Heart and Soul - Supernatural/Sherlock BBC - Act Two
<-- Act One |
| Masterpost |
Act Two: In which Mycroft Holmes is not what you think he is.
April 3 - TWO
The clock in the kitchen read 5:36 when John slipped downstairs, shoes in hand, and oh-so-carefully extracted the duffel bag of weaponry from under the sofa, where Clara was curled up under one of Mrs. Hudson's afghans. He edged around Harry, snoring and sprawled out across half the sitting room floor, and snuck out onto the landing outside 221b. With out-of-practise silence, he put on his shoes and hurried down the stairs and through the hallway that led to the front door.
The city was still sleeping, darkness blanketing it like a soft shroud. The air was thick and heavy, the far-off sounds of Central London's nightlife muffled to John's ears as he strolled down the block to find a cab.
It was six o'clock before he arrived at Mycroft's office, the monotonously imposing governmental buildings looming over his head all up and down the street. The first gray fingers of dawn were just stretching into the sky, but he knew Mycroft -- or the thing inside him -- would be hard at work already. He always was, it seemed, and anyway, demons didn't sleep.
He took a gulp of the cool morning air before stepping through the doors and into the sleek, modern lobby. It was empty, elaborate marble beams curving stylishly far above his head, and his footsteps echoed horribly loudly off the flagstones and arched ceiling. It didn't strike him until he was halfway to the elevator that there was no security at all. Suspicious, yes, but considering he had a shotgun in his duffel bag he decided it was best not to dwell on it and turned towards the stairs.
Once on the fifth floor, he had to pause to get his bearings, recalling the twists and turns he had taken from this point the last time he visited Mycroft. It took several minutes of muttering to himself, during which he was even more grateful that the building was practically deserted, but he found the right office eventually, door unmarked and unnumbered. The secretary's desk was empty, but the inner door was ajar, so -- feet silent on the plush carpeting, moving on the balls of his feet just as Harry had taught him -- he let himself in.
Mycroft looked up from his paperwork, and to John's satisfaction a look of what seemed to be genuine surprise briefly passed over his face. "Dr. Watson," he said courteously, quickly regaining his composure. "What brings you here so early?"
"I just wanted to give you something," John said flatly, reaching into his bag as he stepped towards the desk. In a sudden burst of movement, he spilled an open bottle of holy water over the government official's head and drew his shotgun, leveling it with expert hands.
Mycroft hardly reacted, reaching an immaculately manicured hand up to touch the water dripping from his now rather less well-styled hair. There was a suspicious lack of pain and burning happening across the desk, and John's heart clenched. Was this type of demon immune to holy water? Could Mycroft really be that powerful?
With a slight smile, Mycroft stood, hardly seeming to notice the water now soaking into his obscenely expensive-looking leather chair and staining the surface of his mahogany desktop. With a blink, he was instantly dry again.
"I was wondering when you were going to figure me out," he said, inclining his head in John's direction. "I regret to tell you, though, that you do have one thing wrong."
John blinked. He still held the shotgun trained and loaded, though he wasn't sure any more how much good a salt round would do. He very determinedly kept his voice steady. "Oh?"
"Yes. You see, Dr. Watson, I'm not a demon. Quite the opposite, in fact. I'm an angel."
*
Harry woke the next morning to find that she had rolled out from under her borrowed blanket sometime in the night. Groping about blindly for it, her fingers encountered a cool sheet of paper and she drew it towards her, eyes flicking open to read the hasty note in John's easily recognizable scrawl.
Harry,
I'm not getting you two involved in this. If we're lucky, he doesn't know who you are and I want to keep it that way. Don't come after me, don't let Sherlock come after me, and don't do anything stupid. I'll be home soon.
John
P.S. Took your mobile. I'll try not to get this one stepped on.
"You idiot," she growled uselessly at the paper. On the sofa, Clara stirred.
"Who, me?" she mumbled sleepily, reaching out a hand for the note. Harry huffed and passed it over. Clara opened one eye to peer at it, then both, wide awake as she sat up. "That moron," she agreed, frowning. "If the bastard's got half as much influence as John says he has he knew everything about us before we even got here."
"John's gone to see Mycroft," came a voice from the doorway. It wasn't a question. Clara lifted her head and Harry turned to see Sherlock, still in the rumpled clothes of last night, with a bandage wrapped almost comically over his dark curls. "Mycroft is," and here he paused, seeming to repress a wave of dizziness. "Not what I thought he was," he finished finally, white-knuckling the doorframe.
