Sherlock BBC Fic: The Most Permanent Destination - Flying: Two (2/4)
MASTERPOST | ZERO | ONE | TWO (1/4) | THREE
TWO (2/4)
Sarah Sawyer was nice, and pretty, and charming, and John liked her instantly. She was great. Still, she was human, and the job was dull, but, hey -- mundane is good sometimes, mundane works. Mundane was nice after a full day and night of Sherlock perched on the sitting room table like a scowling robotic vulture, staring at the printouts of the vandalised portrait with a weirdly vacant look in his eyes.
John came home to news of a second murder -- and really, he should have probably been more concerned by Sherlock's smile, but then again John wasn't any less excited about it than the detective was. So he put judgement aside and got into a cab to New Scotland Yard with the madman/machine, tasting action upon his tongue.
He watched out the window as they rode. Then, a thought struck him. "What... how did the article phrase it? D'you remember?"
"Hmm?" Sherlock didn't glance up from his phone. His wings surrounded him like a half-cocoon.
"The murderer. Was it 'walks through solid walls'?"
"Yes, I believe so." Sherlock glanced up at him then, expectant.
"But you flew in."
"You're suggesting the murderer's an angel; one who can fly."
John shrugged. "'S possible." Then: "And Lukis was human too, right?"
"Think so. Is it important?"
"Well, you know... serial killings of humans, wouldn't be the first time."
Sherlock frowned. "Is that our connection? It doesn't seem like a connection."
"No, I guess it doesn't... still, though, the murderer could very well be an angel."
"Hmm." Sherlock looked into the middle distance for a moment, and then back at his phone. "Don't theorise without all the evidence, John, or you'll run off in the wrong direction entirely. Let's hold off on it for now." Once they got to Scotland Yard, John saw exactly what Sherlock meant: Dimmock was so thoroughly wedded to his idea of a City boy suicide that he refused to believe the results of his own ballistics report. Theories before evidence.
The DI seemed poised to fly right out of his seat; John wondered why he was so loath to listen to Sherlock. (That’s a lie. He knew perfectly well why, but it was a stupid reason when lives were at stake; John had known that ever since he’d looked across that window and hefted his gun in his hand and spilled blood again. Dimmock was worse than a fool to let his prejudices get in the way.)
"I've just handed you a murder inquiry!" Sherlock said like it was his gift to the DI. John glanced around the room; few people seemed that fussed about the serial killer running loose in the night-time.
Finally, Dimmock caved (at least in part because Sherlock's display of mechanical plumage was starting to attract stares), and took them to Lukis's flat. Sherlock went to the window.
He touched the curtain, expression distant. "Four floors up..."
"See what I mean?" John asked, close by. "Not many other ways to get in, except flying."
"What?" Dimmock asked, still standing in the middle of the room.
Sherlock bit his lip. "Still...“ He considered. Then: “John, when you had both wings, what were your measurements?"
"My ‘meas'--"
"Your wing is big, very big: you can't fold it up properly. How wide were you when you had both? Fourteen, sixteen feet? Would you have been able to fit through this window?"
"I -- Jesus, I don't know. If they were held behind me, then probably. Would have been really awkward, though."
"Wait, you're -- you're not suggesting the killer's an angel, are you?" Dimmock asked. They looked back at him, heads turning in unison.
"John is. I remain sceptical."
"Sherlock, I'm just saying --- "
"I know you are."
Dimmock was beyond incredulous. "Oh, but come on ---"
"So you don't think it's possible." John's tone was dangerously conversational.
"What? No, but... come on, two unrelated humans, they can't both have done something to provoke this one angel."
John had no idea what expression was on his face, but it managed to get a reaction out of Sherlock all the same. The human/madman/machine leapt away from the window and cast about the room again. He stopped.
"What have we here?" He was at the skylight in a flash. "John, killer came through this one." John went to look. "See? It's still open."
"Not even a small angel could have fit through there." John said, knowing by Sherlock's face that he'd already thought the same thing. "Not anyone without tiny wings, at any rate, and no-one could fly on those."
"Exactly."
"Well, how did he get in, then?" Dimmock asked, and John would be damned if Dimmock didn't look slightly relieved.
"Dunno. Climbed?"
"Climbed?!"
"Of course. Plenty of balconies on Van Coon's building, the bank -- "
Dimmock was blocking the doorway, his wings were spread so wide. John wondered when he'd stop trying to upstage Sherlock. "You're not serious? That's even more absurd."
