Can't Live On Milk Alone Part 2/2 | Sequel to "Time in Lieu Of "
Title: Can't Live on Milk Alone
Part: 2/2 Sequel to Time in Lieu Of
Warnings: None really. Mentions of John and Sherlock being together. AU crack fic of crackness. Considerable volumes of OOC. Unintended cross over with Good Omens.
Prompt Link: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4076.html?thread=10033900#t10033900
Prompt: John Watson has three siblings, not one...and together they are the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Length: 16,000+
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“Starting more land wars Mycroft? Mummy would be so upset.”
“If you boys are done whipping it out, I’d just like to point out (again) that I found something important. But you know, if you’re all busy I’ll just sit back and wage war via the internet. Just saying. Not like anyone cares if they lose their mind or anything.” Clara leaned against the dining room table, her arms crossed over her chest. Her rouged lips pulled back into a mean smirk at the sudden silence in the room. “Like I was saying, noone’s put two and two together and got localized blackouts because every team they’ve sent in to investigate has gone stark raving bonkers. Then whoever they spoke to got mentally fucked as well. Whatever this brain worm is, it’s spreading through the communication ranks like syphilis at a university campus. I’d say the kid gloves are off.”
“So…we’re going to kill people now?” Jim’s hopeful grin looked a lot like his maniacal grin, which is to say it looked like he was clenching his teeth with his lips pulled back. It rather made Sherlock fear for his throat.
“No. It means that Claire will solve this mildly irritating impediment to our sanity while Sherlock sows panic; Oh yes, James, it will be up to you to enforce the peace.”
Clara grinned. “Yah, enslave and destroy. For peace, of course.”
James looked mildly disgusted. “How dull. Sherlock, I do hope your performance is not as disappointing as all our previous encounters. So predictable how you jump for your pet.”
“And yet, I wasn’t the one who got cut in half.”
“I have people for that kind of thing.”
“For getting cut in half?”
“Children. Planning, it is something we should do now.”
---
Back in Baker Street, Sherlock carefully reached into the back of the highest cabinet above the refrigerator. Seeing as most of his bacteria cultures had the propensity for premature death (not surprising seeing who John is…it wasn’t like he even -needed- to eat so why worry about contamination?) he had felt it prudent to hide his little experiment away from his bactericidal lover. It was a set of thirty test tubes, carefully sealed. He hadn’t the chance to test them and supposed this would be as good of an opportunity as any.
Mycroft always said that society was four meals away from anarchy. Sherlock wondered if anyone had scientifically tested the axiom. He set up test parameters in his head and wondered where he should maintain the control group; although considering the capacity for news to travel via the internet and television, few populations that were easily observable would be unaffected. Perhaps he could have Clara work on a side project for him.
He checked the weather, humidity was going to be high for the next few days. From under his bed he pulled another set of test tubes, vacuum sealed in glass capsules. They were unpleasant, but it couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t let Jim and Clara completely outpace him in terms of mayhem. Some appearances had to be kept up after all. Besides which, this much he could efficiently do with the help of the homeless network.
What was left was to sabotage a number of incredibly out-dated computer systems and employ his excellent acting skills. The hypothetical outcome was paranoia followed by mass hysteria. Sherlock only needed to sow the seeds while the plebeian masses performed as the plebeian masses were wont: milling into a frantic feedback loop of crazed panic. It should worry him that societal collapse was so easy to instigate. It didn’t. The fact that John would have liked it to worry him was enough to make Sherlock feel a smidge uncomfortable. Hopefully that would be considered sufficient.
Four hours later he sent a message to his fellow co-conspirators. John may well have been the grim spectre of death (The ugly green jumper gave him away: expensive, obviously a gift that smelt faintly of Mycroft’s assistant’s overpriced perfume; Therefore a gift from her. As she was a woman of taste she would never choose that colour for John unless it served a practical purpose, such as colour coding) but he sometimes alluded to Sherlock’s supremacy as the greatest pest in his life. Sherlock was excited to test whether John had been exaggerating.
November 15, 2012 20:03: To: All: Avoid bridges and the water. - SH
November 15, 2012 20:03: To: All: Can I take a shower?- CW
November 15, 2012 20:03: To: All: Not advisable at present. - SH
November 15, 2012 20:04: To: All: LOLZ!
November 15, 2012 20:04: To: All: Damn it. When can I take a shower? - CW
November 15, 2012 20:04: To: All: Once I finish synthesizing the appropriate antibiotic. - SH
November 15, 2012 20:04: To: All: OMG! >:D >:D >:D >:D >:D >:D
November 15, 2012 20:04: To: All: Oh it’s on. - CW
By nine pm on Friday November 15, 2012, the global satellite fell under a universal blackout shortly followed by the vast majority of internet providers. Clara yawned as she repositioned a number of military satellites to stare at the large black spots that had suddenly whipped up into a frenzy of activity, casting their attention to the various riots that were beginning to spring up around the globe. Mycroft’s doing no doubt. The hunter that had sat patiently on the outskirts of London began moving into the city proper as all of London’s pumping stations were turned off and the city moved into the use of its aquifers. The hunter’s body drifted over the manor causing static to dance across computer monitors. His errands completed, and returned to the manor, Sherlock hardly looked up from his computer screen. His fingers danced over the keyboard as he hacked into a considerably more sophisticated security system.
“So why doesn’t Mycroft have you help him in his little ventures instead of contracting me?”