"About right, yeah," Harry said bluntly. Sherlock released the doorframe and slumped into the nearest armchair, head tilting back to look at the ceiling. The hunters' eyes followed his, to the code still inked untidily on the plaster.
"It was a warning," Sherlock said without prompting. "About Mycroft. 'Beware Big Brother.' And the oil." He lowered his gaze again, studying each of the women in turn. "You know what it is? No. But you know more than you're telling. John, too. He wouldn't have gone alone if--" He stopped, seeming to lapse into thought.
Harry and Clara exchanged looks. "He'll be back soon," Harry said finally, leaning back into Clara's legs. "He can take care of himself, our John."
*
“There’s no such thing as angels.” John’s voice fell flat even to his own ears.
“We’ve been very careful to hide our existence from humankind,” Mycroft said calmly. “Ever since the dreadful business with that poor French girl. And, as they say, there are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
“But, angels,” John protested, not entirely sure what he was protesting. “It’s just -- that’s -- it’s bollocks, is what it is.”
Without warning, Mycroft was suddenly standing not two inches away, toe to toe with John. “Bollocks, is it?” The angel -- for that was certainly what he was, whether or not John allowed himself to believe it -- was still smiling faintly, in a condescending manner that seemed to say, Look how clever the dog is, it’s learned to roll over.
“I, er--” Suddenly finding himself accepting the existence of angels, John was faced with the dilemma of how to speak to one. Surely there was some biblical law about bowing and scraping in the presence of one of God’s holy messengers? “But, how?”
“How am I standing here without burning you up from the inside out? Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft -- the thing inside him -- flicked an invisible speck of dirt from his sleeve. “I asked him to lend me the use of his body. He kindly agreed. I don’t think either of us expected things to take so long.”
“You’re . . . possessing him?” John was suddenly filled with disgust. “How long?”
The angel at least had the decency to look faintly guilty. “Approximately twenty-seven of your years.”
“Twenty-sev-- Jesus.” John let out a shocked breath. “And he’s still in there with you?”
“In a sense.”
“Poor bastard.” John shook his head. He hadn’t been expecting to meet an angel in his lifetime, but if he had he wouldn’t have expected him to be like this. “Sherlock doesn’t know?”
“I believe he’s always suspected that his brother was not himself, but no, he knows nothing of Heaven, and I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”
"Why do you care?"
"John. You know my brother very nearly as well as I do." The careful use of the word "brother" wasn't lost on John. "If he were to discover the supernatural, do you imagine he'd take any basic precautions without scientific proof of its existence? Even if he were to survive, the discovery of something so inexplicable, completely unquantifiable in any human terms, don't you think it could destroy him? And I must say, I have grown rather . . . fond of Sherlock over the years."
John's mouth twisted with uncertainty. On the one hand, Mycroft had just applied the very arguments John had been giving to himself for six months. On the other, it didn't sit particularly well with his conscience to keep something this personal from his best friend. To cover up his hesitation, though he doubted he did a very good job of it, he said, "So what's so difficult that it takes an angel of God twenty-seven years to finish?"
"Heaven is at war."
"With Hell?"
Mycroft smiled blandly. "Who else?"
John looked back at him, equally blank. Mycroft studied him for a moment longer and continued, "The Antichrist is on Earth. In London, specifically."
"Of course," John muttered under his breath. "So the Antichrist is -- what, half-demon, out to destroy humanity?"
"No, nothing so straightforward, I'm afraid." Hands clasped behind his back, Mycroft turned to stare out the window at the still-dark skyline of western London. "You see, angelic possession, for want of a better term, is not nearly so simple as it is for demons. We require vessels of certain bloodlines, and permission before entering. And Lucifer, for all his ill repute, is still an angel. As is Michael. The Antichrist is the potential vessel of both."
Very slowly, John let the shotgun barrel drift towards the floor as he thought. "The Apocalypse, then."
"Yes."
"That's a new one."
Though John couldn't see it, Mycroft smiled. "Not really."
John wisely decided to let that one pass. "And the jug Sherlock found on the doorstep?"
"An amphora of holy oil. Likely left as a warning by a demon, though how he got hold of it I shudder to think."
"Right." John shook his head, still rather occupied with digesting the concept of actual angels. "I'll be going now." He began to back towards the door, unwilling to turn his back.
"A car will take you home."
"No," John said quite firmly. "The Tube's open by now. I'll walk." Halfway out the door, he paused to add, "The Antichrist. Do you know who he is?"
There was a long pause, which John interpreted as a yes. "Good-bye, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said finally. John left.
