(no subject)
The Fall of Gods (6/24)
Warnings: Language, angst, mentions of suicide, implied past alcoholism, implied PTSD, religious themes
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Confidential to my fellow J/L fans: I promise, John and Lestrade will return next chapter.
It takes almost three weeks for Sherlock’s injuries to become tolerable. He spends most of his endless days inside Victor’s vast home while he heals, on edge, aware of every creak of the floorboards and every whisper of wind. He knows he will not be found, he knows that no one suspects that he’s alive, but still a sliver of doubt lingers in the back of his mind.
In the meantime, Victor returns to his job.
“We won’t be doing ourselves any favours if we raise suspicions this early on,” he says when Sherlock insists that he simply abandon the work. “If I disappear off the face of the planet, someone’s going to wonder about it. No. I’ll part ways with them like normal; tell them I’ve taken up a position elsewhere. They won’t look for me then.”
Victor spends most of his evenings now bent over papers at his desk in the study, marking essays and preparing lessons, acting for all the world as though he’s not about drop it all for a dangerous mission. He has a perpetual smudge of ink on the side of his nose from the number of times he adjusts his glasses, and every once in a while, when the light is right and Victor’s expression is particularly contemplative, Sherlock catches a glimpse of the man he fell for back at university. It is jarring, and the image is usually gone in a heartbeat, replaced by this thirty-four-year-old he barely knows.
But the Victor that he knew is still there, and Sherlock sees more and more of him every day.
And, even though there are questions that remain unanswered, that alone starts to ease the ache.
----
Sherlock sits on his bed after his morning shower, wrapping his ankle in a loose-fitting bandage. Tomorrow will mark precisely three weeks since his arrival at Victor’s house, and though he feels an occasional twinge of pain, he has largely recovered from his injuries. He can walk with minimal difficulty, and they will be able to remove the cast on his arm within the week.
He wraps his ankle and hopes that his stride will be stronger today; hopes that it will be longer and more sure. And in some deep, dark recess of his mind, he hopes that it won’t be, because then he can stay for a while longer in this house; for a while longer in this fantasy with Victor. For as frustrating as this whole baffling situation is, Sherlock knows that he would rather live even this life than a life without Victor.
Sherlock mentally shakes himself. No. He must think of John, and of Lestrade, and of all the people he left behind--not the one who left him first. He has been unsuccessful in wringing any further answers from Victor and, with the time of their mission at hand, he must move on. There are more pressing matters to be dealing with, and six lives that ride on his back.
Downstairs, Victor is singing.
Sherlock tips his head back until it is resting against the wall, closes his eyes, and listens. He remembers a time when he would wake up to that baritone singing soft, nonsense verses in his ear. He remembers Victor sitting at a desk, head bent low over his books, humming absently while he worked. Sherlock remembers even the tedious midnight church services, and the feel of Victor’s voice rumbling through his chest as they stood side-by-side, hands just barely not-touching as they rested on the back of the pew in front of them.
No. Think of John. Think of Lestrade.
This doesn’t hurt.
And this time, that isn’t entirely a lie.
Sherlock wanders down to the kitchen, where Victor is bustling around. He moves between the kettle and his computer, checking on the tea and emailing in-between, singing to himself all the while. The tune is mournful and quick, the notes cresting and falling like waves at sea.
“You haven’t changed,” Sherlock says softly, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. Victor glances up from his work, flashes a quick smile and returns to the kettle.
“Oh?”
“You. Singing.”
Victor pours two cups of tea; blows air on his finger where a spilled drop of scalding water burned him.
“Was I singing?”
“Yes.” Sherlock accepts his mug with a nod of thanks.
“What was it?”
“The minstrel boy to the war is gone...” Sherlock sings quietly. Victor grins.
“In the ranks of death you will find him,” he sings in return. And then his voice turns fond. “And you haven’t changed, either. My tone-deaf virtuoso. A genius on the violin, but utter crap when it comes to singing.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. Victor brushes affectionate fingers along his jaw, and then turns away before Sherlock can react to the unexpected, intimate touch.
“You’re up early; I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No,” Sherlock manages, still reeling from the phantom press of the fingers on his cheek. “It was just -”
He stops before he says my ankle, but Victor has already guessed the reason for his sleeplessness.
“I have painkillers upstairs. Do you want some?” he asks. “They should help.”
Sherlock shakes his head and takes a long drink from his tea.
Victor returns to his singing.