“Because he’s a lazy walrus who should get off his ever-widening posterior and do it himself instead of relying on hired help or family.” Sherlock smirked as the main security measures around the CDC tropical disease laboratories began to malfunction. He looked over at Clara’s computer screen. “I see you have enlisted a number of trolls in your quest to spread overhyped religious drivel and mania on a number of websites. Could be interesting. Difficult to predict.”
“Unlike this disease thing you have goin’ on…”
“Ridiculous, it is both convenient and relatively predictable from an epidemiological perspective.”
“And I can shower in…”
Sherlock shrugged.
“And I’m avoiding bridges because…”
“I could murder a biscuit. I’ll get you one. You prefer Jammy Dodgers.” He jumped up from the computer chair, before strutting out of the room.
Clara bit back a growl of annoyance. “Do you work at being this fucking annoying or does it come naturally?”
---
Jim was good at mitigating risks. Excellent at avoiding attention. Both of these gifts resulted in minimal casualties in most of his endeavours (kind of a drag). Unfortunately, a pile of dead bodies was really really noticeable, no matter how incredibly fantastic a throne of skulls would be. So while he wasn’t a big supporter of peace, he was rather good at enforcing it. Maybe it was his DNA? His parents had spent the 60s developing cold war weaponry for the USSR. That had been interesting. Until the CIA killed them. Not that they had gone down quietly or alone.
Death was such an undignified affair. It’s why he preferred explosions. Cleansing power of flame. Mmmm.
His attention was drawn back to the terrorist cell leader who was whimpering in his restraints. Whimpering. Jim rolled his eyes. Didn’t anyone have any class anymore? He still got soft squishy feelings when he remembered the silent exchange between Sherlock and John at the pool. Granted, John’s level headedness may have been linked with him being an immortal entity created to bring about the end of days and Sherlock’s due to him diverting his creativity and imagination as far away from calculating personal consequences as possible. But still. It was dignified. Like a nice suit.
Jim chuckled self depreciatingly. God, he was -such- a softie. He clubbed the restrained man with his hand gun, and motioned for his men to place him into a semtex vest.
Whistling, he walked jauntily down the stairs, while texting directions to Team Blue and Team Caturday (LOLZ!). Forty-five men of interest down thirty three to go. Mycroft may have been a prig (and Sherlock’s brother to boot. Note to self: ensure neither Holmes brother ever reproduces.) and overly sentimental about civilians, but he certainly knew how to keep Jim entertained.
---
Clara never did get her biscuit. But seeing as Sherlock had actually -volunteered- to get one for her, she would have been too suspicious to eat it. Mr. Bioterrorism couldn’t convince her to eat a biscuit if it came separately packaged in an airtight bag.
She refocused her energies on trying to disentangle herself from one of the overstuffed chairs in Mycroft’s office. Doubtlessly the chair was some sort of security measure against assassination/a restraint. It was too big and fluffy for life and the moment she had sat down, it had swallowed her whole. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had stupidly sat in one. Instead, they both stood by the window, overlooking the Themes and Tower Bridge as a fine drizzle fell. Or rather, Mycroft looked over London, while Sherlock seemed too engrossed in his cell phone to notice (she wouldn’t destroy their communication systems after all). Everyone studiously avoided looking out the window facing south, where the Hunter was sitting. Wouldn’t do to go crazy (or in Sherlock’s case, crazier).
She’d never been to -this- office before, and knowing Mycroft she never would visit this office again, maybe next time they met they could have tea on a carousel in a circus. That would be cool.
“This little bioterrorism project of yours is quite impressive. I’ve a few men working on it now, to keep up appearances of course, and none of have located an effective solution. The terror it is causing is also quite an accomplishment, especially now that the bacteria has migrated to North America.”
Sherlock fidgeted without looking away from his phone.
Clara glared at both the Holmes brothers. Their facial expressions didn’t seem to change, but If she looked away for a moment and looked back she could catalogue a glacially slow decent into fury on Mycroft’s part (a look she was wholly too familiar with) and discomfort on Sherlock’s (a look that was INCREDIBLY worrying). Something was going on. She tried to imagine the family that would have generated Mycroft and Sherlock, and decided that she would prefer to spend Christmas dinners with Jim. At least there was only one of him.
“Sherlock, how -do- you intend to address this outbreak?”
“Yah, and why the hell are we still avoiding bridges?” Neither answer was entirely clear, as far as Clara was concerned.
Sherlock seemed to straighten a bit. “It’s a surprise.”
Mycroft looked apocalyptic. Or at least as apocalyptic as Mycroft ever looked, which is to say he was wearing a tiny thoughtful frown while the ring finger on his right hand slowly tapped against the umbrella he had been leaning on. Tap-tap-tap went the ring. Boom-boom-boom went Clara’s heart. She looked for something in the room that would serve to save her when the heavy artillery inevitably began exploding.
“I see. Then your humorous little quip via text was not an exaggeration. People are falling into comas, Sherlock.”
“And yet, none of them are actually dead. Maybe if you were less lazy in setting up operation parameters, you wouldn’t be so surprised. No wonder that the Korean election went so poorly.”
Sherlock didn’t seem to realize that his brother was going to kill him. Luckily, Sherlock was saved from his untimely demise by Tower Bridge, which fell into the Tames. Its demise was closely followed by London Bridge, the Millennium Bridge and Blackfiars.
“Ah excellent. Surprise.” Sherlock continued to type away on his phone.
A deafening silence filled the room for a number of minutes. Clara gaped a bit. She was stuck in a room with two beasties that were the thing of nightmares. Fuck the hunters, if she spent too much time with these assholes she would go nutters.
