Fill: Find a Way to You - Chapter Eighteen
Story Type: Prompt Fill
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic. Non-con kiss.
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.
A/N: I cried writing it. I don't know what you'll do.
Chapter Eighteen
The song ended eventually. John was desperately searching his brain for a plan, any tactic to get Moran away from him, preferably incapacitated, without lethal consequences. Unfortunately, almost all of those tactics involved knives or a gun, neither of which he had on him. He hadn't expected he'd need them.
Idiot.
The last vaguely sad notes died away, and John tried to pull away, but Moran's stolen hand gripped tighter around his wrist. He looked up into Sherlock's face, twisted into a grin more wicked than Sherlock had ever worn.
'Not yet, Johnny boy. We're not done.'
John swallowed and blinked the red out of his eyes. Calm. Stay calm.
'Does it still count if I'm a corpse?' He asked. 'Because the only way you could ever get me to kiss you is by killing me first.'
Moran chuckled. 'Oh, I don't think it'll be all that hard.'
'Let me go.'
'Or what? You'll kill me?' The grin widened.
John shook his head. 'I'm going to kill you anyway. You know that. Let me go, and I'll do it quick.'
'You want to hurt me, John?'
'More than you can know.'
Moran ducked his head and looked up at John through his eyelashes. 'Even when I look like this?' He asked, affecting Sherlock's accent and intonations. 'I don't blame you. He bruises beautifully. It's like art.'
John dug his fingers savagely into Moran's shoulder, and was rewarded with a slight wince. 'Change back.'
He shook his head.
John squeezed harder, Moran responded by twisting John's wrist until he had to bite down on his tongue to keep from crying out.
'It's almost cute, how you think you could beat me. You think two years makes you hard enough? I've got a decade on you, easily. And I like it more than you. So be a good boy and do as you're told, and maybe you'll survive the night.'
'I'd rather die.' John gritted out.
Moran shrugged. 'Too bad those aren't my orders.'
John tried to struggle, but Moran's grip was like steel. Movement caught his eye, and he glanced across the room to where a small crowd of guests were making their way to the door with curious expressions.
Something like hope bloomed in his chest, and he returned his attention back to Moran just in time to clamp his lips tightly shut before Moran forced their faces together.
Hands, curled like claws in his hair. Breath, hot and damp against his cheek. And lips, those same perfect, beautiful lips, crushed against his mouth so hard it hurt. John tried to bring his hands up to Moran's chest, to push him away, to force space between them, but Moran's grip never yielded and John could barely move.
He tried, though. By God, he tried.
Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think--
He wasn't panicking, but he could feel the panic sliding around just underneath, ready to slip into his brain. He wanted to scream, he wanted to bite down and tear Moran's skin, to taste blood, but he refused to open his mouth, to move his lips at all. He couldn't know, couldn't be sure, couldn't take chances.
The door slammed open, there were gasps and cries from the crowd, and Moran's focus relaxed just enough for John to snake out of his grip and get his hands between them. With a desperate shove, he forced Moran back and off him. Moran staggered back, and in the blink of an eye Sherlock's body slid away, Moran's own replacing it.
John only spared half a glance at the door, saw Mycroft staring at him with wide eyes. It was all he needed to know the House was secure. He drew back his fist and slammed it into Moran's face. Moran whirled round as he took the impact and fell to the floor, the side of his head colliding loudly with the black diamond-checked tile.
John stood over Moran's body, breathing hard, his fist still clenched tight enough drain blood from his knuckles. That was okay, though. There was plenty of Moran's to make up for it.
John looked up again, ignored the scandalised and shocked party guests, and Mycroft was there, his face just as pale but for very different reasons.
Greg Lestrade was standing beside him, eyes and mouth wide. And if Lestrade was here…
John leapt over Moran's unconscious body and sprinted for the door. He didn't feel the impact when he crashed between Mycroft and Lestrade, and if his feet ever actually touched the stairs on the porch he never felt it.
What he could feel, what dug into his chest and twisted inside of his heart, was a gaping, howling emptiness. And he followed it, dove into it, until its screaming was all he could hear.
Maybe that was what led him to where he needed to be. Maybe Lestrade had told him and some part of him paid attention. He wasn't sure and he didn't care. The only thing that could possibly have mattered, was how the snow-white feathers shone against almost black grass. How the moonlight made the body seem almost to glow, or maybe that was the blurriness in John's vision.
Sherlock's body was warm under his hands, still warm. It was motionless, save for the trembling from John's hands. And it was heavier than he expected when he gathered it to him, clutched it close, his heart screaming where he couldn't. Or maybe he could. He couldn't hear it, but then he couldn't hear much of anything. His throat was burning enough for it.
'..hn. John. John!'
Mycroft's voice finally broke though, or perhaps it was the hand desperately shaking his shoulder. Either way, John managed to string some thoughts together, managed to keep his voice calm.