----
Victor is asleep before the fire, a dog-eared book abandoned in his lap and his reading glasses still on his face. The small table next to his armchair is stacked with books, and a notebook half-filled with Victor’s illegible scrawl is sitting on the floor. Sherlock leaves him be at first and makes the cup of tea he had been seeking, but instead of going back upstairs he finds himself once again drawn to the study.
He puts the cup of tea down and places a hand on Victor’s shoulder, and that touch alone is enough to wake him. Victor doesn’t startle out of sleep, not usually, and right now he simply blinks up at Sherlock, his lips curling into a bemused smile once he realises where he is.
“You should know better,” Sherlock scolds lightly. “Reading by a fire always puts you to sleep.”
Victor gives a huff of laughter and covers Sherlock’s hand with his own. He gives it an affectionate squeeze and then pushes himself to his feet.
“I suppose I’ve got into some bad habits, living on my own,” he murmurs in a sleep-roughened voice. “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight.”
Victor stifles a yawn with the back of his hand.
“Well, I’m off, then. Thanks for waking me. My neck would’ve been a bitch in the morning had I stayed down here.” He claps Sherlock lightly on the shoulder. “Close the windows before you come up, yeah? G’night, kid.”
Sherlock nods and, as he watches Victor leave the room, tells himself again that it doesn’t hurt.
And it almost doesn’t.
----
A summer storm catches them by surprise late one afternoon, blowing in with gusts of wind that rattle the trees and bursts of water that tell them the worst is on its way. It’s a scramble to shut all the windows in the house before the main part of the front rolls in, and even so rainwater spatters the floor of the guest bedroom and has got into the kitchen.
“God, we haven’t had a storm like this in ages,” Victor says in delight as the first bolt of lightning cracks through the air. The front of his t-shirt is soaked from his struggle to close a particularly difficult window in the main room. Sherlock’s answer is lost in a crash of thunder.
They watch the storm roll in from the windows in the main room, and Victor grins when the spitting rain finally turns into a steady downpour. Sherlock knows why. They had been caught in a similar storm years ago over a long holiday, and what Victor had intended to be a two-day stay at his father’s cottage turned into nearly a week when bad flooding hit the area. With too much time on their hands and too few ways to fill it, they had been forced to come up with their own distractions.
It had turned into a very memorable week.
Victor slings a companionable arm around Sherlock’s shoulders.
“Let’s hope the road doesn’t wash out this time around, yeah?” he says good-naturedly.
“It’d be a travesty,” Sherlock agrees dryly. Victor laughs and releases him.
They stand there for a time, shoulders pressed together, watching as the rest of the storm blows itself out. And it doesn’t hurt at all.
----
Some days later, Victor aids Sherlock in removing the cast from his arm, though he doesn’t assist so much as he sits at Sherlock’s side and tries to keep him occupied while they wait for the plaster to soften.
“You’re going to have to keep it in here for at least an hour,” Victor says as he pushes on Sherlock’s arm into the bucket until it is completely submerged in the solution of water and vinegar. “Though it’ll probably end up being closer to two before we can unwrap it completely.”
“I know,” Sherlock says shortly. “Christ, you aren’t my nursemaid.”
“I am at the moment, and damn good thing it is, too,” Victor says. “Else you would have taken God-knows-what to that cast and hacked it off - and your arm right along with it, probably. Do you want a book to read?”
“No,” Sherlock says petulantly.
“Do you want to talk about the mission?”
Sherlock fixes him with a sharp look.
“Do you want me to?”
Victor shrugs.
“It’s not my place to ask.” He pulls his lips into what he hopes isn’t a bitter smile. “I’m used to taking orders from Holmeses, you remember. I don’t often question them.”
Sherlock considers him a moment.
“We will be starting in Barcelona,” he says finally. “There are some arrangements I made prior to my fall that should be able to weather this latest change. I have a contact there who has some information that will get me - us - started.”
“And what do you owe them in return?”
“Nothing,” Sherlock says with grim satisfaction. “They owe me.”
“You’ve been planning this for a while, then.”
Sherlock shakes his head.
“Not planning. Merely... exploring all of my options.”
But he doesn’t elaborate, and they lapse into silence. Victor fetches some work that he’s been neglecting; Sherlock sits impatiently with his arm in the bucket, the fingers of his other hand tapping out a nonsense rhythm on his knee. Victor, after a time, gets up and paces over to the kitchen window.
Medical science saved both of his legs all those years ago, and repaired them enough so that he has nearly the same range of motion he had in them prior to the accident. The price he pays for such a miracle, however, is pain. It is a constant ache that sits in the back of his mind most days, and he has grown used to it over the years; enough so that he can tolerate it, at least. But at certain times, and in certain weathers, the twin aches in his hips and the pinch in his knees grow to a throb, and he finds it difficult to focus on anything else but the pain.
