(no subject)
"The Fall of Gods" (10/24)
Pairings: John/Lestrade; Sherlock/Victor Trevor
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Language, angst, mentions of suicide, implied past alcoholism, implied PTSD, religious themes, minor character death, sexual content, homicide.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Notes: No, you didn't miss an update. I've just gone through and changed the numbering on the chapters here on LJ so they match what's on AO3. What was the prologue is now part 1, and every other installment has been bumped up a number. This is the next chapter, following what I posted last weekend. Enjoy!
Greg comes home from the Yard one night, pristine white shirt smattered with blood that isn’t his own, and shakes his head before John can open his mouth to ask. He disappears immediately into the shower, which he then runs for an abnormal half an hour. He’s in the bedroom changing when his mobile goes off.
“John, can you get that?” he calls.
“Where’s it coming from?” John asks, having narrowed the sound to the vicinity of Greg’s desk.
“Jacket!”
John pulls the ringing phone out of Greg’s coat and answers it.
“Hello?”
“Greg?”
“Oh, no, Mrs Lestrade--er, Mary--um, he’s in the shower. I can - oi!” John starts as a cold hand touches the back of his neck and whips around. Greg quirks a puzzled eyebrow at him and holds out his hand. John shoves the mobile at him, mutters, “It’s your mum,” and makes his escape.
Later, Greg finds him in the kitchen, working on his laptop while dinner finishes cooking.
“So what was that all about?” he asks in amusement. He leans against the counter and crosses his arms, smirking at John.
“Your mother’s terrifying, mate, don’t try to tell me she isn’t,” John says firmly, pointing a pen at Greg for emphasis.
“You’re going to have to get over that before the ceremony.”
“If they even come to it,” John mutters, suddenly bitter, because to say that Greg’s mother had been less-than-pleased about her son’s divorce and his new lover would be putting it lightly. The circumstances of the divorce weren’t ideal, John will be the first to admit that, but he still feels a stab of resentment toward Mary Lestrade for holding it against her son.
The words are out of John’s mouth before he realizes he’s said them aloud. He feels the blood rush from his face.
“Oh, fuck, Greg,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...”
In the moment before he can mask his expression, Greg looks as though he’s been slapped. He covers it quickly, and when he meets John’s eyes, his smile is resigned.
“Don’t,” he says softly. “You’re right. If they come. We, uh... we might luck out.”
“No. For God’s sake, don’t say that. That’s not luck. I hope they come. Really.”
Greg swallows hard.
“So do I,” he says quietly. And then a brief smile touches his lips. “Mostly because you’ll have to deal with my mother micromanaging every moment of that weekend. Not to mention the fact that they’ll probably be staying with me. There’s no escaping the in-laws, John.”
John groans and drops his head in his hands.
“Whose bloody idea was this whole marriage thing, anyway?”
Greg laughs and comes to stand behind him, placing his hands lightly on John’s shoulders.
“You were the one who brought it up, if I remember correctly.”
“Yeah, well, you were the one who proposed. I take it back; I’m not marrying you.”
Greg snorts and squeezes his shoulders.
“Nice try, Johnny.”
He ducks his head for a kiss and then goes to check on dinner.
----
Sherlock and Victor finally arrive in Cairo one morning just as the hot equatorial sun rises above the buildings and starts to bake the dry land.
The predominant foreign languages of Egypt are all ones they are fluent in, and so arranging travel to South Africa goes easier than Victor had been envisioning. They are able to secure a flight for two days from now, and Sherlock decides that is satisfactory.
They find a small room that will accommodate them as they wait for their flight, so inexpensive that it feels almost inaccurate to even call it cheap, but they were able to pay in cash and no one has asked them any questions. Likely, they were forgotten the moment they left the room.
Victor can hope, at least.
The bustling street outside the mudbrick building is loud and the air inside is stifling. There is a mattress on the floor alongside a battered sofa, and a fan languidly stirs the thick air. Sheets cover the windows, and they glow a sickly yellow in the blazing sunlight.
“I came here once, years ago,” Victor says later that morning as they stroll through a street marketplace. Tourists and locals alike swarm around them, and the street is bright with women in vivid dresses and men in light, pastel cotton shirts. As unbearable as the heat is, being outside is a far cry better than being in their room, where the air doesn’t move at all. “Father had some business here in the city. School wasn’t in session, so he brought me along.”
“I don’t remember this.”