'Get a car. We need to get him to the lake.'
There was no argument. There were no questions. There was movement, there was Lestrade with his hand pressed over his heart as though to staunch bleeding that wasn't there, his face pale and drawn, there was a black sedan with Mycroft in the driving seat, there was the slam of a door, and Sherlock still motionless in his lap, his feathers soft as silk under John's fingers.
He was still warm.
~~~
Not my brother. That's not my brother. Can't be my brother. Mycroft tried desperately to push the ridiculous, irritatingly useless thought from his mind, but it clung stubbornly and would not be silenced. It ran like a current under his functional thoughts, the ones noting and following Constable Lestrade's slightly unnecessary directions from the passenger seat, the ones navigating the darkened roads and minding traffic, the ones allowing him to walk the razor-balance between speed and legality. He would not risk a police encounter, not when every second was precious.
And it was precious. That much was abundantly apparent, and not just from the way John was clutching the swan to his body as though willing his heart to beat for them both, the way his fingers never stopped threading through the jet black feathers crowning its--HIS, his--head, the way his voice broke and sobbed through his endless pleas and promises.
But there was also Lestrade, whose face was corpse pale, who kept pressing his hand directly over his heart, who could never seem to draw a full breath. Mycroft knew, as John knew, the sort of connection which passed between his brother and this man. Lestrade, he suspected, knew things about Sherlock's condition that neither Mycroft nor John could bear to hear spoken aloud.
So he drove. He paid attention and he said little and he listened to John choking out prayers to anyone who might be listening and he tried to ignore the look of mourning Lestrade was attempting to conceal and the part of his traitorous brain which refused to reconcile the deceptively delicate looking bird in John's arms with the brother he'd lost.
'…sorry, I'm so, so sorry. Please, please don't--'
'…didn't kiss him. Do you hear me? I didn't. It shouldn't count! Please! I'll do anything--'
'…forgive me. I couldn't--I tried. Oh God, please. Please, I love you. Don't leave me, not like this. I love you…'
'…be stronger for you, couldn't protect you. I'll be better, I swear, just one more chance, I'm begging you--'
'Left here.'
Lestrade's voice startled him enough that he jerked the wheel and they nearly careened off the road.
'Sorry.' Lestrade winced as Mycroft got them back in line.
Mycroft shook his head, didn't respond. He glanced up to the rear view so he could see John's face, his body curled around the achromatic bird. 'How--' It was all he could manage to say before his throat sealed around further speech. It was enough to get John's notice.
'Warm.' John's voice shook, just like the rest of him. 'Still warm. Loose.'
Mycroft saw Lestrade swallow past something painful. 'Is he--can you tell if he's…?'
John shook his head. 'Can't find a pulse point. Can't tell if he's breathing. Come on, my love, breathe.'
Lestrade faced forward again and tilted his head back against the headrest. Mycroft's thoughts and voice ran away from him, and he asked quietly, 'What do you feel?'
Lestrade clenched his eyes shut and breathed harshly through his nose. 'Torn.' He gritted out. 'Like something's been ripped out of me.'
'Entirely?' Again, his voice ran off before he could catch it. He would need to find a way to circumvent such slips.
Lestrade shook his head. 'Not yet. Turn right just ahead.'
'Constable…'
Lestrade shook his head, he was looking a bit green now. 'Don't. You'll know. If it happens. It's just ahead now.'
Mycroft studied the view through the windscreen. 'Mr Lestrade, there's nothing ahead.'
Lestrade spared him a look, there was something a bit like pity in it, and Mycroft regretted the words.
'Yes. Yes of course.' He kept his attention on the road.
When Lestrade commanded him to stop just before a rather pathetic looking stand of trees, he knew better than to question it. He opened the door for John, helped him find his balance as he clung to Sherlock's body, then found himself with an armful of unconscious swan while John strode up to a seemingly random sapling and gave it a savage yank, tearing it up by several roots so it hung precariously to lean against its neighbour.
Without a word, John returned and gently pulled Sherlock back into his arms. With Lestrade only a step behind, he stepped over the newly felled tree and vanished into the shadows beyond.
Mycroft forced himself not to hesitate and followed. He permitted himself half a second to blink at the hidden world on the other side, then joined John and Lestrade along what looked to be a very newly beaten footpath leading somewhere deep inside the forest.
~~~
Mike and Molly were already awaiting them when they crashed into the clearing. John barely noticed them, all of his focus set on the coal black mass of water in front of him. He wasted no time, but ran as fast as he dared to the shoreline where he fell to his knees and gently, so gently, lowered the swan into the water. Sherlock didn't move.
The lake healed. The lake kept him safe. If he knew anything, he knew that. He'd seen himself what Molly could do, how she protected him. She would do so now. She had to.
'Please.' He whispered. 'Please.'
And Molly was beside him, tears pouring from her eyes, her hand clutched over her heart. 'Oh, John.'