The door burst open, and Jim strutted in with a grin on his face that would have made the Cheshire cat uncomfortable. “That was fantastic, almost better than that night I went on a bender and woke up with my faze frozen to the trunk of a car. Ah middle school!”
They all stared at Jim in a bit of shock. The man was drenched and smelled like the Thames. Obviously he had been on one of the bridges or he had just been chilling in the Thames while debating how late he was going to be for their meeting. With Jim either option was equally possible. Nevertheless, he knew how to make an entrance.
“What? Don’t judge me, Shirly, or I’ll eat your judging little eyes.”
“Actually, I think I know exactly what you mean.”
Everyone shifted awkwardly. Apparently Sherlock and Jim were bonding despite themselves. Clara sighed it was so hard being the only representative of normal in their little foursome. She pulled out her iPhone and rerouted a few satellites in her agitation.
---
Jim’s eye twitched. He looked between Sherlock and Mycroft who wore twin expressions of severe agitation. Jim’s grin grew. “HUuuuUUuuugs!” Everyone in the room gave his dripping self a wide berth.
Yes, he supposed that whatever was in the water was likely to kill him; yes, he could have tested this on someone else, but Jim’s impulse control was sooooooo changeable and the Thames had been right there where “right there” meant “all around his newly sunk car;” And yes, he shouldn’t have been on the bridge to begin with, but It was just so hard to resist the will he/won’t he of the bridges. So hard. And Jim did so lurve surprises.
“Jim, you didn’t.” Sherlock paused for a moment, testing the proverbial waters no doubt (ha ha made a punny) “You didn’t ingest any of the water.” Sherlock made it sound like a command.
Jim made a show of thinking back to his little surprise. He had been rather busy not drowning after struggling out of the car, then he had been busy swimming to shore and dragging himself up the embankment. He never panicked the entire time, he was proud to say, a little thing like a collapsed bridge wasn’t going to kill him. One day, he and cockroaches would inherit the Earth. “Nnoooooo. Well, maybe. Probably. Actually, yes, yes I did. So, when do I croak?” He looked around expectantly.
Clara sunk onto what was obviously a recently vacated chair, swore and began to struggle out of it. Sherlock eyed him a bit speculatively, like a petri dish or a science experiment. Nifty.
Mycroft was being boring old Mycroft. Jim not-so-secretly believed that Mycroft was on a steady stream of horse tranquilizers; that or being Sherlock’s brother had somehow brain damaged him. Whatever.
Out of everyone, the thing Jim felt most kindred with was looming over London behind him. Rather, it was probably still looming. Jim didn’t check. But he was sooooooooo tempted. Maybe one peek? What if he used a mirror? He could look at it through a mirror surely and that would be okay? A piece of glass? Through a pair of sunglasses? How about contact lenses? Maybe if he looked really fast and then away again -
“We have approximately three hours and twelve minutes before Jim enters into a series of grand mal seizures which prelude the coma. Let’s end this.” Shock had apparently worn off for Sherlock, who was back to texting on his phone.
Maybe he could take a picture of the hunter with the camera phone? What if he used a web cam? No, then it was just a shadow…but the mirror idea had merit…and he was going to be unconscious in a few hours anyway…
“Sherlock’s right. I just want to get this shit over with before Drippy over there gets any more ideas.”
“Very well.” Mycroft did not seem ruffled. Then again, he was Sherlock’s brother, so Jim doubted that anything short of an outbreak of an incurable disease would - oh no wait - not that either. Mycroft probably reserved facial expressions for the complete destruction of the world. Ah well, something to strive towards. “Clair has been focusing her attentions on locating an effective means to engage the enemy. Current research suggests that the hunters are impervious to physical, chemical and biological weaponry. We found a successful alternative prior to testing nuclear weaponry.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “The giant shadowy shit can read the intent of anything hurled at it. It could read that a mob is artificially created, a plague is engineered and politicians subverted. Its attracted to it, but not physically affected by any of it. Which is why we need to hit it with something that wasn’t engineered as a weapon.”
Jim bounced a bit in place, partially out of pleasure and partially because he was getting unsettlingly cold.
Sherlock finally looked up from his phone. “So what are you going to hit it with?”
“It’s a surprise, you sociopathic bastard.” Clara could be so petty about things.
“Please, mother was married when I was born. If you persist in your futile attempts to insult me, at least -try- to be accurate.”
Mycroft looked serene against the tableau of childish bickering and Jim’s rapid descent into unconsciousness. “Seeing as the artificially created chaos has effectively drawn the hunters’ attention from the Horsemen; we will now lure the hunter to this location both for the purposes of negotiation and to preoccupy one of the hunters while the Horsemen dispense with its compatriot. Claire has been instrumental in developing a tool to help with the discussions.”
“Do you always talk like a thesaurus?” Clara frowned at Mycroft. Sherlock was still shooting her a glare, but it was easier to ignore knowing that she had the upper hand; and really how often did that happen when you were in a room of somewhat insane (and sometimes criminal) master minds? Mycroft shot her a withering look. “It’s on the roof. And Jim can take his own elevator, ‘cause I ain’t sharing it with him.”
