Break My Spine, Burn My Pages 2/?
Title: Break My Spine, Burn My Pages
Author: alex_caligari
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: All puppets still firmly attached to the BBC.
Summary: "We only take an interest in extraordinary people, and extraordinary people tend to attract one another. You'd be surprised at how many people you know that have been favoured by us."
Author's Note: More shenanigans from the boys.
Chapter 1
It was three months after the encounter at the bookshop before John started to get worried.
At first he thought it was only due to Babel's refusal to let Sherlock assist with tracking down the errant favoured. Sherlock never was able to take a refusal at face value, treating it instead as a delayed invitation. First he combed through old cases, trying to find people who matched Babel's less than helpful description. Plenty of people they knew, or at least helped get arrested, could be considered impulsive, violent, insane, or any combination of the three. Those who were still incarcerated were dismissed immediately, while those who were out on parole or had somehow managed to escape the system were set aside to be examined further. Sleep and food were ignored to the degree that John threatened to slip a sedative into Sherlock's tea and hook him up to an IV drip.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You don't have access to that kind of equipment."
"You really think Mike will say no once I mention your name?" John said. Sherlock slowed his frantic pace after that, but only just.
John would have helped, except Sherlock seemed to have developed an arbitrary system to determine who was 'worthy' of having a patron. "Extraordinary, John," he said one day. "That's what Babel said. Why on earth would a serial rapist be extraordinary? Think!"
If the only symptoms of this new obsession were case files strewn all over the flat, John could have let it go. But Sherlock began to apply it to active cases as well. Scanning the crowd at crime scenes was unusual, as he tended to ignore everyone not directly involved, but left unremarked upon. His new interrogation methods, however, left something to be desired.
"But how did you know he was going to be in the kitchen?" he asked one young man, who was covered in blood spray and still a little shocked.
"I dunno," he stammered, "I just heard a noise and thought it was odd, so I grabbed my bat."
"Not someone's usual reaction to hearing an odd noise in the middle of the day. You had no sudden insights, no flashes of inspiration?"
Lestrade thankfully stepped in before the man could get confused any further. "Leave the victim services to the professionals, alright?" He waved Sherlock off, leaving John to try to herd him away from the scene. They didn't really need to be there, but the recently created corpse was one of the top men in a human trafficking ring. They had been tracking him for days, and had him on the run when he decided to break into a house and take a hostage. Unfortunately, it was the home of an up-and-coming cricket star who had no qualms about defending himself.
"What was all that about?" John asked. When Sherlock didn't speak, he answered for him. "It's this patron stuff, isn't it?"
"I was so close!" Sherlock cried. "If we had got to Richardson before that idiotic troglodyte did, this would have been so much easier."
John took a moment to piece it together. "You thought that Richardson was one of the favoured you're looking for, and if you caught him, it would have meant that you earned points with Babel and proved that you can help. And you were trying to see if Michael in there had a patron of his own looking out for him. Am I close?"
The look on Sherlock's face was answer enough. John sighed. "Right, well, case over, let's eat and then you can explain to me how getting yourself nearly killed about five times in the past week is going to help anyone."
"'Nearly' killed," Sherlock grumbled, but followed him anyway. "You know that 'nearly' is as close as they are ever going to come."
"Doesn't make it any easier," John said.
A month after that John noticed odd stories appearing in the newspaper. Mixed in with the usual tabloid junk were warnings about packs of feral dogs roaming the parks at night. Birds had begun to attack passersby, prompting reports on nesting and territorial behaviour. Street crime had risen, muggings, robberies, and even bar fights taking a sharp rise. Experts were called in to explain it using graphs and statistics that no one but them could decipher, and all had conflicting theories.
John began to keep his gun obsessively clean.
Even more unsettling were the number of previous convictions being turned over. A beautiful woman whom John vaguely remembered being in the news several years ago for murdering her two children was released due to contaminated evidence. Video footage of her weeping in gratitude was contrasted with pictures of her young sons.
Several stories like that appeared over the next few weeks. Charges of assault, manslaughter, and other violent crimes were suddenly dropped, despite sufficient evidence. There were whispers of police corruption but nothing surfaced. Lestrade became unreachable due to the number of cases that had to be reopened. Only the cases that Sherlock had assisted on were left untouched.
Sherlock rarely spoke of patrons or favoured since the Richardson case, but John knew he was still keeping an eye on who was being released. Individually they were unconnected, but seen through their rather unique perspective it was adding up to a disturbing picture.