John looked up at her, saw her recoil from whatever look was on his face.
'Please.' He begged.
She closed her eyes and placed her free hand over Sherlock's wing. In the next moment, she was only water. A moment after that, she became a wave. It rose up and cocooned Sherlock's body. There was a flash of silver light, as though she'd drawn the moon into the lake with her, and the wave rolled back.
He heard Mycroft's indrawn breath and Mike's curse, but they didn't matter. Sherlock was lying in the water, soaked through, and completely human. John pulled him upright and pressed him close. His skin was cold, but that was probably from the water. Right?
John shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders, then held his breath and brought the tips of his first two fingers to the pulse point on Sherlock's neck. He had a brief flash of sinking his teeth lightly into that very flesh, of tasting the salt of it on his tongue, and he almost missed the faint, barely there flutter of Sherlock's pulse under his fingertips.
He drew in a sharp breath and licked his lips. Alive. Sherlock was alive!
'Molly!' He cried. 'Molly!'
Lestrade splashed into the water beside them just as Molly took shape.
'Kid?' Lestrade ran a hand over Sherlock's face, like a mother checking for fever. 'Sherlock?' He looked at Molly, his eyes wide.
Molly shook her head. 'I can't feel him either.'
John's heart skipped painfully. 'What does that mean?' He demanded.
'I don't know.' Molly answered. 'It's never--we could always feel it. But it's just…gone. Like he's missing.'
'You can heal him!' John insisted. 'You always do! He's still alive, can't you help him?!'
Molly gave him a pleading look. 'I am trying, John! I promise you. But I can't find what's wrong with him. It's not a wound I can heal with a touch, it's something inside of him. It's Jim's magic, hurting him where I can't reach!'
'He's dying!' John cried, and the word was like the first crack in a thin layer of ice. John felt his whole world shattering and crumbling around him as he realised it was true. Sherlock was dying in his arms and he could do nothing to stop it.
'Molls.' Lestrade said softly, one hand on Molly's shoulder. 'The house. The door.'
Molly looked at him, confused, then her eyes widened. 'Greg…I'm not--'
He shook his head. 'No, luv. Not your power. You.'
Molly's hand flew to her hair, which had gotten shorter since John saw her last. 'Do you think…?'
'We have to try.' Lestrade insisted. 'We can't lose him, Moll. You feel it, too. It's ripping at you same as me.'
Molly closed her eyes and nodded. She ran a tress through her fingers. 'It's not enough.' She whispered. 'But I think I know another way.' She looked up at Lestrade imploringly.
He nodded and stood, hurrying to Sherlock's shelter. He appeared again a moment later, a plastic bowl in his hand, and hurried to give it to Molly.
'Pull him clear of the water.' She said. 'I haven't got the strength to be delicate about this.'
John did as he was told, pulling Sherlock into his lap so he was at least partially on dry land. Molly reached confidently into the water and pulled out a thin, jagged stone not yet worn smooth by the force of the lake. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and ran the stone over the pale skin of her arm, drawing a long slice through the flesh.
'Molly!'
'Don't argue, Greg.' She bit out. She tossed the stone aside and held the bowl under the cut, letting blood flow freely from her body into the container. She waited until she'd collected a decent amount, then dropped her bleeding arm into the water. When it re-emerged, there wasn't so much as a scar to betray where the cut had been.
She held out the bowl to John, and he stared at it, unable to move.
'Just water.' She assured him. 'Take it.'
He reached out and took the bowl. The moment it passed the shoreline, the thick blood became clear water, sloshing gently against the sides.
'All of it.' Mycroft knelt behind John, close enough to feel but not touching. 'To be safe.'
John shook his head. 'Nothing about this is safe, Mycroft.' He whispered, but he tilted Sherlock's head slightly upright and brought the bowl to his lips. Lestrade helped get Sherlock's lips and teeth apart, and John managed to pour in the first bit of water with very little spilling.
It took a moment, one very tense and breathless moment, but eventually Sherlock's throat contracted and he swallowed the water reflexively. John tried again, and Sherlock took it a bit more quickly this time.
Slowly, methodically, Sherlock drank the water that had been Molly's blood. John fancied he could almost see it coursing inside of Sherlock's body, waging war with whatever Moriarty had put in him, whatever insubstantial poison was killing him.
When the water was gone, they waited in silence, John holding Sherlock so tightly it must've hurt, if Sherlock were present enough to notice. Long moments passed, and Sherlock never moved, barely even breathed.
'Come on.' John breathed. 'Come on. Wake up. Please. Sherlock, fight this! I know you can. Fuck, you're so strong. Look what you've been through, all you've survived. You can't let this beat you, you can't!' He buried his face in Sherlock's shirt, felt the water soaking into his skin. 'Please, Sherlock! You can't leave me like this. You promised me. You said we'd have a lifetime. Please, love, I can't do this alone. Sherlock! Sherlock!'