He stands there for a moment, rocking back on his heels, stretching his sore legs. He’s been sitting for too long, and his legs are making their displeasure known. He’d go for a walk under normal circumstances in order to work out the lingering discomfort, but God only knows what Sherlock would do to his arm if left to his own devices.
“You’re in pain,” Sherlock says, and he sounds surprised.
“The wound to my neck wasn’t the only one I sustained in the accident,” Victor says, turning from the window. “I made a goddamn mess of my legs, too. It’s not too bad, just uncomfortable now and again.”
“Your recovery was difficult, then,” Sherlock says, in the cautious manner that Victor has learned is him attempting to find information that he can’t deduce.
Victor snorts.
“I had a shard of glass embedded in my neck, near-ruined legs, and I woke up in hospital hundreds of miles away from you.” And then, realising fully what he has just said, he adds, “Yes, it was difficult,” speaking quickly so his previous words don’t have time to sink in.
“Why the beard?”
“It seemed like a proper response to the situation,” Victor says wryly. “You know. Have your life ripped out from under you, grow a beard. Logical progression, don’t you think?”
That earns him a snort before Sherlock falls silent once more. Victor comes back over to the table and checks on Sherlock’s softening cast. More time has passed than he originally realised, and the plaster peels away easily. He sets to work removing it. Sherlock is quiet, but his silence is thick and hesitant.
“Something’s on your mind,” Victor says, a statement rather than a question. It is met with silence at first.
A little while later, however, Sherlock takes a breath and says, “When I first came into this house...”
He trails off, but it doesn’t take Victor long to figure out where he might have been going with his unfinished question. He had been asking about the beard, which would have been one of three immediate surprises when he first came into this house. Victor’s resurrection has already been answered for him, or answered as much as Victor will allow. The third surprise, however...
“When you first came into this house,” Victor picks up for him, “I seemed very... nonchalant for a man who had just been reunited with his partner for the first time in four years. Very calm.”
“Yes.”
Victor snorts and shakes his head.
“You forget, Sherlock, that I’ve had four years to resign myself to the idea that we would probably never see one another again. I had three days to prepare for meeting with you again. Christ, it was hard, of course it was. But I couldn’t... It was harder on you. You, who had not even the faintest idea what you were going to find here. I had to be calm. For you.”
He finishes peeling away the plaster and grabs a towel. He begins drying off Sherlock’s newly-healed and atrophied arm and, as the silence lengthens, begins to regret his brusque words.
“I don’t ever want you to make the mistake of thinking that I never missed you, however,” Victor says at last, his voice pitched low. “I did. Terribly. Living without you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
He finally lifts his eyes to meet Sherlock’s unwavering gaze.
“I know you don’t believe me,” Victor goes on, just as soft, “but you do trust me. You said so yourself. You’ve always trusted me. So trust me when I say that I couldn’t come back. Not then; perhaps not ever. It wasn’t my idea to leave you, but once it had been done I realised I couldn’t come back. And trust me also when I say that, while I may have survived that crash, I still died that day. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I put you through.”
He finally releases Sherlock’s arm and Sherlock slowly gets to his feet. Victor follows, reaching for the bucket, but he is interrupted by Sherlock’s body crowding him.
Sherlock grips him in an abrupt one-armed hug, his good arm clamping down tight around Victor’s shoulders. His weaker hand first rests on Victor’s hip and then, tentatively, he slips the arm around Victor’s waist.
Victor hesitates for less than a breath before he’s clutching Sherlock in return. God, how he’s forgotten what it’s like to have this man in his arms, though he’s imagined it countless times. He digs his fingers into Sherlock’s jumper and buries his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. He closes his eyes and breathes, smelling spice and soap and sweat.
“Don’t you ever,” Sherlock hisses, his voice ragged, “fucking do it again.”
Victor swallows hard.
“I won’t,” he whispers, and the words are bitter in his mouth. But he holds Sherlock close nonetheless and tries to tell himself that it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t hurt, that this can’t be forever.
----
Later that afternoon, Sherlock procures a large map from Victor’s library and covers it with notes. He marks down locations, people, and companies that formed what was once Moriarty’s network, and is now Moran’s.
Their earlier discussion in the kitchen seems to have rejuvenated Sherlock, for he is more animated now than Victor has seen since the moment they were reunited. He works with a frenzied energy, as feverish as Victor remembers from before his death. His eyes are bright with excitement, and Victor recognises the expression. Sherlock has a new puzzle, one that he can now devote his entire attention to, and he is delighted.