The roof was approximately thirty one stories above the ground, and presented a splendid view of the London skyline. Not that Sherlock cared about the view. Instead, he walked over to the edge to stare at the people milling around below him. He couldn’t actually tell if the milling was more or less panicked then before. He leaned over the edge a bit more, grinning as the fall restraint tethered him to the roof. Clara certainly thought of everything. They would undoubtedly get along splendidly once he got John back and everything settled into the status quo. It felt unsettling to be without his blogger and personal embodiment of death for so long. He tucked the helmet he had been given more firmly under his arm and walked back to the assembled group.
Jim was showing stage two of the infection, he was pale and tremor had developed in his extremities. Muscle spasms were next. . Sherlock had not predicted this level of aggressiveness, but then again, he hadn’t really had the opportunity to amply test his pet project. He had lots of opportunities to test it now. Although, it was downright disappointing that Jim, for all his criminal genius followed the usual progression of the disease. Oh well, they were only human after all.
He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of ten neighbouring buildings collapsing in on themselves. Mycroft. Right, and he got told off over a little plague (that didn’t kill anyone, by the way) and a handful of (very well planned) sunk bridged, while Mycroft got away with excessive infrastructure damage. How very like his childhood.
“Mycroft.” The man in question was looking more like a bloated fat cat by the second.
“Insurance. We must be sure that we have our guest’s utmost attention.”
“Oh, I’d say we’ve got it”. Jim’s grin twisted his face. He cocked his head as he tracked what looked like a shooting star heading towards them. It was unsettlingly reminiscent of his expression at the pool, strangely anticipatory. Then again, judging from his own elevated pulse and the thrumming of his body, Sherlock supposed he wasn’t really much better. He decided that he would avoid contact with Jim once this was all over. He doubted the influence was good for him.
“Don’t forget to wear your helmets, or you’ll go insaner.”
With a put upon sigh, they donned the modified motorcycle helmets, electronic feedback of their surroundings feeding into the screens. It was rather impressive. Actually, very impressive.
“Clara, baby, sugar face, why won’t you marry me?”
“Cause I’m gay you closeted puff.”
“I could change for you, my dear.”
“You could magically turn into the hottest woman in the world, but you’d still be you on the inside, and I just won’t tap that.”
“Ouch, my dear, ouch. You wound me. Right here.” Jim grasped dramatically at his lapels. “Right in the black void I have in my chest.”
Sherlock was unendingly grateful to the immensely monstrous hunter which interrupted the bit of flirting by landing directly in front of them. On the thirtieth floor of the tower, Sherlock fancied he could just look into its eyes. The readings in the helmet flipped to display density, which suggested that the hunter was approximately the size of the moon. Not possible, but then again, none of this really was.
“Oh. Well, here goes nothing boys, if these hunters aren’t as dense as theses readings suggest, this might hurt a lot.” Clara’s voice became distorted in the presence of the hunter. Sherlock could barely hear the tremble in her voice.
“My dears, I just wanted to say that this is the best way I can think of to leave this world and if we survive, let’s re-enact this each year on the anniversary!”
“James, if you attempt to orchestrate something like this, I will see you electrocuted.” Mycroft was finally annoyed.
“Can we please get on with this?”
“On it.”
The howl of over thirty projectiles hurling from space may or may not have gotten the Hunter’s attention, although Sherlock couldn’t be sure as it did not have a face. He would have smacked Jim for waving goodbye at the monstrosity, seeing as it might have tipped it off, but apparently that was unneeded as the weather satellites found their mark unerringly.
Unfortunately, the hunter was not as dense as the readings suggested. The resounding blast felt as if a giant hand had caught Sherlock in the chest and hurled him off the side of the building. His fall restraint snapped. He imagined the impact would hurt, but doubted that he would be sufficiently conscious to feel it. He wondered how dead he would have to be before John couldn’t stitch him back together.
Blocked Number: John would like to a) Tell you that you are all idiots; b) Tell you that you have left a hell of a mess for him to clean up and wasn’t the goddamned state of the goddamned flat sufficient? c) To thank you.
Sherlock’s fall was halted in mid-air by a cold pier stretching over fifty stories and burning black. The electronics in the helmet crackled wildly, video and audio feeds distorting strangely. Still the SMS sat clearly in front of his eyes. Anthea.
Blocked Number: Umm, hello.
November 16, 2012 15:00: To: All: Fuck. As usual the cavalry he has arrived late for the party. - CW
November 16, 2012 15:00: To: All: This is most enlightening. Kindly join me back on the roof.
November 16, 2012 15:00: To: All: Mycroft, I see that possessing the density of a planet has finally become useful, good for you. - SH
November 16, 2012 15:00: To: All: Am I hallucinating or am I actually floating? :D Cause, Weeeeeee!!!
Sherlock found himself gently deposited back on the roof of the building. He landed in time to watch Jim, dropped less than gently from the sky. Apparently both Clara and Mycroft had managed to stand their ground, then again, their tethers hadn’t snapped. Obviously he would have to be nicer to Clara in the future.
The black shadow representing the hunter writhed in apparent agony. It looked tattered and torn where the satellites had impacted it. However, hurt did not mean dead. Sherlock sincerely hoped Mycroft had another ace up his sleeve or that the Horsemen had been quick on the uptake and dispatched the other hunter in time to give them aide.
“Ehem.” A slight shuffle, and Sherlock became aware of a small mousy looking man staring at the four of them. He wore a cheap polyester suit and a pair of out-dated prescription glasses, which he adjusted constantly although not nervously. Other than the physical attributes (late fifty’s, mousey hair, pale skin, blue eyes) Sherlock could not deduce anything of the man’s profession, relationship status, or current mood. The man wasn’t actually human. Obviously.