Another two months and Sherlock found a case that finally pulled him away from his files and out of the flat. A young woman had been killed in Regent's Park in what Sherlock described as 'a curious manner.' Her hands and feet had been bound and her throat was slashed. She had then been put into a white dress and left under a tree. But the detail that caught Sherlock's attention was that a dog had been killed in the same manner and left beside her. Most people would be worried that such a gruesome murder had occurred practically on their front doorstep, but Sherlock was merely pleased that they could walk to the crime scene.
Lestrade met them at the cordon. He looked tired, and had lost a noticeable amount of weight. Sherlock nodded in greeting but didn't comment. "No ID on her," Lestrade said. "Don't know who she is yet. She was found at 6:30 this morning by an insanely early rising jogger. He's over there." He waved towards a fit middle-aged man in lurid spandex being questioned by Sally.
"Unimportant," Sherlock dismissed. "I need to see the body first."
Lestrade escorted them to the girl, her dress looking startlingly bright against the leaf litter, with very little blood on it. She was about 25, with a trace of youthful pudge still clinging to her face. Her long brown hair had been braided and lain across her shoulder. She was tucked in-between the roots and looked peaceful, save for the bruises on her wrists and ankles and the slash across her throat.
Sherlock paused for moment, taking in the scene, before slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves and crouching next to her. John watched him examine the fraying shoulder straps of the dress. He opened her eyes and mouth before moving on to her nail beds. People tended to assume that his lack of emotion regarding a corpse was due to a lack of empathy, but John had learned to see it differently. Sherlock was never careless with the dead. He had a professional detachment that bordered on delicacy, and could almost be mistaken for reverence. John had seen coroners with far less bedside manners concerning their 'patients.'
While Sherlock was absorbed with the woman, John looked at the second victim. It was a large mastiff mutt in similar condition. The nylon rope was still wrapped tightly around its paws, and its throat was cut with the same precision. John was no vet, but he knew dogs. It was a stray, lacking any collar impressions. Its coat was mangy, and it was severely underfed. New and old scars littered its muzzle. It had been on the streets for a long time.
"What do you know about dogs?" John asked.
Sherlock looked up from examining the woman's ankles. "I was bitten by one once. Other than that, not much."
"A dog this size being on the streets for a prolonged length of time is rare. The RSPCA would have picked it up a long time ago. It's covered in scars and it's fairly old for a stray. It's a fighter."
Sherlock waited. "So?"
"So," John continued, enjoying the role reversal, "a big, violent dog that's managed to avoid capture and then killed in a ritualistic manner? And," he lowered his voice, "guess whose favourite animals were dogs?"
John could practically see the mental filters fall into place as Sherlock blinked at the bodies. "A sacrifice," he murmured.
"Someone's been playing a long game, Sherlock. Something like this doesn't just happen without someone benefiting."
Sherlock suddenly spun in place, gaze sweeping over the officers, the crime scene techs, the reporters, and the occasional gawking spectator. Most wore expressions of seriousness and concern, except for one person near the back. A woman who looked like she had been sleeping rough was staring at them with a manic grin. Her clothes were patchwork, and her red hair stuck out wildly from her head, like a mane.
"Her," Sherlock said, and that was all the warning he gave before he took off running. The woman saw him and dashed away.
John allowed himself half a second of annoyance before he followed.
Luckily, the woman ran towards the street instead of deeper into the park, and Sherlock was in his element. The woman ran blindly, not knowing the streets like they did, which struck John as odd. Sherlock noticed too, and rather than follow her directly, he started herding her. After over three years of working together, John and Sherlock operated with nearly military precision, one forcing their target down a side street, the other preventing her turning a certain way. She gave a good chase, and by the time they cornered her in a blind alley, they were both panting. She turned to them and snarled.
"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded. He glanced at John, but he shook his head. He didn't know either.
"I'm nothing," the woman said. "I'm what everyone wants to forget but will never get rid of. I'm weak until someone gives me power."
"Stop playing stupid," Sherlock said. "You're one of Ares' accomplices, aren't you?"
At the name, she grew still. "You know about the warmonger?" she asked quietly. "Then you are allies of his enemies." She cackled. "Fear has tricked you and confounded you! You haven't found the catalyst! Fear will defeat you."