Silence fell, and nothing changed. For a moment, John feared they were too late, that Sherlock had passed beyond some threshold and couldn't be saved.
Then Sherlock's entire body spasmed, arching bow-like in John's arms, and Sherlock drew in a deep, ragged gasp. His eyes shot open and his hands scrambled at the ground, clawing at the dirt and stones.
Sherlock gasped again, and writhed in John's grip so hard he broke free and tumbled sidelong into the shallow water. He started making noises, halfway between heaving and screams, and retched dryly with one hand clutching his stomach, the other grasping desperately at weeds, stones, anything within reach.
'Sherlock!' John tried to reach out to him, but Sherlock flinched away and continued to convulse.
Lestrade and Molly looked in horror, and Mike stumbled away. Only Mycroft came closer, slid beside his brother, somehow managed to snake his arms around Sherlock's spasming abdomen and gently pulled him upright to his back was to Mycroft's chest.
Mycroft wrapped one arm around Sherlock's chest, the other around his belly, and spoke quietly into Sherlock's ear.
'Ride it out. Easy. Just breathe, Sherlock, breathe and maintain focus. Keep calm. Don't panic, petit, I've got you. You're secure.'
John had never heard anyone use that term but Vienne. It was the only thing close to an endearment that Sherlock would tolerate, and only from his mother. Even John would never dream of saying it.
But Sherlock's bucking and flailing began to slow, and his breathing started to even, and soon he went slack in his brother's arms, listless and weak, his convulsions reduced to twitches in his muscles. His eyes were closed, his head lolling back to rest on Mycroft's shoulder.
'How did you know it would work?' Lestrade asked. 'Christ, I thought it was killing him!'
Molly paled and shrank away, and Lestrade reached out to pull her back to him. 'No, no, don't. He's okay, see?'
'I didn't.' Mycroft admitted. 'I hoped. I didn't want him to hurt himself unduly.'
'John…'
Sherlock's voice was weak, barely more than an exhale. John moved over to the Holmes brothers and let Sherlock pitch forward to slump against him. He reached down to collect the jacket Sherlock had thrown off in his fit and wrapped it around the trembling shoulders again.
'Oh, God Sherlock.' He whispered. 'I'm so sorry. I tried to stop him, I didn't want to--'
'Shhh…' It was barely loud enough to hear, but John shut up. 'Saw. Know.'
'Sherlock, I--'
'Hurts.' His voice was a bit stronger now, but still strained. 'Inside. Burning.'
Molly let out a noise but quickly stifled it. She clasped her hands over her mouth. There were tears streaming from her eyes. John glanced over to Lestrade, and he looked much the same.
Sherlock reached out a shaky arm in their direction. Molly reached him first, and he took her hand in a death grip, his hand trembling so badly it shook her whole arm. Lestrade reached him a moment later and wrapped his hand around both of theirs where they rested in Molly's lap.
'Lost you.' Sherlock managed. 'So empty.'
'Shush.' Molly soothed. 'We know. Don't try to speak.'
Sherlock whimpered, burying his face in John's neck. Both Molly and Lestrade's faces smoothed, and they donned identical expressions of relief and regret, and John wondered what silent message was passing between them. He didn't ask, though. Probably he never would.
'What happened?' Molly asked, looking at John.
John closed his eyes. 'Moran. I couldn't fight him.'
'He kissed you.'
John nodded. 'I couldn't--'
'You didn't kiss him.' Sherlock said, his voice much stronger though his body was still very limp.
'Does that matter?' John asked.
Sherlock's nod was loose and clumsy. 'I'm not dead.' He said. 'Looks like it does.'
'Sherlock,' Mycroft spoke calmly but insistently. 'We need to get you free of here. It's become clear that James Moriarty wants you dead. You cannot remain at this lake.'
Sherlock shook his head. 'Can't. I'm still under the spell.'
John clenched his jaw. 'I did it, though!' He snarled. 'I made the vow. I did everything! It was all for you! I did it for you!'
'But not to me.' Sherlock told him. 'To Sebastian Moran.'
'He looked like you, Sherlock! I thought I was talking to you! Doesn't that count for anything?'
Sherlock hissed through his teeth and arched his back, his fingers tightening around Molly's so much it made her wince and bite back a shout.
'I can still feel them.' He gasped. 'In my head.' He rolled his eyes to focus on his fellow prisoners. 'Stop worrying so much, you're giving me a headache. It'll pass. It's better already.'
'Sherlock, what more can I do?' John asked. 'What if we bring you back to the Queen's House?'
'No time. Sunrise. I can already feel it.'
John paled. 'We need to get you back into the water.'
Sherlock smiled thinly at him. 'Not yet. There's a little time still.'
'No there isn't.'
They all looked up at the sound of Mike's voice, and there were Moriarty and Moran atop the hill, making their way down to the lake.