“Mm, no, you wouldn’t. It was just before I left for university.” Victor is quiet a moment, remembering. “I think it was the last trip I took with him.”
Sherlock misinterprets his silence.
“Your father was an idiot,” he says quietly, voice full of contempt. Victor presses his elbow discreetly and then returns the hand to his pocket.
“What’s past is past,” Victor says gently, because though it took him more years to accomplish than he would have liked, he has mostly come to terms with his estrangement from his father. Unfortunately, he struggled with it for much of the time that he and Sherlock were together, and it had led to many fallings out. “It’s all right. Despite what came after, the memories I have from that last trip are good.”
They dine in a café and linger there for as long as they can before returning to the unforgiving day. They avoid the tourist shops and financial district, whose buildings would provide them some shelter, because they are more likely to be monitored by cameras. They must remain under the radar as much as possible, difficult though it is in a bustling city like this one.
It’s only after the sun has finally slipped below the horizon that they return to their rooms. Exhaustion weighs heavily on Victor as the sleepless night on Crete finally catches up to him. He strips down to a t-shirt and underwear and stretches out on the mattress. Sherlock kicks off his trousers and takes the sofa. They try not to share a bed if it can be helped, as there is no telling who might be watching them and one of the last things they need is to be discovered in bed together by the wrong eyes.
When Victor wakes, it is an hour before dawn, and a sickly yellow light has permeated the room from the streetlamp outside, casting an eerie glow over everything in sight. And he finds that he isn’t alone on the mattress anymore, for when he stretches he accidentally brushes his knuckles against Sherlock’s jaw.
“Oh, hello,” Victor murmurs. Sherlock blinks awake.
“Time?” he whispers.
“Five,” Victor answers. He rolls onto his side and shifts closer, until their foreheads are almost brushing and they are breathing sleep-sour air. Their noses bump; Sherlock doesn’t pull away. “Go back t’sleep.”
They are so close that Victor’s last sentence is whispered against Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock wets his lips, tongue grazing Victor’s own, and a shiver goes down Victor’s spine. He tilts his head then, finally, sliding their mouths together and drawing Sherlock into a light kiss.
“Morning, Will,” he says quietly, chancing a name that he hasn’t used in years. William is Sherlock’s given name, passed down to him from his father and grandfather, but Sherlock hasn’t gone by it since he was a child. His mother let it slip one dinner that Victor shared with them years ago, and though Sherlock had scowled at its use by her, he has never once requested that Victor stop using it.
There is a beat of silence--and then Victor is rewarded with a lightning-quick smile before Sherlock closes in again.
Sherlock pushes Victor onto his back and rolls on top of him. He mouths over Victor’s Adam’s apple and down the length of his throat, dragging teeth across his collarbone before seeking out a proper kiss again. They draw away long enough to discard shorts before coming together again, cocks sliding against one another, heavy and leaking. Sherlock’s kisses are insistent, desperate, and Victor counters them with slow, probing swipes of his tongue. He curls a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck to hold him close and tries to slow him down, but Sherlock’s fingers are digging into his hips and Victor is bucking involuntarily up against the taut line of his stomach, his need matching Sherlock’s.
He comes far sooner than he would have liked, spending himself between their stomachs, and Sherlock breaks their kiss. He buries his face in the crook of Victor’s neck, warm breaths panting across Victor’s collarbone, and continues to buck against his friend. Victor is reaching for his bag even before his brain has recovered from his climax, and when he comes back to himself he is holding a container of lube. He slicks up the fingers of his right hand and grabs Sherlock’s hip with his left, rolling their hips together, setting a steady rhythm that was broken by his orgasm.
Victor runs his fingers along the cleft of Sherlock’s arse and then pushes in deeper, circling Sherlock’s hole with the tip of his forefinger. Sherlock tries to push back against the intruding finger, but Victor stills him with a hand on his hip.
“Easy,” he whispers, stroking the sensitive nerves, feeling Sherlock jerk and gasp against him. He then pushes the tip of one finger inside, easing past the tight ring of muscle. “Relax.”
He eases in the first finger, keeping up the rhythm of their hips all the while, and then withdraws. He adds more lube and then presses two fingers against Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock groans and sinks his teeth into Victor’s shoulder, trying to will his muscles to loosen and relax; to accept the intrusions. Victor scissors his fingers, working his way in, and Sherlock, impatient with Victor’s slow process, finally pushes back and sinks down on Victor’s hand.