*
It was seven o'clock, and the city was just starting to wake up, early-bird commuters making the streets full but not enough of them yet to clog up the works. John walked at a leisurely pace, his mind full of angels and demons. He didn't quite trust Mycroft -- well, the angel, but for sanity's sake John decided to continue calling it by its vessel's name -- but what experienced hunter would, after all? (He wasn't a hunter, though, he continued to remind himself firmly. Not for years, and not now either.) But despite that, the urgency that had been churning in his stomach since Lestrade's drunken blabbing last night had finally abated. His best friend's brother was not in the hands of demons, he thought with relief. The world's entire system of government was also not in the hands of demons. The latter was probably more important.
He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he nearly didn't notice the sound like sunlight screaming that came from behind him, or the blinding white light that lit up the whole street. He turned just in time to see a woman crumple to the ground, a bloody gash across her throat. Burnt black wings stretched across the pavement from either shoulder. Behind the woman -- an angel, now dead, John could only presume -- stood a man with a bloody silver knife gripped loosely in his hand, in a suit so sharp it could cut corners.
"We haven't met," the man said, with a friendly smile that seemed to belie the dead body at his feet, "but I think you've heard of me. My name is Moriarty." With a distasteful look at the bloody blade he held, he knelt to wipe it clean on the dead woman's jacket. "Much better," he said, tucking the knife safely away. He looked up again to see John's shotgun pointed at his heart.
"This is loaded with rock salt," John warned, though with all the confusion lately he wasn't even sure it would do any good. He tried not to let it show.
"John, John." With a wave of Moriarty's hand, the gun went clattering onto the pavement. "I'm disappointed. Do you really think that would be enough for me?" With another smile, this one rather colder, his eyes flickered black.
It suddenly occurred to John that they were standing in the middle of Central London's morning commute with a dead body at their feet and nobody had said a word. He glanced sideways at the passersby, but their eyes slid right over him, and they stepped around him with unerring precision, seeming not to notice.
"Oh, them," Moriarty said dismissively, sharp eyes missing nothing. "Humans. So easy to fool. Bend a light wave here, send out a subconscious avoidance message there, and voila! Your very own duckblind.
"Now, about your fine feathered friend Adriel. Though, he goes by Mycroft these days, doesn't he? He's the one that sent this little birdie after you, you know. Question is, though, was it to protect you?" The demon shrugged. "Unlikely. You're only a man. Was it to spy on you? But no," he added with mock surprise, as if the idea had only just occurred to him, "he's got all his fun little toys for that, hasn't he?" Moriarty rolled his eyes at the security camera perched on a building opposite. "So, what could it be?" He spent a moment "thinking", furrowing his brow and exaggerating a bemused expression. The final option was obvious, even to John, and the demon seemed to know it, merely shrugging and moving the topic along. "Anyway, he's told you everything, has he? Given the cat away, game's out of the bag, whatever the kids are calling it these days. Such a shame, I had a nice long speech all planned out for you. Oh well. Chop chop, Johnny, we've got a schedule to keep." He moved. John tried to dodge, but Moriarty was faster. A viselike grip closed on his wrist, and he felt himself sucked into blackness.
*
Sherlock grabbed the mobile impatiently from Clara's hands, calling yet again the contact marked "Harry".
"I'm telling you, Sherlock, he's not answering," Clara said, a hint of impatience creeping into her voice.
"It's noon," Sherlock insisted, throwing the phone down in frustration. "He should have been back hours ago."
"We know." Harry was at the desk, furiously cleaning, assembling, and then disassembling all her guns in turn. "You've been telling us that for hours."
"I'm calling Mycroft," Sherlock declared, reaching for the phone again, but Clara snatched it out of his reach.
"Absolutely not," she said firmly. "That's the last thing we want to do."
Sherlock glared at her for a moment before finally sinking back into his armchair. "You're right," he conceded reluctantly, looking as though the words left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. "We don't want him to know we know."
"Exactly." Harry slammed the clip into her Sig and tucked the handgun under her belt. "I know you're brilliant and all, but leave this to us, okay? We've done this before."
Sherlock's metaphorical ears seemed to prick, and he studied her with interest. "Have you?"
Harry seemed to realize she'd said too much, looking to Clara for assistance. Clara shrugged helplessly.