"I sincerely doubt that," Sherlock said conversationally. "We've been through hell and back already. Several times, haven't we, John?"
The woman ignored him, and crouched down as if to attack. John tensed. "Fear will make cowards of you yet!" she shrieked, and charged. John jerked forward, uncertain if he was moving in front of Sherlock or simply pushing him out of the way, but before she reached them, the woman exploded into a confusing flock of black birds.
They returned home several hours later. John had made a vague excuse about their sudden departure, and Sherlock pointed them in the direction of a coworker in the office where the dead woman worked as temp, all details gleaned from her body.
Sherlock was texting Lestrade about the investigation's progress when John shoved an open book in front of him. "Phobos," John said. "Name means 'fear.' One of Ares' attendants into battle." With no reaction from Sherlock forthcoming, John cursed. "You know what this means, right? He knows about us now. And he knows that we know about him. It's bad enough that normal criminals want to stick sharp things into us, now we have to worry about divine retribution?"
"They would have become aware of us sooner or later. I'm surprised it took this long; Ares and his allies clearly have communication issues." John continued to stand in front of him. "Yes?"
"Have you spoken to Mycroft?"
Sherlock looked up at his brother's name. "Mycroft can take care of himself. He's hardly one to put himself in dangerous situations. He has lackeys for that." When John remained silent, he added, "What would I say? 'Stop doing your job because an ancient Greek god might take offense'? He'll be fine."
John huffed in annoyance, but let it go. There was no way to make Sherlock talk to Mycroft if he didn't want to. He spent the evening reading more about the various war deities and listening to the intermittent binging of Sherlock's mobile. It was dark by the time Sherlock stirred from the settee. After his disappearance from an active crime scene, combined with increasing media pressure on the police, Lestrade had told Sherlock to keep his distance from official investigations. But, he had said, that didn't mean he couldn't communicate with a private citizen in an unofficial context. With Sherlock's impatient guidance, Lestrade and his team had discovered the woman's name, Wendolyn Roberts, and had begun talking to her coworkers. One man, Jeffrey Thorsen, had been extremely agitated and when confronted, tried to escape.
"Did they get him?" John asked after being filled in.
Sherlock's face was blank. "He ran into the street and was hit by a lorry. He was killed instantly."
Chapter 3
Author: alex_caligari
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: All puppets still firmly attached to the BBC.
Summary: "We only take an interest in extraordinary people, and extraordinary people tend to attract one another. You'd be surprised at how many people you know that have been favoured by us."
Author's Note: More shenanigans from the boys.
Chapter 1
It was three months after the encounter at the bookshop before John started to get worried.
At first he thought it was only due to Babel's refusal to let Sherlock assist with tracking down the errant favoured. Sherlock never was able to take a refusal at face value, treating it instead as a delayed invitation. First he combed through old cases, trying to find people who matched Babel's less than helpful description. Plenty of people they knew, or at least helped get arrested, could be considered impulsive, violent, insane, or any combination of the three. Those who were still incarcerated were dismissed immediately, while those who were out on parole or had somehow managed to escape the system were set aside to be examined further. Sleep and food were ignored to the degree that John threatened to slip a sedative into Sherlock's tea and hook him up to an IV drip.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You don't have access to that kind of equipment."
"You really think Mike will say no once I mention your name?" John said. Sherlock slowed his frantic pace after that, but only just.
John would have helped, except Sherlock seemed to have developed an arbitrary system to determine who was 'worthy' of having a patron. "Extraordinary, John," he said one day. "That's what Babel said. Why on earth would a serial rapist be extraordinary? Think!"
If the only symptoms of this new obsession were case files strewn all over the flat, John could have let it go. But Sherlock began to apply it to active cases as well. Scanning the crowd at crime scenes was unusual, as he tended to ignore everyone not directly involved, but left unremarked upon. His new interrogation methods, however, left something to be desired.
"But how did you know he was going to be in the kitchen?" he asked one young man, who was covered in blood spray and still a little shocked.
"I dunno," he stammered, "I just heard a noise and thought it was odd, so I grabbed my bat."
"Not someone's usual reaction to hearing an odd noise in the middle of the day. You had no sudden insights, no flashes of inspiration?"