The writhing darkness had frozen on hearing the man’s voice, and proceeded to draw into itself until the man on the roof was joined by a woman in a sharp fitted charcoal wool suit. Her dark hair was drawn severely from her pale pointed face and her rouged thin lips were turned down, but without displeasure. Seeing as she had resolved herself from a giant black shadow, it was fairly obvious she wasn’t human either.
“Very well. You have all proven your point. You’re safe. You can take your helmets off now.” Her accent was North American.
“Madam.” Mycroft pulled off the helmet. Unflappable as always. The bastard.
Her eyes fixed on Mycroft, and she scowled in response, which, while Sherlock’s usual response, was rarely shared by anyone else. He frowned. Jim and Clara shifted uncomfortably before removing their helmets. “And where are the other four of you?” Her attention did not waver from Mycroft’s face.
“Excuse me, the -other four -?“
“Sorry we’re late chicka, had to find War, like, the horseman, not a conflict.” Harry appeared on the roof with a burst of light and happily hopped up to Clara, who seemed a bit gobsmacked, before jumping up and hugging her wife. Clara apparently forgave easily.
Sherlock glanced suspiciously at the large mason jar Harry clutched in her hands. The lack of Sebastian was telling. Perhaps what was left of him was in the jar.
Anthea joined them on the roof with a slight wavering of the air. She appeared slightly behind and to the left of Mycroft, her hands folded over her chest as she attempted to glare down the grey-suited woman. All their clothing bore no marks. Their faces no wear. It was infuriating to stare at the women and see nothing.
The familiar scuffing sound of John’s boots on gravel broke through Sherlock’s analysis. He felt a moment of such overwhelming relief that even the smell of ozone and the strong unease that had crept upon the roof disappeared. This was, of course, followed immediately by furious glacial anger. He was stopped from determining whether one could actually murder John by another exaggerated cough from the mousey not-human.
“The matter with the horsemen has been resolved to my satisfaction.” He coughed lightly. “I merely require War’s signature in triplicate on forms 22F through to 345XYG. I will need them filed by Monday. You too, my dear.” He said, addressing Anthea.
“I sent them to your email address.”
“I don’t…”
“Now you do. Please Oeillet, scratching names into a ledger in human blood is so incredibly tedious.” Anthea huffed unappreciatively under her breath. Her attention returned to a BlackBerry she had squirreled away on her person and was happily typing away at.
Oeillet wringed his hands unhappily. “This is unacceptable, quite unacceptable. Raguel?”
Raguel, because that seemed to be the female not-human’s name, cast an eye over the assembled group, before resting her gaze past Sherlock’s left shoulder on John. John, who didn’t yet realize that Sherlock was going to hurt him in various and interesting ways; ways Sherlock would have to devise specifically for this occasion so that John could hurt as much as Sherlock had been hurt. And this is why relationships weren’t really his thing. That and his general indifference to humanity; But also possibility because somehow he had always known that his lover might turn out to be a biblical entity who would vanish and take Sherlock’s memories with him.
John signed heavily under his breath, and Sherlock could detect a hint of “outsourced to China” but he wasn’t sure what that pertained to exactly.
“I am unsatisfied that the covenant has not indeed been broken.” Her accent grated on Sherlock. Then again, presently everything was grating on Sherlock. The sky, for example, his left foot, Oeillet’s glasses (there were scratches on the lenses! Sherlock repressed a shudder).
Oeillet’s hand wringing stopped at that and he stood straighter in mimicry of affronted professional pride “I will have you know that my accounting is spotless. Quite. Yes quite spotless. Always has been.”
She sneered in response. “I’m not concerned about the numbers. The covenant has been broken. I will see to the reparations.”
“Oh my God, not this again. Raguel, you’re being preposterous. Clearly we are following The Command and are bringing along the end of days according to plan. I have provided you with timelines, project notes and annual reports. If you look around you will see that the projects are performing as they should. Your suspicion is wearing my patience thin.” John sounded. Well. He sounded like John Watson when he discovered severed heads in the fridge. Sherlock was delighted pink to discover the memory was intact and correct. Tickled pink and furious, of course.
Oh. And apparently this was the apocalypse. Still tickled pink at being right though.
“This Command cannot be correct!” Her voice dropped to a deep growl which nullified any possibility of her being mistaken for a human being. She looked ready to throw something. Possibly a building.
“So don’t believe me. Try calling Lucy or Serenity about it instead. Humans die. None of us do, both of you have a clear place yet the five of us don’t. Ergo, The Command is on Earth and intact. We are following The Command. Our Projects are following The Command. The contract has not been breached.”
Raguel’s face twitched. “As I am sure you have noticed, our calls are not being answered.”
“Then use the limited range of your intellect and make your own decision, now leave before I decide you are interfering with the will of The Command.” Sherlock had the distinct impression that John was mimicking him.
“You will not speak to me in that manner.”
“I will and I can.” Noone could mistake John’s voice for human either. “THIS is not your domain. It is ours to do with as is willed by The Command.” Oh.My.God. Sherlock put two and two together and decided to erase what he found. Immediately.
There. Better.
“I will be watching.” Raguel glared at Mycroft, who for the first time seemed genuinely startled. Apparently he had figured this whole thing out as well and judging by his heightened pallor, it was not agreeing with him. Seeing as Mycroft had a constitution that matched his iron clad stomach, this was worrying.
With a clap of lightning Raguel vanished.
Sherlock’s original deduction returned with a vengeance and brought its best friend, nausea.