“Jesus,” Victor hisses at the same time that Sherlock lets loose a sound that is a cross between a whimper and a whine. Victor crooks his fingers, grazing Sherlock’s prostate, and Sherlock snaps his hips in response, jaw going slack and eyelids fluttering.
“Come on,” Victor whispers, arching up to capture Sherlock’s lips in a sloppy kiss. He wraps his free hand around Sherlock’s cock, pumping him, muttering against the bruised lips, “Come for me, come on, let me see you... You’re gorgeous like this... Sher -”
“God,” Sherlock moans suddenly, coming in pulses, spilling over Victor’s hand and the mattress’s already-questionable sheets. Victor pumps him through to done and Sherlock finally collapses, his legs giving out, slumping next to Victor.
“Forgot how much you loved having your arse played with,” Victor mutters, kissing Sherlock’s sweaty forehead, and his friend snorts.
“Only when it’s you,” he croaks. “Fucking hell, Victor...”
“Tell you something, Will.” Victor pushes his nose into Sherlock’s neck, breathing in his sweat-worn scent. He presses his tongue to Sherlock’s pulse-point, relishing the shudder it elicits. “You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that?”
Sherlock nuzzles his shoulder and says nothing in response. Victor, heedless of the mess they’ve made, gathers Sherlock into his arms, holding him close until the younger man succumbs to sleep once more.
Christ, has he missed this.
-------------
It’s rare anymore that Greg makes it home at a decent hour. Six days out of seven, he’s at the Yard well past nightfall. His limit appears to be midnight, and on more than one occasion John has woken to Greg sliding into bed behind him, settling a hand on his hip and nuzzling the back of his neck in greeting. Between that and John’s erratic schedule at the clinic, they have time for little more than a mumbled hello most days.
Which is why, one day in early autumn, John is surprised when he arrives back at Greg’s flat to find someone else already there.
“Greg?” John drops his bag by the door. “Are you home?”
“Yeah,” Greg calls back, and John locates him in their bedroom. He’s standing by the wardrobe, tugging off his work-worn shirt. He chucks it in favor of a near-threadbare t-shirt, so often worn that the logo on the front is no longer legible.
“You’re home early.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Greg says, and greets him with a kiss.
“You’re going out again.”
“Yeah,” Greg says with a grimace. “I’m going in again at nine. But I wanted to have dinner with you. Can’t remember the last time we saw one another.”
“Last night,” John says, amused. “Between two and three.”
“For a whole hour? That’s a new record.”
“Oh, shut up.” John draws Greg in for another kiss, and then releases him to finish changing. “Oh, before I forget. Your mum called me.”
“Oh? When?’
“At work. Twice, before I had a chance to answer.”
Greg grimaces.
“Sorry, John. I’ll have a word with her about that.”
“No,” John says, holding up his hand. “She hasn’t done anything wrong; she was just looking for you. You weren’t answering your phone.”
“I was in a meeting most of the afternoon; didn’t even realise she’d called until after. I’m sorry she bothered you.”
“She didn’t - Greg, what is going on? That’s the third time you’ve spoken to her this week, which is more than you’ve spoken in three months. And you’re--you’re absent. I’ve never seen you so scattered. So distracted.”
So emotionless is what John doesn’t say, but that’s true as well. Greg doesn’t react to things anymore, nothing beyond a faint smile that doesn’t touch his eyes or a grimace of irritation when something goes wrong. It’s as though he’s shut himself away, and John doesn’t know why.
Greg stares at him for a long moment, and then finishes undressing. He discards his trousers and puts on jeans, and finally braces his hands on his hips, staring at the floor for a beat before lifting his eyes to John’s once again.
“My father has cancer,” he says flatly. John stares at him, stunned.
“What?”
“We’ve known for a few months now. The calls I keep getting from mum are updates. I’m sorry she bothered you at work; I’m usually better about answering them.”
“Is it...?”
“Bad? Yes. But he’s in treatment at the moment. Can’t tell if it’s helping yet, but he’s not getting any worse, either.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“Greg -”
“I don’t know, John!” he bursts out. He sighs and rocks back on his heels, shoving his hands in his pockets and dropping his gaze to the floor. When he continues, his voice is soft. “Maybe... I dunno, maybe I thought it’d just... go away if I ignored it a while. Doesn’t, of course, don’t know why I thought that. And then... I needed to be there for my sister, and my mum. I needed to be there for Dad. He’s got treatments and appointments, and Mum can’t handle it all on her own. And at the end of the day.... the last thing I needed was your pity. Sympathy, sorry. I just needed something to be normal.”