~~~
Chapter Nineteen
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic. Non-con kiss.
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.
A/N: I cried writing it. I don't know what you'll do.
Chapter Eighteen
The song ended eventually. John was desperately searching his brain for a plan, any tactic to get Moran away from him, preferably incapacitated, without lethal consequences. Unfortunately, almost all of those tactics involved knives or a gun, neither of which he had on him. He hadn't expected he'd need them.
Idiot.
The last vaguely sad notes died away, and John tried to pull away, but Moran's stolen hand gripped tighter around his wrist. He looked up into Sherlock's face, twisted into a grin more wicked than Sherlock had ever worn.
'Not yet, Johnny boy. We're not done.'
John swallowed and blinked the red out of his eyes. Calm. Stay calm.
'Does it still count if I'm a corpse?' He asked. 'Because the only way you could ever get me to kiss you is by killing me first.'
Moran chuckled. 'Oh, I don't think it'll be all that hard.'
'Let me go.'
'Or what? You'll kill me?' The grin widened.
John shook his head. 'I'm going to kill you anyway. You know that. Let me go, and I'll do it quick.'
'You want to hurt me, John?'
'More than you can know.'
Moran ducked his head and looked up at John through his eyelashes. 'Even when I look like this?' He asked, affecting Sherlock's accent and intonations. 'I don't blame you. He bruises beautifully. It's like art.'
John dug his fingers savagely into Moran's shoulder, and was rewarded with a slight wince. 'Change back.'
He shook his head.
John squeezed harder, Moran responded by twisting John's wrist until he had to bite down on his tongue to keep from crying out.
'It's almost cute, how you think you could beat me. You think two years makes you hard enough? I've got a decade on you, easily. And I like it more than you. So be a good boy and do as you're told, and maybe you'll survive the night.'
'I'd rather die.' John gritted out.
Moran shrugged. 'Too bad those aren't my orders.'
John tried to struggle, but Moran's grip was like steel. Movement caught his eye, and he glanced across the room to where a small crowd of guests were making their way to the door with curious expressions.
Something like hope bloomed in his chest, and he returned his attention back to Moran just in time to clamp his lips tightly shut before Moran forced their faces together.
Hands, curled like claws in his hair. Breath, hot and damp against his cheek. And lips, those same perfect, beautiful lips, crushed against his mouth so hard it hurt. John tried to bring his hands up to Moran's chest, to push him away, to force space between them, but Moran's grip never yielded and John could barely move.
He tried, though. By God, he tried.
Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think--
He wasn't panicking, but he could feel the panic sliding around just underneath, ready to slip into his brain. He wanted to scream, he wanted to bite down and tear Moran's skin, to taste blood, but he refused to open his mouth, to move his lips at all. He couldn't know, couldn't be sure, couldn't take chances.
The door slammed open, there were gasps and cries from the crowd, and Moran's focus relaxed just enough for John to snake out of his grip and get his hands between them. With a desperate shove, he forced Moran back and off him. Moran staggered back, and in the blink of an eye Sherlock's body slid away, Moran's own replacing it.
John only spared half a glance at the door, saw Mycroft staring at him with wide eyes. It was all he needed to know the House was secure. He drew back his fist and slammed it into Moran's face. Moran whirled round as he took the impact and fell to the floor, the side of his head colliding loudly with the black diamond-checked tile.
John stood over Moran's body, breathing hard, his fist still clenched tight enough drain blood from his knuckles. That was okay, though. There was plenty of Moran's to make up for it.
John looked up again, ignored the scandalised and shocked party guests, and Mycroft was there, his face just as pale but for very different reasons.
Greg Lestrade was standing beside him, eyes and mouth wide. And if Lestrade was here…
John leapt over Moran's unconscious body and sprinted for the door. He didn't feel the impact when he crashed between Mycroft and Lestrade, and if his feet ever actually touched the stairs on the porch he never felt it.
What he could feel, what dug into his chest and twisted inside of his heart, was a gaping, howling emptiness. And he followed it, dove into it, until its screaming was all he could hear.
Maybe that was what led him to where he needed to be. Maybe Lestrade had told him and some part of him paid attention. He wasn't sure and he didn't care. The only thing that could possibly have mattered, was how the snow-white feathers shone against almost black grass. How the moonlight made the body seem almost to glow, or maybe that was the blurriness in John's vision.
Sherlock's body was warm under his hands, still warm. It was motionless, save for the trembling from John's hands. And it was heavier than he expected when he gathered it to him, clutched it close, his heart screaming where he couldn't. Or maybe he could. He couldn't hear it, but then he couldn't hear much of anything. His throat was burning enough for it.
'..hn. John. John!'
Mycroft's voice finally broke though, or perhaps it was the hand desperately shaking his shoulder. Either way, John managed to string some thoughts together, managed to keep his voice calm.
'Get a car. We need to get him to the lake.'