“Fuck I hate lawyers.” Harry seemed to collapse in on herself as she sat heavily on a chair that had certainly not been on the roof previously.
“Ah yes, Raguel is quite disagreeable.” Oeillet shuffled towards Mycroft, studying him for a moment. Before using his strange gait (cloven feet, inverted knees. Maybe a tail?) to bring himself alongside Harry, he plucked the jar out of her fingers and carefully examined its contents. ‘Tsk. Tsk. Will not do. Will not do at all. How is he to sign all the forms without fingers?” He shook the jar gently.
“Maybe he could goo on them?” Clara suggested helpfully, her eyes sweeping over Harry in a ravenous manner. Obviously she intended to be left alone with her wife as soon as possible.
“Inefficient, I’m afraid. Death, we need him returned to his previous form as soon as possible. The unfortunate incident was rather my fault. Carried away I suppose.”
“You cleaved him in half.”
“Ah yes, well, passion for the job.” Oeillet chuckled self-deprecatingly. Nodded towards Jim who was staring at Mycroft with a look of horror bordering on awe. Not thinking about it. Nope.
Oeillet looked into the jar once more, addressing the slug (ah yes, Sebastian was a slug) inside. “Now my dear, you will have to be much more careful filling out your statements. Yes? No more exaggerations and rounding to the highest number and you won’t endanger your little man over there again, yes? There’s a good boy.” He looked over the assembled group. “Well catching up has been fun. Conquest, your forms for this quarter are due in three days time.”
“I emailed those as well.” Anthea didn’t look up from her BlackBerry.
“Ah yes. Email. How appropriate that you have taken the liberty to update me. We shall discuss this later. This has been a pleasure.” He vanished with a puff of smoke, Anthea scrambled and caught Sebastian’s jar before it fell from mid-air and shattered.
“I - “ Mycroft was moved to speechlessness. Yes, things were moving along in a very bad manner.
“Please don’t make this mess more difficult Mycroft. I’ll explain later, just, please read what’s on Anthea’s mobile out loud.” John sounded slightly embarrassed, as if the past week had been some sort of mini social gaffe over oeuvres.
Anthea juggled Seb and her Blackberry, handing it over to Mycroft with a reassuring smile.
Mycroft glanced at it. “Absolutely not.”
“Look, there isn’t a timeline on it for a reason. Anthea, what is the timeline on The Command?”
“Four or five billion years or so.” Anthea tapped a finger thoughtfully against her rouged lips. “Give or take. Likely humanity will kill each other off by then.” She placed a reassuring hand on Mycroft’s arm and smiled at him once more. “Trust me.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I command that you mitigate the damage from the previous week and instead destroy the Earth by encouraging the heat death of the universe. Is this really the best you could come up with?”
That was so very very wrong. Really? Mycroft? Wasn’t the conquest of small third world nations enough? He was going to preside over the end of the world as well? His only consolation was that Mycroft was taking the news about as well as he was. Also, unless he was very much mistaken, Jim had shifted his obsession fully onto Mycroft. Excellent.
“At short notice yes. Look, we’re not very good with creative freedom.” John sighed, and finally, finally Sherlock turned to look at him.
John looked like John. He looked a bit stressed like he often did after a double shift at surgery or when Sherlock refused to eat. He was wearing a new blue jumper and was limping slightly as he was wont to do when he was anxious. His ears were slightly flushed, as they often were when he got embarrassed. He was just like he should be.
Everything was just like it should be, except for the heat that Sherlock could feel spread through him and settle like a clawing hurting thing in his chest. Sherlock didn’t remember that part, although that might have been one of the things he had been encouraged to forget. John shifted his eyes to Sherlock’s left shoulder, instead of his face, the moment he realized that Sherlock was looking at him. The clawing thing got worse. He was going to hit John if he kept hurting him like this.
“And speaking of creativity…Anthea, why is Sebastian a slug?” He looked mildly amused at that. Understandable, a former military assassin and the corporeal representation of War turned into a slug would amuse the plebs. Sherlock huffed sarcastically. He was being uncharitable, he knew.
“Efficiency. Considering Sebastian’s general disobedience, you were going to command his next body to be that of a slug sometime soon. I expedited the paperwork. Forgot to get it annulled. Despite Oelliet’s disapproval, I like him like this. He is very agreeable.”
The slug looked murderous. Sherlock didn’t know how Seb managed to do it, but there was no mistaking the anger that permeated the entirety of his little mollusc body. He even stopped chewing on the lone lettuce leaf lining the bottom of the jar.
“Someone’s going to have to squish him.” John looked resigned as he took the jar carefully from Anthea.
The slug spent some time trying to hide under its food source. Probably in terror. Sherlock wasn’t sure how the mollusc was hearing let alone understanding the conversation.
“Don’t be mean John, just euthanize him.” Anthea intoned. Stepping over Harry and Clara, who had proceeded to snog out of joy, to return to Mycroft’s side. Mycroft continued to look a bit dazed as he stared into space. Sherlock decided to not look at Mycroft. The expression was going to cause him night terrors for months.
“Or let me euthanize him.” Jim cried out happily. John and Anthea glared at him. “Oh come on! Don’t be so dull, a whole week of terrorizing the masses and I didn’t kill one person. Not one. I didn’t even give anyone a paper cut. Hand over the slug.”
“He’s your little brother, are you going to hand over your little brother to that...man?”
A slug eye poked out from under the leaf. It was kind of cute. Actually.