“Oh, Greg -”
“See?” Greg points a finger at him. “That’s what I mean. That’s what I don’t need, John. Stop it. Please.”
“Let me help you. That’s all I want.”
Greg’s shoulders slump, and he goes from defensive to guilty in a matter of seconds.
“You have been helping,” he whispers. He walks over to John and takes his hands, bringing them to his lips and kissing John’s knuckles. “Just by being you. Drop it? Please.”
John sighs, knowing that he’s going to give in; knowing that he couldn’t deny Greg anything.
“Just promise me one thing,” he says at last. “If you need anything--no, let me finish, Greg--if you need anything, you tell me, okay? If your mum needs anything, or your dad, or your sister... we will be there for them. Both of us, together. Other than that, you just do what you need to do, okay? And I’ll stay out of it.”
Greg considers him a moment and then gives a tight nod.
“Right.” John grips his elbow. “Good. Now... you were saying something about dinner?”
----
Sherlock and Victor arrive in Johannesburg at the tail-end of the southern hemisphere’s winter.
The grey of winter has given way to a vivid spectrum of colour as flowers begin to bloom on the plains, and the spring days are breathtaking.
“We need to be more discreet this time,” Sherlock says. They’re standing in the spacious living room of their rented flat, which isn’t far from the city centre. “We raised someone’s suspicions in Greece, that much is obvious.”
“Do you think they suspect it’s you?” Victor peels aside the curtain; looks down on the street below, which is full to bursting.
“Unlikely. We’ve been careful. Likely, all they know is that someone has been questioning Moriarty’s clients. He’s made innumerable enemies over the years; I don’t think they would look at two dead men until it’s a last resort.”
“Even so,” Victor says, “we should lay low for a while.”
“I need this evidence.”
“And you’ll get it.” Victor turns from the window. “But haste will only end in disaster; you know that. Wait a while before you make contact.”
They are brothers again here in South Africa. Mycroft’s money, coupled with the funds Victor earned in Greece, should finance them for the entirety of their stay here. Sherlock hopes it will only be a few days, and plans on spending no more than a month.
They spend their days researching and nights trying to track down the member of the network Sherlock had learned about in Liechtenstein, but they make no direct contact. After the scare in Greece, they’re only going to get one shot at this, and they need to choose the right time.
And then, one night, Sherlock turns to Victor and says, “Let’s go for a walk.”
Victor blinks. He hadn’t thought that they were going to be doing any tracking tonight. “Yeah, right. Want me to bring a gun?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I said a walk, Victor.”
“Just... a walk?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock will have an ulterior motive, of that Victor is sure, but he’s not being forthcoming and Victor is in no mood to pry. And so they set out into the humid night, shirtsleeves rolled up past their elbows, looking for all the world as if they’ve just stepped out for a drink after leaving the office.
And stop they do, about half an hour after wandering through the night-time rush on the bustling streets. Sherlock tugs on Victor’s elbow and then ducks into a nearby establishment.
“I’m sorry, it’s necessary,” Sherlock murmurs to him and orders water for Victor before he can reply. He presses the glass into Victor’s hand and says, “Forgive me.”
Victor rolls his eyes, but accepts the glass and nods in quiet thanks. “Don’t. We do what we have to do to get the job done.”
Sherlock nods, brisk, and spins away, breezing over to a table and beckoning Victor to join him. Victor sips his water and watches as Sherlock’s one drink turns into two, and then three; watches in bemusement as Sherlock makes casual conversation with everyone sitting around them.
Sherlock’s disguises are in his face and voice. He very rarely relies on elaborate outfits when playing a part. He can be convincing as any number of people while wearing only jeans a plain cotton tee--or, in tonight’s case, in a plain button-down and dark trousers. He is so convincing, in fact, that Victor sometimes wonders if he’s ever seen the true Sherlock; wonders if the Sherlock he knows is yet another façade.
If that’s the case, though, it’s a façade only Victor’s ever been privileged enough to see, and he supposes that is as close to true as anything.
They leave in the early hours of the morning, long after midnight has come and gone. Sherlock, though he rarely drinks, holds his alcohol fairly well. If anything, it turns him into someone who is easily cheered, and he spends the majority of the walk back to their flat with an amused smile plastered on his face.
“Did you know,” Sherlock says suddenly, “that Johannesburg is the largest city in South Africa?”