"What?" Sherlock demanded, leaning forward. "What is it you're not telling me?" He punched the arm of his chair, frustrated that he could quite seem to grasp it. There was something off-kilter, a place where the puzzle pieces of facts didn't quite slot together. And on top of it all John wasn't there to talk things out to. Well, he'd give it a shot. "You're fighters, the both of you. You were raised into it. Not military, you haven't been trained as soldiers. Your weapons are unconventional, even handmade. Both raised by single mothers, met when you were teenagers, no, early twenties. Coworkers, unconventional occupation. Something dangerous. John was in it too, before he quit. No permanent residence for a long time, but Harry is more used to it than Clara. You've been together on and off for several years, got a civil partnership a few years ago but annulled it quite recently, which is why John didn't know about it. Possibly because of Harry's drinking but more likely the catalyst that caused John to leave and join the army. A death? Yes, someone you were all close to. Preventable, theoretically, though no one's fault. Another coworker? No, there's not enough of a hole in your interactions. A parental figure, then, someone who--"
"Stop it," Clara broke in sharply. Sherlock was impressed, very few people allowed him to go on for so long before cutting him off. Harry was tightly gripping the barrel of her dissembled shotgun, seeming to have forgotten the cleaning rag hanging out the end.
"Then tell me," Sherlock growled, tearing the bandage from his head and throwing it to one side. "Or I'll go out and find John by myself."
Harry and Clara exchanged cryptic looks. "Should we tell him?" Clara asked, seeming torn.
"John didn't want him to know," Harry reminded her, looking very much as if she agreed with the sentiment.
"Yeah, but he's clever, and he knows the city better than we do."
"He's also annoying as shit."
"I'm sitting right here," Sherlock reminded them. Both women ignored him.
"He could help."
"We're just going to tell him everything?"
Clara shrugged.
Harry let out a heavy sigh. "Right. You." She jabbed the shotgun barrel still in her hand in Sherlock's general direction. "Demons are real, we fight them, your brother is one. Any questions?"
Sherlock's eyes briefly glazed over as he retreated to his mind palace, fitting in this last unlikely puzzle piece to the assembly of previously gathered facts. It fit like a glove, which to be honest was a phrase he had never really understood. "No," he said, pulling himself back to the sitting room.
Harry frowned. "Wait, really? Usually people start researching the nearest crazyhouse right about now."
"When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock leaned back in his chair, mind racing as he fit new facts into old ideas. "I've never seen any proof that demons do or do not exist. Why would I assume that they don't?"
Clara whistled. "I'm starting to get what John sees in this guy."
"I do have one question, though," Sherlock added. "If there are demons, does that mean angels exist as well?"
Harry and Clara exchanged startled glances. "Of course not," Harry said, rolling her eyes. "Don't be stupid. Come on, I'll teach you the basics."
*
As annoying as Sherlock was, Harry had to admit he was a quick study. In the hour or so since Clara had left to look for any trace of John, he'd already committed all the exorcisms and holy water blessings she knew to memory, and he had the layout of seven different Devil's traps down pat. She was just showing him how to pack salt rounds when the sound of a single pair of feet on the stairs made them pause.
"She didn't find him," Harry said, without much surprise. Sherlock scowled at the empty metal casings in front of him.
The door opened, and Clara stepped through, disappointment written across her face. "No luck," she said, shaking her head. "It was a long shot, anyway," but the encouraging addition didn't cheer anyone up.
"Right," Sherlock said, standing. "I'm going to talk to Mycroft."
"I'm going with you," Harry agreed, shoulders set in determination.
"You're both crazy," Clara said, but she reached for the nearest gun nevertheless. "You said he was practically the British government. We can't take on the British government with three people."
"Three people and a skull," Harry said, pointing at the mantelpiece.
Clara grinned. "Oh, well then. How can we fail? Count me in."
*
"This is it," Sherlock said, already halfway to the front door. Clara grabbed his arm and pulled him back to the curb before turning to Harry, who was studying the layout of the building with expert eyes.
"What do you think?"
"Two exits, lobby full of civilians," Harry observed. "Two staircases and an elevator."
"Let's go," Sherlock said crossly, tugging ineffectually at Clara's surprisingly strong grip on his wrist. They'd let him carry the bag with the salt guns, if only because the security knew him and was less likely to search him, and the weight dragged down at him, knowing he should be helping John with them instead of just lugging them about.
"I say we go in the back door and up the back staircase," Clara said, ignoring him. "Sherlock can get us into Mycroft's office. Jesus, Harry, this is the craziest thing we've ever done."
"It's the last place we know John went," Harry insisted, though all three knew that this was reckless beyond belief. "We going or what?"