“This is all your fault, you realize.” John told it. He tossed the jar to Jim, who caught it with a rapturous expression. His manic grin nearly screamed ‘I wonder whether the salt thing actually works?!’
--
“Oh boo!” Jim was scowling at the jar. Apparently, Seb the slug had taken matters into his own hands, had inched up to the top of the jar and threw himself onto a twig hidden beneath the lettuce leaf, thereby ending his little invertebrate life. Slug-suicide. Sherlock wondered if it happened in nature, perhaps he could experiment.
“Lets hope Oeillet kept his side of the bargain. Bloody accountants. God, what a mess.”
John waved his hand in the general direction of the destroyed buildings. In response, bricks few up from the ground, mating with the dust they had been pulverized into and setting themselves atop one another in an orderly manner. Metal untwisted and soared towards the sky. Glass unshattered and melded into cohesive sheets, although fine fissures told of the prior damage. Sherlock was reminded of the fine web of cracks in the ceiling around the chandelier in the manor’s dinning room. The scar across his back. Things fixed but not perfectly. John looked down into the water of the Thames and swore lightly. “So help me God, but I’m going to kill you, Sherlock.”
“You're Death, that goes without saying." Who knows. Having his lover bring about his ultimate demise might be exciting. He wondered if John would let him leave notes on the topic. For posterity.
“Sherlock, you contaminated the GLOBAL water supply with a bacteria you engineered to be unkillable; it’s got the reproductive cycle of bunnies on speed. Do you even have a cure for it? Seriously!? What the hell were you thinking?”
Of course, if John was going to be this tedious about every little thing continuing the relationship (let alone leaving notes) might be a bit of a chore.
“Wrong. The members of the family Leporidae reproduce much more slowly. Exponentially so. If you’re going to be upset over every little at thing least get it correct. Besides, you have shown yourself capable of bactericide.” Sherlock muttered darkly. So many experiments ruined. “Just wave your hand at it.”
“You know, I can’t fix everything with a hand wave.”
Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and looked out across the rooftop in a prelude to an extended sulk. First: he was the one with his memories erased; secondly it was his mind that had been randomly altered in a hand fisted manner; and now he is the bad guy because he let out one tiny bacterial plague that John could easily, at any moment, kill off. ANY. MOMENT. Oh the dead things he was going to bring home under the thin veil of experimentation. Perhaps he could recommence his experiments on death jelly?
John seemed to have a mini debate with himself before gritting his teeth and lifting his hand. The wave was arrested by a frantic Anthea, who vaulted across the roof and clung onto John’s arm with desperation.
“WAIT!” Her cheeks were in high colour and her hair mussed. With a sigh, a bubble of cloudy water floated up through the floor of the building. A glass enclosure carefully constructed itself around it. Anthea caught it in both hands, BlackBerry forgotten, she pressed it lovingly to her chest.
“Oh hell.”
“I love it.”
“Anthea, it’s the death of humanity in a bubble.”
“Coma.” Sherlock muttered.
Anthea ignored them all. “I love it and now it is mine.” With a huff and some angry mumbling that sounded vaguely like “immunization” she stalked off after Mycroft who still looked a bit dazed as he slowly exited the roof via emergency stairs; certainly the expression was better than the dumbstruck look from earlier. Sherlock would never have realized that the day would come where he would prefer a version of Mycroft. Any version of Mycroft. But there you have it.
“Well, it was nice pretending we outsmarted the end of the world. Anthea will kill us all off in about three hours. Why do I bother?” John did wave his hand. Sherlock couldn’t tell if anything actually happened, but Jim (now unconcious on the ground) stopped shaking and twitching, so that was an improvement. Or not, seeing as it was Jim. This left just him and John and this angry hurting thing that Sherlock was feeling. He would have his revenge. Perhaps dead bodies were now too plebian. Sherlock considered what might be more effective at getting under John's skin. So John would never leave and/or forgetty thing him again..
“Ha!” Sherlock hadn’t actually meant to say that out loud, but the creeping sensation he had felt since he realized Mycroft was being addressed as The Command finally dissipated. Everything came together as a harmonious whole. Sherlock relaxed.
There was plenty of time to continue his experiments, he could goad Mycroft without fear of the world being inadvertantly ended, and he had until the end of time (likely just the end of himself) to: a) revenge himself b) rebuild his relationship with John and fill in the gaps in his memory. “So if Mycroft isn’t The Command, who is? It isn’t me. It isn’t any of us or you would not have needed the ruse.”
“Leave it alone Sherlock.” John sounded exasperated, an expression reserved for the third time he had asked Sherlock to clean the tub/ clear the fridge/ remove the horse head from his bed (that had been a perfectly valid experiment).
“He or she was born human and is likely mortal or you wouldn’t be living as mortals on Earth waiting for him or her; Obviously living in London (considering your proximity); However unaware of his or her position. Obvious! Mycroft is merely the proxy to compensate for Raguel’s demands.” John was nodding with a look of confusion on his face.
“I might not have realized it if not for the cavalierly manner in which you demanded that Mycroft issue the order. With your army background it is not a freedom you would allow yourself when addressing a commanding officer. You knew he would follow it.”
“Unlike The Command. You are not so sure about managing him or her, if you had the power to negotiate with The Command (Conquest) you would not be so insistent on keeping Conquest unaware of his or her status. Your ill-conceived plan must have failed on February 9, when a command was uttered (and it must be uttered out loud if Mycroft’s dismal performance is to be believed) yet was insufficiently specific to provide complete direction. Hence your hesitance in bringing about the end of the world and Raguel’s suspicion.”