There was no argument. There were no questions. There was movement, there was Lestrade with his hand pressed over his heart as though to staunch bleeding that wasn't there, his face pale and drawn, there was a black sedan with Mycroft in the driving seat, there was the slam of a door, and Sherlock still motionless in his lap, his feathers soft as silk under John's fingers.
He was still warm.
~~~
Not my brother. That's not my brother. Can't be my brother. Mycroft tried desperately to push the ridiculous, irritatingly useless thought from his mind, but it clung stubbornly and would not be silenced. It ran like a current under his functional thoughts, the ones noting and following Constable Lestrade's slightly unnecessary directions from the passenger seat, the ones navigating the darkened roads and minding traffic, the ones allowing him to walk the razor-balance between speed and legality. He would not risk a police encounter, not when every second was precious.
And it was precious. That much was abundantly apparent, and not just from the way John was clutching the swan to his body as though willing his heart to beat for them both, the way his fingers never stopped threading through the jet black feathers crowning its--HIS, his--head, the way his voice broke and sobbed through his endless pleas and promises.
But there was also Lestrade, whose face was corpse pale, who kept pressing his hand directly over his heart, who could never seem to draw a full breath. Mycroft knew, as John knew, the sort of connection which passed between his brother and this man. Lestrade, he suspected, knew things about Sherlock's condition that neither Mycroft nor John could bear to hear spoken aloud.
So he drove. He paid attention and he said little and he listened to John choking out prayers to anyone who might be listening and he tried to ignore the look of mourning Lestrade was attempting to conceal and the part of his traitorous brain which refused to reconcile the deceptively delicate looking bird in John's arms with the brother he'd lost.
'…sorry, I'm so, so sorry. Please, please don't--'
'…didn't kiss him. Do you hear me? I didn't. It shouldn't count! Please! I'll do anything--'
'…forgive me. I couldn't--I tried. Oh God, please. Please, I love you. Don't leave me, not like this. I love you…'
'…be stronger for you, couldn't protect you. I'll be better, I swear, just one more chance, I'm begging you--'
'Left here.'
Lestrade's voice startled him enough that he jerked the wheel and they nearly careened off the road.
'Sorry.' Lestrade winced as Mycroft got them back in line.
Mycroft shook his head, didn't respond. He glanced up to the rear view so he could see John's face, his body curled around the achromatic bird. 'How--' It was all he could manage to say before his throat sealed around further speech. It was enough to get John's notice.
'Warm.' John's voice shook, just like the rest of him. 'Still warm. Loose.'
Mycroft saw Lestrade swallow past something painful. 'Is he--can you tell if he's…?'
John shook his head. 'Can't find a pulse point. Can't tell if he's breathing. Come on, my love, breathe.'
Lestrade faced forward again and tilted his head back against the headrest. Mycroft's thoughts and voice ran away from him, and he asked quietly, 'What do you feel?'
Lestrade clenched his eyes shut and breathed harshly through his nose. 'Torn.' He gritted out. 'Like something's been ripped out of me.'
'Entirely?' Again, his voice ran off before he could catch it. He would need to find a way to circumvent such slips.
Lestrade shook his head. 'Not yet. Turn right just ahead.'
'Constable…'
Lestrade shook his head, he was looking a bit green now. 'Don't. You'll know. If it happens. It's just ahead now.'
Mycroft studied the view through the windscreen. 'Mr Lestrade, there's nothing ahead.'
Lestrade spared him a look, there was something a bit like pity in it, and Mycroft regretted the words.
'Yes. Yes of course.' He kept his attention on the road.
When Lestrade commanded him to stop just before a rather pathetic looking stand of trees, he knew better than to question it. He opened the door for John, helped him find his balance as he clung to Sherlock's body, then found himself with an armful of unconscious swan while John strode up to a seemingly random sapling and gave it a savage yank, tearing it up by several roots so it hung precariously to lean against its neighbour.
Without a word, John returned and gently pulled Sherlock back into his arms. With Lestrade only a step behind, he stepped over the newly felled tree and vanished into the shadows beyond.
Mycroft forced himself not to hesitate and followed. He permitted himself half a second to blink at the hidden world on the other side, then joined John and Lestrade along what looked to be a very newly beaten footpath leading somewhere deep inside the forest.
~~~
Mike and Molly were already awaiting them when they crashed into the clearing. John barely noticed them, all of his focus set on the coal black mass of water in front of him. He wasted no time, but ran as fast as he dared to the shoreline where he fell to his knees and gently, so gently, lowered the swan into the water. Sherlock didn't move.
The lake healed. The lake kept him safe. If he knew anything, he knew that. He'd seen himself what Molly could do, how she protected him. She would do so now. She had to.
'Please.' He whispered. 'Please.'
And Molly was beside him, tears pouring from her eyes, her hand clutched over her heart. 'Oh, John.'