They circled around to the back of the building. It was locked, but Sherlock had the key, and had it open in a moment. They were moving on stealth now, and Harry cast a meaningful glance at Clara, who nodded and pulled a can of spraypaint from under her jacket. She tilted her head back to study the ceiling, looking for the optimal spot to place a Devil's trap. Sherlock tapped her shoulder to get her attention and pointed at a particular patch of ceiling that would be easy to reach with the paint while forcing all but the smallest demon to cross it when going up or down the stairs. Clara nodded in thanks and then glanced at Harry, who knelt to give her a boost. One quick vandalism later and they had a functional Devil's trap blocking the way. With the grace of a particularly quiet cat, Clara stepped down from her living stepladder and they continued up the stairs.
The halls were strangely empty for a government building in the middle of the afternoon on a Friday. Harry's eyes darted from side to side warily, but Clara was staring straight ahead, back upright. Sherlock was impressed; she looked the very model of a government employee, if underdressed.
"This one," he said, pointing to an unmarked door before pushing it open and flouncing inside. He made for the inner door without even sparing a glance for the secretary typing away at her desk.
"I'm sorry, sir, Mr. Holmes isn't in right now," she called after him.
"Of course he is, he's always in." Sherlock marched into Mycroft's office, prepared to either demand an explanation or pull out one of the shotguns in his bag -- whichever the situation required -- but was surprised to find it actually empty, as the secretary had warned. Harry and Clara piled up in the doorway behind him, tripping over the unexpected stop.
"What?" Clara asked, poking Harry irritably in the back. "You're too tall, the both of you."
"He's not here," Sherlock growled, shoving his way back out into the secretary's office. Without looking up from her desk, she smiled slightly, managing to look as if it were only just beyond her dignity to burst out with an "I told you so".
"Okay," Clara said as they returned to the hallway, putting in a valiant effort not to look too crestfallen. "Plan B."
"We have a Plan B?" Harry wondered, for a moment no longer looking as if she were about to punch a wall.
Clara smiled a little grimly. "We do now."
*
"All right." Clara spilled her armful of books across the desk. "It's in here somewhere, so let's start looking."
"What exactly are we looking for?" Harry wondered, pulling one of the leather-bound volumes towards herself. Sherlock had already seized a book of his own and was flipping through it greedily.
"A ritual." Clara's grin was half-mad and more than a little giddy as she began skimming pages. "The most powerful one Mom had."
"Your mother was a witch," Sherlock observed, nose still buried in his book. "As are you."
"Only part-time. Look for a ritual called Invoco Mortem."
"Summoning Death?" Sherlock translated, looking far too excited at the prospect.
Clara shrugged. "He's bound to know where John is."
"And something big's definitely going down," Harry said, feeling a swell of pride in her chest for her partner's brilliance. "Demons don't call this much attention to themselves without a reason. Whatever it is, having the incarnation of Death on our side can't hurt."
"As long as we don't piss him off," Clara laughed nervously, and returned to her reading.
They sat in silence for several minutes, the only sound the turning of dry, old pages.
"Found it," Harry announced triumphantly, slapping her hand down on the page. Clara snatched the book from her and gave the ritual a quick scan, making a mental checklist of supplies.
"Pretty standard stuff," she said thoughtfully. "I think we've got almost everything in the car. No, hang on." She got up and brought down the skull from the mantelpiece. "Can I borrow this?"
Sherlock grinned almost as widely as the skull.
*
"Invoco mortem," Clara chanted, her voice like black silk, "Te in mea potestate. Defixi. Nunc et in aeturnum." She nodded at Sherlock, who leaned forward to light the incense right on cue. There was a flash, and where the bowl had been there stood a pale man, tall and thin, with a silver-headed cane gripped in his skeletal hands.
"Oh, not again," he said.
"Death?" Clara said carefully. He fixed his black gaze on her, and she felt her knees tremble a little as her feet froze in place with the force behind it.
"You're the one that summoned me, are you." It wasn't a question, but the weary irritation in his voice was obvious. "Well, what is it you want? Shall I go kill someone you have a petty grudge against?"
"We want you to find my brother," Harry said loudly, arms crossed. He turned his gaze to her and Clara felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders, stumbling a little and breathing in deeply.
"Your brother." Death seemed fractionally less bored with the whole ordeal. "A name would help."
Sherlock stepped in boldly. "John Watson."
Death turned to him now, and it may have been Clara's imagination but she could have sworn that -- just for a moment -- the Horseman was startled.
"He's being held in a warehouse," Death said finally, though the gaze he had fixed on Sherlock was less annoyed and more fascinated. "At Warbank Crescent and Valentyne Close in New Addington. Now, if you could." He held out his wrist, where an iron shackle flickered in and out of view.