“I suspected as much.”
“Mm. Did you also know that it’s the largest city in the world that’s not situated on a waterway or body of water?”
“Nope.”
“There’s also gold and diamond trade here on a massive scale, due to the Witwat - Witwaters -”
“The Witwatersrand?” Victor chuckles. Sherlock tries to glare at him and fails.
“Shut up.”
There are few people on the street right now, and it’s too dark to make out anything more than silhouettes. Victor takes advantage of the darkness and slides his fingers through Sherlock’s, squeezing his hand, once, before releasing him. He can feel Sherlock grin in response.
They round a corner, cutting down an alleyway that is blissfully empty. Victor takes the opportunity to link arms with his slightly-swaying friend; Sherlock, in one swift movement, crowds Victor up against a wall and kisses him breathless.
“Don’t try to distract me,” Victor half-heartedly as Sherlock unbuttons the top two buttons on his shirt and pushes his hand inside, fingertips grazing a nipple. “You - ah - you spoke with our contact tonight, didn’t you?”
“He was sitting at the table to our left,” Sherlock says, and moves his attentions to Victor’s neck. It takes Victor some moments to picture the man, and he can’t recall anything remarkable about the conversation.
“You - mmf - you didn’t tell me.” Victor knows he should feel annoyed at being kept in the dark, but Sherlock’s started teasing a patch of skin just behind his ear with his teeth, and Victor’s quickly losing the ability to form coherent thoughts.
“It was a long shot,” Sherlock murmurs against his skin. “But I got lucky.”
“And?”
Sudden footsteps sound at the beginning of the alley, and they jump apart.
“Go,” Sherlock says, suddenly alert, and they do, slightly quicker than they normally would and without looking back. The footsteps follow as they round the corner. “How many?”
“Three. And male, most likely, from the silhouettes,” Victor answers immediately, picking out the three distinct treads. They walk faster; the three men behind them do so as well. “Run?”
“Run,” Sherlock agrees, and they break into a sprint, bolting up the street and zig-zagging between buildings, taking the long way back to their flat. The three men give up the pursuit after less than five minutes, but Sherlock and Victor keep running, fueled by adrenaline and alcohol and the dizzying high of the chase. They burst through the door of their flat and Victor’s scarcely shut it behind him before Sherlock is upon him, sealing their mouths together and pressing him against the wall.
They don’t make it to the bedroom that first time; barely make it out of their trousers, even, before Sherlock takes them both in hand and sends them both crashing over the edge with a few quick strokes. They stumble over to the sofa, shedding the remainder of their clothes along the way, and Victor shoves Sherlock onto it before sinking down between his knees. Sherlock comes in pulses that time, one hand twisted in Victor’s hair and the other gripping the sofa for purchase while Victor sucks him dry.
It’s only then that they finally move to the bedroom, where Victor lays Sherlock out flat and climbs on top of him, kissing and fingering and stroking until Sherlock is fisting the sheets and begging him to Get on with it, already! Victor enters him with aching slowness and sets a languid pace, hitting Sherlock’s prostate with each snap of his hips and bringing him to completion swiftly. Sherlock arches up and captures Victor’s lips in a sloppy kiss, swallowing Victor’s groan as he finds his own climax and then collapses, drained, on top of Sherlock.
By now, the thin light of dawn is beginning to filter through the windows, and there is little point in trying to sleep tonight.
“I don’t suppose we were found out,” Victor comments finally. His head is full of cotton and his mouth is dry, but he forces the words out anyway. Beside him, Sherlock’s eyes are closed but he isn’t asleep.
“No,” he murmurs. “Petty thieves.”
“And your contact?”
“He never even met Moriarty,” Sherlock says in irritation, and Victor realises now why Sherlock wasn’t forthcoming with this information earlier in the night. The frustration of not finding evidence of Moriarty, or proof of Richard Brook’s fabrication, is beginning to take its toll on Sherlock. “But, thanks to him, I believe I have discovered what makes this branch of the network so vital.”
“And what’s that?”
Sherlock fixes Victor with a smile that’s more a baring of teeth than anything else.
“Money. And where it’s being kept.”
Twelve hours later, they are thousands of feet above the ground and climbing, bound for Europe once again.
In Johannesburg, two office buildings burn. Thousands of pertinent documents are destroyed. Months of intelligence vanish in the blink of an eye, and years of careful financial planning are gone.
One branch of Moran’s network is rendered useless.
-----
Part 11
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