"There's nothing absurd about murder, Detective Inspector."
______________________________________________________________________________
When John explained to them what happened, the Community Support Officers believed him.
______________________________________________________________________________
They split up, then: Sherlock back to the bank, John to the Yard. Dimmock scowled when John asked for Lukis's diary, but fetched the box for him anyway. As he rooted around, he felt the need to speak.
"Your 'friend' -- "
"Listen, whatever you say..." John paused. He found he didn't want to finish that sentence.
"He's an arrogant sod."
John blinked. "Well, er, that was mild. People say a lot worse than that." He looked at Dimmock hard, differently.
"Well, you know the rest, so I won't bother. You do have eyes."
John's spirits dropped. "...Yeah, I do." He barely noticed when Dimmock waved the diary in front of him, not until the DI snapped at him and glared him right out of the room.
______________________________________________________________________________
"No-one's been in that flat for at least three days."
"Could have gone on holiday."
"Do you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?" ('Your', not 'our', he'd reminded himself to say.)
Sherlock surveyed the ladder, the gap, the walls. John was still beside him. Sherlock appraised the jump, bent his knees, and leaped. There was wind in his wings; they beat.
The ladder groaned, and swung, and Sherlock was on the fire escape.
"Sherlock!" John hissed from below. Sherlock looked down at him in some surprise -- it was only a jump, the ladder was right there, John could make it -- but John had already run back to the street.
Was John being intentionally idiotic? Maybe he was being intentionally idiotic. By normal standards John was hardly idiotic. What was he playing at? Was he just trying to vex Sherlock? Sherlock discarded the idea of letting him into the flat himself, because if John decided to be a moron, Sherlock wasn't encouraging that sort of behaviour. (There was enough of it in the world already.)
The size of the footprints seemed to support the climber thesis, as did the fingerprints; a small, strong, athletic male, capable of scaling buildings. To confirm the theory, though, Sherlock would need some more hands-on evidence.
He got it.
Grappling with the cord wrapped around his throat, trying to breathe enough to gasp out his saviour's name, unable to hear anything at all as his senses expired, there was a dim moment where he wondered if maybe John had heard him, and had remained unmoved.
It was what he deserved, wasn't it?
But when he returned from blackness, John was there, and he was swearing.
"Shit, sodding -- Christ I'm sorry, Sherlock, he's gone. I lost him. I heard you fall, broke open the door, but by the time --"
Sherlock hacked horribly, and tried to tear the garrotte from his throat; John took it off instead.
"Easy, just don't -- yeah, take it easy. Don't -- " Sherlock rolled onto his knees. "Okay, fine, just -- here, let me look at your throat." John bent over him to inspect it. Sherlock realised he was smiling vacantly. "Sherlock? You okay? Sherlock, look at me. You didn't hit your head, did you?"
"No," Sherlock croaked, and started hacking again.
______________________________________________________________________________
Sherlock had never gotten a good look at his assailant, but John had: according to John, their killer was, in fact, human. It didn't change much, but certainty was indeed a wonderful thing.
Certainty: the cipher on the marble statue scared Miss Yao away. Certainty: the killer's spray paint was all over the skate park and the train tracks. Certainty: John had found more graffiti.
Certainty: it was lost forever. (?)
No, reconsider.
Was that a certainty?
Sherlock clapped his hands on either side of John's head; somewhere, in there, was the message. John could do this, John had to do this, had to remember. For the case. For Soo Lin Yao, maybe. (For Sherlock? Unlikely.)
"What the -- what the fuck -- " John did not make a habit of swearing at him.
"Shhh! John, Concentrate! I need you to -- "
"What the fuck are you doing? Get off of me!" John did something lightning-fast with his hands, and his wing flapped terribly; Sherlock leapt away with a cry, hoping his wrist wasn't snapped. He hadn't expected that, hadn't expected John --
"What the sodding hell was that?" John panted. "What the hell did you think you were doing. You can't just -- don't."
Sherlock swivelled his wrist, found it sound. "It was -- John, you saw the cipher, I need you to remember it, to concentrate; there's little statistical difference in the visual memories of humans and angels and I need you to remember it -- "
"Sherlock, you stupid git, I took a photo." He passed the phone over. "I'm not a bloody idiot, you know."