"You're not going to kill us, are you?" Harry asked warily.
If Death had been less dignified he might have rolled his eyes. "Death's honor."
Clara nodded and consulted the book still held in her hands. She muttered the reverse incantation and the shackle disappeared, along with the Horseman himself a moment later.
"Well?" Sherlock said, already zooming in to the location on his phone. "Let's go."
*
"Okay," Harry said, handing out the guns. "I'll take point. Clara, with me. Sherlock, stay at the door and keep watch."
"No."
Harry frowned. "Excuse me?"
"I'm going in," Sherlock declared. "I have the building blueprints memorized and I know how to shoot a gun." He didn't add John's in there, but he may as well have.
Harry scowled. "Look, Holmes, you may be a genius, but--"
"Harry." Clara broke in, shaking her head. "It's all right. I'll keep watch. Sherlock can go in with you."
"Fine." Harry threw up her hands in defeat. "Sherlock and I are going in. Clara, make sure no one but us gets in or out.
"You stay behind me," she warned, turning to Sherlock. "Don't shoot until I do, don't speak, and follow my lead."
"Fine." It was a mark of how anxious he was to get into the warehouse that he didn't stop to argue his orders, though how closely he'd follow them was anyone's guess.
Harry and Clara took out the single demon at the door with practised stealth, a good blow to the head, and a hastily muttered exorcism. "Okay," Harry said, her eyes already a little brighter with the promise of a fight. "Sherlock?"
"Ready." He checked his weapon and nodded, shoulders squared in determination. Very carefully, Harry nudged the door open and slipped inside. Sherlock followed, and then Clara, who propped it slightly ajar behind her. She stood with her back to it, eyes skimming across the interior of the warehouse.
It was all one room -- more of a pit, really -- with the main space a full story below ground level. The door they had entered through opened onto a narrow metal walkway stretching around the entire perimeter of the warehouse. The space was dim and nearly empty, but for John tied to a chair dead center and a handful of demons standing around looking bored.
Harry and Sherlock were already halfway down the metal stairs, and Clara couldn't tell if the demons hadn't noticed them yet or if they were just waiting for the enemy to reach them before attacking. She leaned forward slightly, straining to see better in the dim light, when suddenly a soft hand slipped over her mouth, and a not-so-soft knife was tucked under her chin.
"Hello, Clara, dear," a horribly familiar voice said cheerfully into her ear. "It's me! Long time no see." Her muscles tensed, heart pounding, but he tilted the blade a little closer to her jugular and she stayed very still. "Do me a favor, will you? Don't move, don't speak." The hand and knife disappeared, and the man they belonged to stepped around into her line of vision.
He looked exactly the same as she remembered: a pressed suit, a hint of a smirk lingering about his mouth, and eyes so dark that the only change when they flickered black was the whites. She tried to take a step back, but found her muscles locked in place. What do you want? she tried to say, but found her throat frozen too.
Moriarty smiled in satisfaction. "Ten minutes should do, I think." He sauntered towards the stairs, a man with all the time in the world, but the knife gleamed dangerously in his hand, and Harry and Sherlock had their backs to him as they tried to work out the best way to untie a half-conscious John. Half a dozen more demons slipped soundlessly past Clara, leering silently at her where she stood, and followed their boss down the stairs.
The fight happened exactly as expected, and Clara quickly realized that Moriarty had positioned her there on purpose, forcing her to watch everything as the events unfolded. She wasn't sure she'd have been able to tear her eyes away even if she hadn't been frozen.
She caught a glimpse of Harry, lying in a pool of what seemed to be both demon blood and her own, and the very sight caused bile to rise in her throat. John was on his feet but woozy, one arm dangling limp by his side. The other hand was armed with a broken knife that he wielded with obvious skill, but he wouldn't be able to hold off six demons for long. They were already fanning out, circling to get around behind him. So caught up in the action was Clara that she failed to notice Moriarty and Sherlock melt into the shadows on the far side of the warehouse.
*
"Sherlock," the demon nearly purred. "Join me."
The wall was pressed against Sherlock's back, the demon leaning so close that he could feel warm breath on his face.
"Those people you came here with, they don't care about you. They think you're weak, they think they're better than you. They wanted to leave you behind. Clara up there, she let me walk right past her. Didn't even say a word."
If he strained his eyes, Sherlock could just make out a figure near the door, watching the fight going on below her without reaction. But no, something was wrong there.