John looked up at her, saw her recoil from whatever look was on his face.
'Please.' He begged.
She closed her eyes and placed her free hand over Sherlock's wing. In the next moment, she was only water. A moment after that, she became a wave. It rose up and cocooned Sherlock's body. There was a flash of silver light, as though she'd drawn the moon into the lake with her, and the wave rolled back.
He heard Mycroft's indrawn breath and Mike's curse, but they didn't matter. Sherlock was lying in the water, soaked through, and completely human. John pulled him upright and pressed him close. His skin was cold, but that was probably from the water. Right?
John shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders, then held his breath and brought the tips of his first two fingers to the pulse point on Sherlock's neck. He had a brief flash of sinking his teeth lightly into that very flesh, of tasting the salt of it on his tongue, and he almost missed the faint, barely there flutter of Sherlock's pulse under his fingertips.
He drew in a sharp breath and licked his lips. Alive. Sherlock was alive!
'Molly!' He cried. 'Molly!'
Lestrade splashed into the water beside them just as Molly took shape.
'Kid?' Lestrade ran a hand over Sherlock's face, like a mother checking for fever. 'Sherlock?' He looked at Molly, his eyes wide.
Molly shook her head. 'I can't feel him either.'
John's heart skipped painfully. 'What does that mean?' He demanded.
'I don't know.' Molly answered. 'It's never--we could always feel it. But it's just…gone. Like he's missing.'
'You can heal him!' John insisted. 'You always do! He's still alive, can't you help him?!'
Molly gave him a pleading look. 'I am trying, John! I promise you. But I can't find what's wrong with him. It's not a wound I can heal with a touch, it's something inside of him. It's Jim's magic, hurting him where I can't reach!'
'He's dying!' John cried, and the word was like the first crack in a thin layer of ice. John felt his whole world shattering and crumbling around him as he realised it was true. Sherlock was dying in his arms and he could do nothing to stop it.
'Molls.' Lestrade said softly, one hand on Molly's shoulder. 'The house. The door.'
Molly looked at him, confused, then her eyes widened. 'Greg…I'm not--'
He shook his head. 'No, luv. Not your power. You.'
Molly's hand flew to her hair, which had gotten shorter since John saw her last. 'Do you think…?'
'We have to try.' Lestrade insisted. 'We can't lose him, Moll. You feel it, too. It's ripping at you same as me.'
Molly closed her eyes and nodded. She ran a tress through her fingers. 'It's not enough.' She whispered. 'But I think I know another way.' She looked up at Lestrade imploringly.
He nodded and stood, hurrying to Sherlock's shelter. He appeared again a moment later, a plastic bowl in his hand, and hurried to give it to Molly.
'Pull him clear of the water.' She said. 'I haven't got the strength to be delicate about this.'
John did as he was told, pulling Sherlock into his lap so he was at least partially on dry land. Molly reached confidently into the water and pulled out a thin, jagged stone not yet worn smooth by the force of the lake. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and ran the stone over the pale skin of her arm, drawing a long slice through the flesh.
'Molly!'
'Don't argue, Greg.' She bit out. She tossed the stone aside and held the bowl under the cut, letting blood flow freely from her body into the container. She waited until she'd collected a decent amount, then dropped her bleeding arm into the water. When it re-emerged, there wasn't so much as a scar to betray where the cut had been.
She held out the bowl to John, and he stared at it, unable to move.
'Just water.' She assured him. 'Take it.'
He reached out and took the bowl. The moment it passed the shoreline, the thick blood became clear water, sloshing gently against the sides.
'All of it.' Mycroft knelt behind John, close enough to feel but not touching. 'To be safe.'
John shook his head. 'Nothing about this is safe, Mycroft.' He whispered, but he tilted Sherlock's head slightly upright and brought the bowl to his lips. Lestrade helped get Sherlock's lips and teeth apart, and John managed to pour in the first bit of water with very little spilling.
It took a moment, one very tense and breathless moment, but eventually Sherlock's throat contracted and he swallowed the water reflexively. John tried again, and Sherlock took it a bit more quickly this time.
Slowly, methodically, Sherlock drank the water that had been Molly's blood. John fancied he could almost see it coursing inside of Sherlock's body, waging war with whatever Moriarty had put in him, whatever insubstantial poison was killing him.
When the water was gone, they waited in silence, John holding Sherlock so tightly it must've hurt, if Sherlock were present enough to notice. Long moments passed, and Sherlock never moved, barely even breathed.
'Come on.' John breathed. 'Come on. Wake up. Please. Sherlock, fight this! I know you can. Fuck, you're so strong. Look what you've been through, all you've survived. You can't let this beat you, you can't!' He buried his face in Sherlock's shirt, felt the water soaking into his skin. 'Please, Sherlock! You can't leave me like this. You promised me. You said we'd have a lifetime. Please, love, I can't do this alone. Sherlock! Sherlock!'