Sherlock took the phone in silence. He didn't notice the way John bit his lip, or looked away, or kicked himself internally.
mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">
TWO (3/4)
TWO (2/4)
Sarah Sawyer was nice, and pretty, and charming, and John liked her instantly. She was great. Still, she was human, and the job was dull, but, hey -- mundane is good sometimes, mundane works. Mundane was nice after a full day and night of Sherlock perched on the sitting room table like a scowling robotic vulture, staring at the printouts of the vandalised portrait with a weirdly vacant look in his eyes.
John came home to news of a second murder -- and really, he should have probably been more concerned by Sherlock's smile, but then again John wasn't any less excited about it than the detective was. So he put judgement aside and got into a cab to New Scotland Yard with the madman/machine, tasting action upon his tongue.
He watched out the window as they rode. Then, a thought struck him. "What... how did the article phrase it? D'you remember?"
"Hmm?" Sherlock didn't glance up from his phone. His wings surrounded him like a half-cocoon.
"The murderer. Was it 'walks through solid walls'?"
"Yes, I believe so." Sherlock glanced up at him then, expectant.
"But you flew in."
"You're suggesting the murderer's an angel; one who can fly."
John shrugged. "'S possible." Then: "And Lukis was human too, right?"
"Think so. Is it important?"
"Well, you know... serial killings of humans, wouldn't be the first time."
Sherlock frowned. "Is that our connection? It doesn't seem like a connection."
"No, I guess it doesn't... still, though, the murderer could very well be an angel."
"Hmm." Sherlock looked into the middle distance for a moment, and then back at his phone. "Don't theorise without all the evidence, John, or you'll run off in the wrong direction entirely. Let's hold off on it for now." Once they got to Scotland Yard, John saw exactly what Sherlock meant: Dimmock was so thoroughly wedded to his idea of a City boy suicide that he refused to believe the results of his own ballistics report. Theories before evidence.
The DI seemed poised to fly right out of his seat; John wondered why he was so loath to listen to Sherlock. (That’s a lie. He knew perfectly well why, but it was a stupid reason when lives were at stake; John had known that ever since he’d looked across that window and hefted his gun in his hand and spilled blood again. Dimmock was worse than a fool to let his prejudices get in the way.)
"I've just handed you a murder inquiry!" Sherlock said like it was his gift to the DI. John glanced around the room; few people seemed that fussed about the serial killer running loose in the night-time.
Finally, Dimmock caved (at least in part because Sherlock's display of mechanical plumage was starting to attract stares), and took them to Lukis's flat. Sherlock went to the window.
He touched the curtain, expression distant. "Four floors up..."
"See what I mean?" John asked, close by. "Not many other ways to get in, except flying."
"What?" Dimmock asked, still standing in the middle of the room.
Sherlock bit his lip. "Still...“ He considered. Then: “John, when you had both wings, what were your measurements?"
"My ‘meas'--"
"Your wing is big, very big: you can't fold it up properly. How wide were you when you had both? Fourteen, sixteen feet? Would you have been able to fit through this window?"
"I -- Jesus, I don't know. If they were held behind me, then probably. Would have been really awkward, though."
"Wait, you're -- you're not suggesting the killer's an angel, are you?" Dimmock asked. They looked back at him, heads turning in unison.
"John is. I remain sceptical."
"Sherlock, I'm just saying --- "
"I know you are."
Dimmock was beyond incredulous. "Oh, but come on ---"
"So you don't think it's possible." John's tone was dangerously conversational.
"What? No, but... come on, two unrelated humans, they can't both have done something to provoke this one angel."
John had no idea what expression was on his face, but it managed to get a reaction out of Sherlock all the same. The human/madman/machine leapt away from the window and cast about the room again. He stopped.
"What have we here?" He was at the skylight in a flash. "John, killer came through this one." John went to look. "See? It's still open."
"Not even a small angel could have fit through there." John said, knowing by Sherlock's face that he'd already thought the same thing. "Not anyone without tiny wings, at any rate, and no-one could fly on those."
"Exactly."
"Well, how did he get in, then?" Dimmock asked, and John would be damned if Dimmock didn't look slightly relieved.
"Dunno. Climbed?"
"Climbed?!"
"Of course. Plenty of balconies on Van Coon's building, the bank -- "
Dimmock was blocking the doorway, his wings were spread so wide. John wondered when he'd stop trying to upstage Sherlock. "You're not serious? That's even more absurd."