"John trusts her," Sherlock said slowly.
"John, John, John!" The demon threw up his hands, turning away in disgust. "You're so enamored with your little pet. But he'll get bored of you. He'll get tired of praising you and picking up after you, and he'll leave. That's what people do, isn't it? They leave. They always leave."
Sherlock said nothing.
"Do you really think he cares for you? He's been keeping secrets from you all this time. He lies to you -- you, the great Sherlock Holmes -- and you're so caught up in him you don't even notice. He never told you about his past; you had to force it out of his sister. Ask yourself, why wouldn't he tell you? Why would he bury it so far down that even you couldn't dig it out? Is it that he doesn't trust you, or that he just. Doesn't. Care."
For the first time in a long time, doubt lodged itself in Sherlock's throat. "He had his reasons," he said, but it sounded unconvincing even to himself.
"I'm sure he did, Sherlock," the demon called Moriarty said soothingly, condescendingly. "But do you really want to stick around and find out what those reasons were? Come with me. I won't lie to you, Sherlock, not like he did. I can give you puzzles, interesting ones. You'll never have to be bored again."
Sherlock hesitated. "I--"
Twin beams of light shot out suddenly from the melée in the center of the warehouse, cutting briefly across the shadows that obscured Moriarty's face. Sherlock switched his gaze just in time to see two demons crumple, and a man standing over them with a palm against each of their foreheads. Moriarty whirled, mouth just opening in surprise and, yes, fear.
"Damn," he said, and vanished.
Before Sherlock could react, the stranger had disposed of the remaining demons the same way, placing a hand on their foreheads and forcing light out through their eyes and mouth. It might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn the man moved from place to place without walking.
"And that's how it's done, folks," the stranger announced to the room at large. Only then did he seem to notice Harry on the ground by his feet. He made as if to step towards her, but John's face twisted into a feral snarl as he leaned protectively over his sister with knife in hand.
"Get away from her, demon!" he spat.
The stranger looked affronted. "Actually, I'm an angel."
"I don't bloody care what you are, just keep your fucking hands off her!"
In a detached sort of way, like a spectator to a sports match (dull, so very dull) Sherlock took note of John's tendency to use more vulgar expressions when under adrenaline-fueled stress.
"FYI, bucko, I'm on your side." John's blade was suddenly in the stranger's hand, whole and pointed safely at the floor. "Your sister's sleeping now. She's perfectly fine." He offered the knife back handle-first, one eyebrow raised. John took it warily but didn't put it away.
Suddenly the stranger's eyes flickered up to the catwalk and he snapped his fingers. "Hey you up there. You can move now. Come on down." Footsteps echoed on the metal stairs and Clara emerged into the light, shotgun leveled.
"I have him covered," she said, voice wavering a little. "John, check her pulse."
Keeping his eyes on the stranger, John crouched to touch two fingers to the base of Harry's jaw. "It's steady," he reported after a moment, and stood warily.
The stranger rolled his eyes. "I told you, she's fine."
"But who are you?" Sherlock asked, stepping forward.
"Oh, sorry. I thought you might know." The man pulled a sweet from his pocket and tossed it into his mouth. The wrapper seemed to vanish on the way. "They call me Gabriel. Sorry you had to start the Apocalypse without me."
| Act Three -->
| Masterpost |
Act Two: In which Mycroft Holmes is not what you think he is.
April 3 - TWO
The clock in the kitchen read 5:36 when John slipped downstairs, shoes in hand, and oh-so-carefully extracted the duffel bag of weaponry from under the sofa, where Clara was curled up under one of Mrs. Hudson's afghans. He edged around Harry, snoring and sprawled out across half the sitting room floor, and snuck out onto the landing outside 221b. With out-of-practise silence, he put on his shoes and hurried down the stairs and through the hallway that led to the front door.
The city was still sleeping, darkness blanketing it like a soft shroud. The air was thick and heavy, the far-off sounds of Central London's nightlife muffled to John's ears as he strolled down the block to find a cab.
It was six o'clock before he arrived at Mycroft's office, the monotonously imposing governmental buildings looming over his head all up and down the street. The first gray fingers of dawn were just stretching into the sky, but he knew Mycroft -- or the thing inside him -- would be hard at work already. He always was, it seemed, and anyway, demons didn't sleep.
He took a gulp of the cool morning air before stepping through the doors and into the sleek, modern lobby. It was empty, elaborate marble beams curving stylishly far above his head, and his footsteps echoed horribly loudly off the flagstones and arched ceiling. It didn't strike him until he was halfway to the elevator that there was no security at all. Suspicious, yes, but considering he had a shotgun in his duffel bag he decided it was best not to dwell on it and turned towards the stairs.