Silence fell, and nothing changed. For a moment, John feared they were too late, that Sherlock had passed beyond some threshold and couldn't be saved.
Then Sherlock's entire body spasmed, arching bow-like in John's arms, and Sherlock drew in a deep, ragged gasp. His eyes shot open and his hands scrambled at the ground, clawing at the dirt and stones.
Sherlock gasped again, and writhed in John's grip so hard he broke free and tumbled sidelong into the shallow water. He started making noises, halfway between heaving and screams, and retched dryly with one hand clutching his stomach, the other grasping desperately at weeds, stones, anything within reach.
'Sherlock!' John tried to reach out to him, but Sherlock flinched away and continued to convulse.
Lestrade and Molly looked in horror, and Mike stumbled away. Only Mycroft came closer, slid beside his brother, somehow managed to snake his arms around Sherlock's spasming abdomen and gently pulled him upright to his back was to Mycroft's chest.
Mycroft wrapped one arm around Sherlock's chest, the other around his belly, and spoke quietly into Sherlock's ear.
'Ride it out. Easy. Just breathe, Sherlock, breathe and maintain focus. Keep calm. Don't panic, petit, I've got you. You're secure.'
John had never heard anyone use that term but Vienne. It was the only thing close to an endearment that Sherlock would tolerate, and only from his mother. Even John would never dream of saying it.
But Sherlock's bucking and flailing began to slow, and his breathing started to even, and soon he went slack in his brother's arms, listless and weak, his convulsions reduced to twitches in his muscles. His eyes were closed, his head lolling back to rest on Mycroft's shoulder.
'How did you know it would work?' Lestrade asked. 'Christ, I thought it was killing him!'
Molly paled and shrank away, and Lestrade reached out to pull her back to him. 'No, no, don't. He's okay, see?'
'I didn't.' Mycroft admitted. 'I hoped. I didn't want him to hurt himself unduly.'
'John…'
Sherlock's voice was weak, barely more than an exhale. John moved over to the Holmes brothers and let Sherlock pitch forward to slump against him. He reached down to collect the jacket Sherlock had thrown off in his fit and wrapped it around the trembling shoulders again.
'Oh, God Sherlock.' He whispered. 'I'm so sorry. I tried to stop him, I didn't want to--'
'Shhh…' It was barely loud enough to hear, but John shut up. 'Saw. Know.'
'Sherlock, I--'
'Hurts.' His voice was a bit stronger now, but still strained. 'Inside. Burning.'
Molly let out a noise but quickly stifled it. She clasped her hands over her mouth. There were tears streaming from her eyes. John glanced over to Lestrade, and he looked much the same.
Sherlock reached out a shaky arm in their direction. Molly reached him first, and he took her hand in a death grip, his hand trembling so badly it shook her whole arm. Lestrade reached him a moment later and wrapped his hand around both of theirs where they rested in Molly's lap.
'Lost you.' Sherlock managed. 'So empty.'
'Shush.' Molly soothed. 'We know. Don't try to speak.'
Sherlock whimpered, burying his face in John's neck. Both Molly and Lestrade's faces smoothed, and they donned identical expressions of relief and regret, and John wondered what silent message was passing between them. He didn't ask, though. Probably he never would.
'What happened?' Molly asked, looking at John.
John closed his eyes. 'Moran. I couldn't fight him.'
'He kissed you.'
John nodded. 'I couldn't--'
'You didn't kiss him.' Sherlock said, his voice much stronger though his body was still very limp.
'Does that matter?' John asked.
Sherlock's nod was loose and clumsy. 'I'm not dead.' He said. 'Looks like it does.'
'Sherlock,' Mycroft spoke calmly but insistently. 'We need to get you free of here. It's become clear that James Moriarty wants you dead. You cannot remain at this lake.'
Sherlock shook his head. 'Can't. I'm still under the spell.'
John clenched his jaw. 'I did it, though!' He snarled. 'I made the vow. I did everything! It was all for you! I did it for you!'
'But not to me.' Sherlock told him. 'To Sebastian Moran.'
'He looked like you, Sherlock! I thought I was talking to you! Doesn't that count for anything?'
Sherlock hissed through his teeth and arched his back, his fingers tightening around Molly's so much it made her wince and bite back a shout.
'I can still feel them.' He gasped. 'In my head.' He rolled his eyes to focus on his fellow prisoners. 'Stop worrying so much, you're giving me a headache. It'll pass. It's better already.'
'Sherlock, what more can I do?' John asked. 'What if we bring you back to the Queen's House?'
'No time. Sunrise. I can already feel it.'
John paled. 'We need to get you back into the water.'
Sherlock smiled thinly at him. 'Not yet. There's a little time still.'
'No there isn't.'
They all looked up at the sound of Mike's voice, and there were Moriarty and Moran atop the hill, making their way down to the lake.
~~~
Chapter Nineteen