“Obvious obvious obvious. The first hunter had already weakened the four due to an accounting error and the lawyer saw what appeared to be an unmet Command and attacked. Weakened, you panicked. Our actions bought you time to reorganize, but what was most important was that our operation used Mycroft as the de facto leader making him the natural choice for your opportunistic and simple ruse.”
“That was brilliant. Really brilliant. Just like last week, I’m not telling you who the Command is.”
“If I can’t remember it, I refuse to acknowledge it.”
John looked perplexed.
Undaunted, Sherlock continued his reasoning. “So, who might very rarely utter verbal commands? (It would be rarely or you would have been better prepared for the cnsequences) So someone in a position of little authority who rarely has reason to work with others. Someone without children? Pets? Perhaps a timid individual. But why would conquest be in such a position?” Sherlock proceeded to pace the rooftop.
“You have already given Anthea all the ammo she needs to see to the end of humanity within a matter of hours, can’t you just live with this little mystery unsolved? I already explained all this.” John was beginning to sound pleading. Which suited Sherlock just -fine- seeing as he was the one who had just lived through a hellish week.
“Well, since I don’t remember it, you will pardon me if I continue to make my observations. The majority of the Horsemen work or worked in professions tied to death (although an argument could be made for Harry and working in a field that inspires brain death). Statistically, Conquest is likely also related to death. So we are looking for a person who: works in a field related to killing or death, is in a junior position, is timid and has little confidence, and who you know personally as evidenced by the fact that you know Mycroft is not it or you would'nt have him make an order and that you are concerned that I can identify him. Or her. Oh.”
“Sherlock. Just stop. I already told you, if you figure this out we are all screwed. This, this is what happens when you get into your moods and don’t hear a word I say…” John seemed to freeze for a second and a look of horror dawned on his features “Wait. Do you not remember what I told you on the tenth or do you not remember- Oh God, the forgetty thing is still there isn’t it? You just deduced everything from scratch?”
John looked mildly furious. A look he reserved for severed feet in the bathtub (a necessary experiment on the effect of disinfectants on the rate of post mortem dermis deterioration, Sherlock would have preferred an entire corpse, but John was irrationally picky about such trifles). John's hand clentched spasmatically around an invisible column that was disturbingly the size of Sherlock’s neck. “Sherlock! did you think for once that maybe we were being hunted for a very good reason? Maybe we had gone mad and these things were trying to stop us.”
“I considered it. Yes.” He had observed and then deduced. As usual he had been mostly right. But right now he had much much bigger things on his mind. How the hell had he missed it? John’s thoughtful offers of coffee, his coddling, his continued friendship with someone who was just plain uninteresting and (worst of all) continued to be infatuated with Sherlock. Oh. God. No wait, still better than Mycroft being The Command.
“Did you give a damn?” John sounded pleading, imploring.
“Molly is the Antichrist?” Sherlock didn’t like how uncertain and concerned that sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Molly is the Antichrist.” There, bad news always felt better when he could state it definitively. For example, ‘Mummy, I set the house on fire.’
“Oh for Fuck’s sake!!”
---------------
On February 9th, Morgue, St. Bart’s.
Molly glared at her computer. She tapped the screen with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. She immediately felt bad for doing so, because the problem was with the computer not with the poor abused screen. She sighed in frustration and resisted the urge to shake the machine.
The printer was right there how could the stupid thing not find it?
She released a small scream of pure frustration. “Work damn you!!” She shook the screen just a bit. Her desktop wallpaper (a picture of her, John, Sherlock, the Dishy D.I., and Mrs. Hudson at last year’s New Year’s party) smiled back at her. “You stupid thing!” She right clicked on a file. She selected print.
Once more, there was no printer to be found. “I hate you sooooo much. Print you damned thing!!” The printer made an unhappy grinding noise and proceeded to flash random red lights at her. Molly pulled at her hair. “You piece of rubbish! I command you to do what I SAY!!!” She pointed at the screen. The screen sparked. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, don’t get mad!”
Further apologies to the inanimate object were interrupted by a polite cough.
Molly froze; with embarrassed horror she turned to face John Watson as he eyed her and the computer. “John, I uh…didn’t hear you come in…I just…this computer. Oh. I’m not usually so…” She smoothed down her hair and leaned against the nearest autopsy table. It threatened to roll out from under her hand.
“No worries, I was just looking into something for Sherlock, and I heard you in here…shouting. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Ummm, are you any good with computers?”
“No, but I can probably get this one fixed up for you. Won’t print?”
As far as Molly could remember, John could barely type, let alone fix the demon machine, but seeing as she was ready to defenestrate it (which would require dragging it onto an elevator and into a room with a window) she was willing to try anything. Frankly, ever since Jim left IT the computers had all gone to hell. So yes, Jim was a mass murdering evil criminal, but the hospital would be unspeakably thrilled to rehire him should he decide to once more lord over his electronic demon horde in Bart’s IT hell.
She was startled out of her thoughts by the printer churning to life. Her report happily printed away.
“There, that should do it. Anything else that you need Molly?”
“Ah. No. Thank you so much John! Oh, I don’t know what you must think of me now…I should probably avoid doing that.” She giggled nervously “You know, in case people think I’m ordering the…well…the corpses…around.”
John was looking at her in a strange manner. “I know that I, for one, would support that.”
It was a bit of a weird thing to say. Then John smiled warmly at her, so she smiled back in response and studiously ignored the chill that ran down her spine.
END