"There's nothing absurd about murder, Detective Inspector."
______________________________________________________________________________
When John explained to them what happened, the Community Support Officers believed him.
______________________________________________________________________________
They split up, then: Sherlock back to the bank, John to the Yard. Dimmock scowled when John asked for Lukis's diary, but fetched the box for him anyway. As he rooted around, he felt the need to speak.
"Your 'friend' -- "
"Listen, whatever you say..." John paused. He found he didn't want to finish that sentence.
"He's an arrogant sod."
John blinked. "Well, er, that was mild. People say a lot worse than that." He looked at Dimmock hard, differently.
"Well, you know the rest, so I won't bother. You do have eyes."
John's spirits dropped. "...Yeah, I do." He barely noticed when Dimmock waved the diary in front of him, not until the DI snapped at him and glared him right out of the room.
______________________________________________________________________________
"No-one's been in that flat for at least three days."
"Could have gone on holiday."
"Do you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?" ('Your', not 'our', he'd reminded himself to say.)
Sherlock surveyed the ladder, the gap, the walls. John was still beside him. Sherlock appraised the jump, bent his knees, and leaped. There was wind in his wings; they beat.
The ladder groaned, and swung, and Sherlock was on the fire escape.
"Sherlock!" John hissed from below. Sherlock looked down at him in some surprise -- it was only a jump, the ladder was right there, John could make it -- but John had already run back to the street.
Was John being intentionally idiotic? Maybe he was being intentionally idiotic. By normal standards John was hardly idiotic. What was he playing at? Was he just trying to vex Sherlock? Sherlock discarded the idea of letting him into the flat himself, because if John decided to be a moron, Sherlock wasn't encouraging that sort of behaviour. (There was enough of it in the world already.)
The size of the footprints seemed to support the climber thesis, as did the fingerprints; a small, strong, athletic male, capable of scaling buildings. To confirm the theory, though, Sherlock would need some more hands-on evidence.
He got it.
Grappling with the cord wrapped around his throat, trying to breathe enough to gasp out his saviour's name, unable to hear anything at all as his senses expired, there was a dim moment where he wondered if maybe John had heard him, and had remained unmoved.
It was what he deserved, wasn't it?
But when he returned from blackness, John was there, and he was swearing.
"Shit, sodding -- Christ I'm sorry, Sherlock, he's gone. I lost him. I heard you fall, broke open the door, but by the time --"
Sherlock hacked horribly, and tried to tear the garrotte from his throat; John took it off instead.
"Easy, just don't -- yeah, take it easy. Don't -- " Sherlock rolled onto his knees. "Okay, fine, just -- here, let me look at your throat." John bent over him to inspect it. Sherlock realised he was smiling vacantly. "Sherlock? You okay? Sherlock, look at me. You didn't hit your head, did you?"
"No," Sherlock croaked, and started hacking again.
______________________________________________________________________________
Sherlock had never gotten a good look at his assailant, but John had: according to John, their killer was, in fact, human. It didn't change much, but certainty was indeed a wonderful thing.
Certainty: the cipher on the marble statue scared Miss Yao away. Certainty: the killer's spray paint was all over the skate park and the train tracks. Certainty: John had found more graffiti.
Certainty: it was lost forever. (?)
No, reconsider.
Was that a certainty?
Sherlock clapped his hands on either side of John's head; somewhere, in there, was the message. John could do this, John had to do this, had to remember. For the case. For Soo Lin Yao, maybe. (For Sherlock? Unlikely.)
"What the -- what the fuck -- " John did not make a habit of swearing at him.
"Shhh! John, Concentrate! I need you to -- "
"What the fuck are you doing? Get off of me!" John did something lightning-fast with his hands, and his wing flapped terribly; Sherlock leapt away with a cry, hoping his wrist wasn't snapped. He hadn't expected that, hadn't expected John --
"What the sodding hell was that?" John panted. "What the hell did you think you were doing. You can't just -- don't."
Sherlock swivelled his wrist, found it sound. "It was -- John, you saw the cipher, I need you to remember it, to concentrate; there's little statistical difference in the visual memories of humans and angels and I need you to remember it -- "
"Sherlock, you stupid git, I took a photo." He passed the phone over. "I'm not a bloody idiot, you know."
Sherlock took the phone in silence. He didn't notice the way John bit his lip, or looked away, or kicked himself internally.
mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">
TWO (3/4)