Lestrade thankfully stepped in before the man could get confused any further. "Leave the victim services to the professionals, alright?" He waved Sherlock off, leaving John to try to herd him away from the scene. They didn't really need to be there, but the recently created corpse was one of the top men in a human trafficking ring. They had been tracking him for days, and had him on the run when he decided to break into a house and take a hostage. Unfortunately, it was the home of an up-and-coming cricket star who had no qualms about defending himself.
"What was all that about?" John asked. When Sherlock didn't speak, he answered for him. "It's this patron stuff, isn't it?"
"I was so close!" Sherlock cried. "If we had got to Richardson before that idiotic troglodyte did, this would have been so much easier."
John took a moment to piece it together. "You thought that Richardson was one of the favoured you're looking for, and if you caught him, it would have meant that you earned points with Babel and proved that you can help. And you were trying to see if Michael in there had a patron of his own looking out for him. Am I close?"
The look on Sherlock's face was answer enough. John sighed. "Right, well, case over, let's eat and then you can explain to me how getting yourself nearly killed about five times in the past week is going to help anyone."
"'Nearly' killed," Sherlock grumbled, but followed him anyway. "You know that 'nearly' is as close as they are ever going to come."
"Doesn't make it any easier," John said.
A month after that John noticed odd stories appearing in the newspaper. Mixed in with the usual tabloid junk were warnings about packs of feral dogs roaming the parks at night. Birds had begun to attack passersby, prompting reports on nesting and territorial behaviour. Street crime had risen, muggings, robberies, and even bar fights taking a sharp rise. Experts were called in to explain it using graphs and statistics that no one but them could decipher, and all had conflicting theories.
John began to keep his gun obsessively clean.
Even more unsettling were the number of previous convictions being turned over. A beautiful woman whom John vaguely remembered being in the news several years ago for murdering her two children was released due to contaminated evidence. Video footage of her weeping in gratitude was contrasted with pictures of her young sons.
Several stories like that appeared over the next few weeks. Charges of assault, manslaughter, and other violent crimes were suddenly dropped, despite sufficient evidence. There were whispers of police corruption but nothing surfaced. Lestrade became unreachable due to the number of cases that had to be reopened. Only the cases that Sherlock had assisted on were left untouched.
Sherlock rarely spoke of patrons or favoured since the Richardson case, but John knew he was still keeping an eye on who was being released. Individually they were unconnected, but seen through their rather unique perspective it was adding up to a disturbing picture.
Another two months and Sherlock found a case that finally pulled him away from his files and out of the flat. A young woman had been killed in Regent's Park in what Sherlock described as 'a curious manner.' Her hands and feet had been bound and her throat was slashed. She had then been put into a white dress and left under a tree. But the detail that caught Sherlock's attention was that a dog had been killed in the same manner and left beside her. Most people would be worried that such a gruesome murder had occurred practically on their front doorstep, but Sherlock was merely pleased that they could walk to the crime scene.
Lestrade met them at the cordon. He looked tired, and had lost a noticeable amount of weight. Sherlock nodded in greeting but didn't comment. "No ID on her," Lestrade said. "Don't know who she is yet. She was found at 6:30 this morning by an insanely early rising jogger. He's over there." He waved towards a fit middle-aged man in lurid spandex being questioned by Sally.
"Unimportant," Sherlock dismissed. "I need to see the body first."
Lestrade escorted them to the girl, her dress looking startlingly bright against the leaf litter, with very little blood on it. She was about 25, with a trace of youthful pudge still clinging to her face. Her long brown hair had been braided and lain across her shoulder. She was tucked in-between the roots and looked peaceful, save for the bruises on her wrists and ankles and the slash across her throat.
Sherlock paused for moment, taking in the scene, before slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves and crouching next to her. John watched him examine the fraying shoulder straps of the dress. He opened her eyes and mouth before moving on to her nail beds. People tended to assume that his lack of emotion regarding a corpse was due to a lack of empathy, but John had learned to see it differently. Sherlock was never careless with the dead. He had a professional detachment that bordered on delicacy, and could almost be mistaken for reverence. John had seen coroners with far less bedside manners concerning their 'patients.'
While Sherlock was absorbed with the woman, John looked at the second victim. It was a large mastiff mutt in similar condition. The nylon rope was still wrapped tightly around its paws, and its throat was cut with the same precision. John was no vet, but he knew dogs. It was a stray, lacking any collar impressions. Its coat was mangy, and it was severely underfed. New and old scars littered its muzzle. It had been on the streets for a long time.
"What do you know about dogs?" John asked.
