says, more snarl in his smile than before, "but--"
He doesn't get to finish his sentence; Mycroft levels his umbrella at him and a thin jet of red light shoots out. The noise it makes (like a small child blowing raspberries on its arm) is almost comical. The scream Moriarty makes as he seizes and dies, is not.
Mycroft offers a tight, apologetic smile. "There is no excuse for insincerity in one's apologies."
John makes that distressed noise again and Sherlock lifts his chin at Mycroft as he tries to turn his creature around in the circle of his arms. "Don't you even consider it," he warns.
Mycroft nods. "Then we'll be off?"
Sherlock's lips tighten, and Mycroft seems to take that as assent. He turns and looks at Lestrade, who is suddenly glad to have been ignored by those flint sharp eyes for as long as he has. "It would be best if you left the house quickly, Detective Inspector. There's a good chap."
--
Lestrade makes it out to the cover of the trees before the house doesn't so much as explode as take the fuck off.
--