“These are only the ones I’m aware of; the ones I managed to connect to Moriarty while he was still alive. The information is old, but it’s a start,” Sherlock says, pulling Victor from his thoughts. “His network is vast. It’s entirely likely that this doesn’t even scratch the surface.”
Victor spends the afternoon with Sherlock, familiarizing himself with the various notes. They won’t be able to carry something like this on them when they leave. They can’t have anything that will potentially identify who they are, or what they’re doing. It will all need to be stored mentally.
“We can’t go around killing all of Moriarty’s associates. Someone’s going to notice,” Victor muses to himself. He then thinks of Bolivia. “If Moran were to suffer an accident, it might create a power vacuum. The entire syndicate could crumble without us having to anything more than that.”
“Perhaps,” Sherlock concedes. “But Moran is stationed somewhere in England, and if I step foot back on home soil I run a serious risk of discovery. No. We must dismantle the network piece by piece, starting from abroad. Moran’s only as strong as those who support him, remember.”
“His network has to span the globe.” Victor looks at the map spread out on the table before them. “Those assassins who took residence outside Baker Street were from at least four different countries. And look what you’ve got here - lawyers in Spain, drug cartels in Mexico, arms factories in the U.S.... is there anyone not working for this guy?”
“Us,” Sherlock says absently, pen in his mouth, considering the map.
“We can’t kill all these people.”
“No,” Sherlock agrees. “But Moran is also only as strong as those who are useful to him. What happens if those arms factories don’t exist?”
Victor shrugs. “He loses influence over the weapons manufacturing in that country.”
“Not only the manufacturing.”
Victor snaps his fingers. “But also the distribution of those weapons. Who gets them, and who doesn’t.”
Sherlock taps a finger on the map, right over the eastern coast of the U.S. “We sabotage the manufacturing. Blow up the buildings if we have to. We can time it so that no one is inside at the time, and Moran loses a good portion of his network.”
“So we target what makes each branch of the network useful to Moran, rather than the people.” Victor considers this for a moment. “It’s still going to look suspicious.”
“Not as suspicious as everyone in the syndicate dying,” Sherlock points out. “It will be more devastating, too. People can be replaced. Those factories took years to build. That’s not to say we’ll be able to avoid murder entirely, however.”
Victor snorts. “I doubt you’re going to have much of an issue with that.”
“Nor you.” Sherlock straightens and cracks his neck. “There’s another aspect to this that we need to consider.”
“Richard Brook.”
Sherlock’s eyes darken. “Yes. To the rest of the world, Moriarty never existed and Richard Brook is an... actor I paid in order to supposedly stage the cases I solved. I need to bring Moriarty back in addition to taking down his network.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” Sherlock admits. “But there must, somewhere, exist proof of James Moriarty. And I need that, Victor. I can eradicate the network, but without proof of Moriarty, my life’s work is nothing. I can return home safely, but there seems little point in going if I have no work to return home to.”
“What will you do if you can’t find proof of Moriarty’s existence?”
Sherlock withdraws his gaze.
“It’s not a scenario I’ve permitted myself to dwell on,” he says stiffly.
Victor feels a pang then, and aches to reach out for Sherlock. He settles for gripping the back of a nearby chair and dropping his gaze to the papers on the table. Sherlock has already resigned himself, less than two months after his fall, to the possibility of never being able to return home. But the idea that he might forever be thought of as a fraud--that he can’t bring himself to accept.
“Well,” Victor says lightly, “look at it this way. If we can’t bring back Moriarty - if you decide there’s no life left for you in England - there’s always this place. We’ve got a bit in common, you and I, being dead men and all.”
He tries to make it sound off-hand rather than hopeful, and succeeds. The comment elicits a snort from Sherlock, followed by a weak smile.
“Don’t be absurd,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Moriarty was clever, but his operatives were not. Somewhere, someone along the way has made a mistake. I have every intention of finding it and being able to return home... and I intend to take you with me.”
Oh, God. Victor can feel his own heart knocking against his ribcage and the blood pounding in his ears. He’s never wanted something so badly in his life, and hates that it can’t happen.
“Much as I appreciate the sentiment,” he says gruffly, thinking quickly, “you know Mycroft won’t allow that.”
Sherlock huffs.
“I don’t intend to let that stop me.” He leans forward, bracing his hands on the table. When he speaks again, his voice is deadly quiet. “You are coming home with me, Victor. And if I have to burn this planet to the ground in order to make that true, I will. Don’t ever doubt that.”
----
Part 7
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