Sherlock looked up from examining the woman's ankles. "I was bitten by one once. Other than that, not much."
"A dog this size being on the streets for a prolonged length of time is rare. The RSPCA would have picked it up a long time ago. It's covered in scars and it's fairly old for a stray. It's a fighter."
Sherlock waited. "So?"
"So," John continued, enjoying the role reversal, "a big, violent dog that's managed to avoid capture and then killed in a ritualistic manner? And," he lowered his voice, "guess whose favourite animals were dogs?"
John could practically see the mental filters fall into place as Sherlock blinked at the bodies. "A sacrifice," he murmured.
"Someone's been playing a long game, Sherlock. Something like this doesn't just happen without someone benefiting."
Sherlock suddenly spun in place, gaze sweeping over the officers, the crime scene techs, the reporters, and the occasional gawking spectator. Most wore expressions of seriousness and concern, except for one person near the back. A woman who looked like she had been sleeping rough was staring at them with a manic grin. Her clothes were patchwork, and her red hair stuck out wildly from her head, like a mane.
"Her," Sherlock said, and that was all the warning he gave before he took off running. The woman saw him and dashed away.
John allowed himself half a second of annoyance before he followed.
Luckily, the woman ran towards the street instead of deeper into the park, and Sherlock was in his element. The woman ran blindly, not knowing the streets like they did, which struck John as odd. Sherlock noticed too, and rather than follow her directly, he started herding her. After over three years of working together, John and Sherlock operated with nearly military precision, one forcing their target down a side street, the other preventing her turning a certain way. She gave a good chase, and by the time they cornered her in a blind alley, they were both panting. She turned to them and snarled.
"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded. He glanced at John, but he shook his head. He didn't know either.
"I'm nothing," the woman said. "I'm what everyone wants to forget but will never get rid of. I'm weak until someone gives me power."
"Stop playing stupid," Sherlock said. "You're one of Ares' accomplices, aren't you?"
At the name, she grew still. "You know about the warmonger?" she asked quietly. "Then you are allies of his enemies." She cackled. "Fear has tricked you and confounded you! You haven't found the catalyst! Fear will defeat you."
"I sincerely doubt that," Sherlock said conversationally. "We've been through hell and back already. Several times, haven't we, John?"
The woman ignored him, and crouched down as if to attack. John tensed. "Fear will make cowards of you yet!" she shrieked, and charged. John jerked forward, uncertain if he was moving in front of Sherlock or simply pushing him out of the way, but before she reached them, the woman exploded into a confusing flock of black birds.
They returned home several hours later. John had made a vague excuse about their sudden departure, and Sherlock pointed them in the direction of a coworker in the office where the dead woman worked as temp, all details gleaned from her body.
Sherlock was texting Lestrade about the investigation's progress when John shoved an open book in front of him. "Phobos," John said. "Name means 'fear.' One of Ares' attendants into battle." With no reaction from Sherlock forthcoming, John cursed. "You know what this means, right? He knows about us now. And he knows that we know about him. It's bad enough that normal criminals want to stick sharp things into us, now we have to worry about divine retribution?"
"They would have become aware of us sooner or later. I'm surprised it took this long; Ares and his allies clearly have communication issues." John continued to stand in front of him. "Yes?"
"Have you spoken to Mycroft?"
Sherlock looked up at his brother's name. "Mycroft can take care of himself. He's hardly one to put himself in dangerous situations. He has lackeys for that." When John remained silent, he added, "What would I say? 'Stop doing your job because an ancient Greek god might take offense'? He'll be fine."
John huffed in annoyance, but let it go. There was no way to make Sherlock talk to Mycroft if he didn't want to. He spent the evening reading more about the various war deities and listening to the intermittent binging of Sherlock's mobile. It was dark by the time Sherlock stirred from the settee. After his disappearance from an active crime scene, combined with increasing media pressure on the police, Lestrade had told Sherlock to keep his distance from official investigations. But, he had said, that didn't mean he couldn't communicate with a private citizen in an unofficial context. With Sherlock's impatient guidance, Lestrade and his team had discovered the woman's name, Wendolyn Roberts, and had begun talking to her coworkers. One man, Jeffrey Thorsen, had been extremely agitated and when confronted, tried to escape.
"Did they get him?" John asked after being filled in.
Sherlock's face was blank. "He ran into the street and was hit by a lorry. He was killed instantly."
Chapter 3