Once on the fifth floor, he had to pause to get his bearings, recalling the twists and turns he had taken from this point the last time he visited Mycroft. It took several minutes of muttering to himself, during which he was even more grateful that the building was practically deserted, but he found the right office eventually, door unmarked and unnumbered. The secretary's desk was empty, but the inner door was ajar, so -- feet silent on the plush carpeting, moving on the balls of his feet just as Harry had taught him -- he let himself in.
Mycroft looked up from his paperwork, and to John's satisfaction a look of what seemed to be genuine surprise briefly passed over his face. "Dr. Watson," he said courteously, quickly regaining his composure. "What brings you here so early?"
"I just wanted to give you something," John said flatly, reaching into his bag as he stepped towards the desk. In a sudden burst of movement, he spilled an open bottle of holy water over the government official's head and drew his shotgun, leveling it with expert hands.
Mycroft hardly reacted, reaching an immaculately manicured hand up to touch the water dripping from his now rather less well-styled hair. There was a suspicious lack of pain and burning happening across the desk, and John's heart clenched. Was this type of demon immune to holy water? Could Mycroft really be that powerful?
With a slight smile, Mycroft stood, hardly seeming to notice the water now soaking into his obscenely expensive-looking leather chair and staining the surface of his mahogany desktop. With a blink, he was instantly dry again.
"I was wondering when you were going to figure me out," he said, inclining his head in John's direction. "I regret to tell you, though, that you do have one thing wrong."
John blinked. He still held the shotgun trained and loaded, though he wasn't sure any more how much good a salt round would do. He very determinedly kept his voice steady. "Oh?"
"Yes. You see, Dr. Watson, I'm not a demon. Quite the opposite, in fact. I'm an angel."
*
Harry woke the next morning to find that she had rolled out from under her borrowed blanket sometime in the night. Groping about blindly for it, her fingers encountered a cool sheet of paper and she drew it towards her, eyes flicking open to read the hasty note in John's easily recognizable scrawl.
Harry,
I'm not getting you two involved in this. If we're lucky, he doesn't know who you are and I want to keep it that way. Don't come after me, don't let Sherlock come after me, and don't do anything stupid. I'll be home soon.
John
P.S. Took your mobile. I'll try not to get this one stepped on.
"You idiot," she growled uselessly at the paper. On the sofa, Clara stirred.
"Who, me?" she mumbled sleepily, reaching out a hand for the note. Harry huffed and passed it over. Clara opened one eye to peer at it, then both, wide awake as she sat up. "That moron," she agreed, frowning. "If the bastard's got half as much influence as John says he has he knew everything about us before we even got here."
"John's gone to see Mycroft," came a voice from the doorway. It wasn't a question. Clara lifted her head and Harry turned to see Sherlock, still in the rumpled clothes of last night, with a bandage wrapped almost comically over his dark curls. "Mycroft is," and here he paused, seeming to repress a wave of dizziness. "Not what I thought he was," he finished finally, white-knuckling the doorframe.
"About right, yeah," Harry said bluntly. Sherlock released the doorframe and slumped into the nearest armchair, head tilting back to look at the ceiling. The hunters' eyes followed his, to the code still inked untidily on the plaster.
"It was a warning," Sherlock said without prompting. "About Mycroft. 'Beware Big Brother.' And the oil." He lowered his gaze again, studying each of the women in turn. "You know what it is? No. But you know more than you're telling. John, too. He wouldn't have gone alone if--" He stopped, seeming to lapse into thought.
Harry and Clara exchanged looks. "He'll be back soon," Harry said finally, leaning back into Clara's legs. "He can take care of himself, our John."
*
“There’s no such thing as angels.” John’s voice fell flat even to his own ears.
“We’ve been very careful to hide our existence from humankind,” Mycroft said calmly. “Ever since the dreadful business with that poor French girl. And, as they say, there are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
“But, angels,” John protested, not entirely sure what he was protesting. “It’s just -- that’s -- it’s bollocks, is what it is.”
Without warning, Mycroft was suddenly standing not two inches away, toe to toe with John. “Bollocks, is it?” The angel -- for that was certainly what he was, whether or not John allowed himself to believe it -- was still smiling faintly, in a condescending manner that seemed to say, Look how clever the dog is, it’s learned to roll over.
“I, er--” Suddenly finding himself accepting the existence of angels, John was faced with the dilemma of how to speak to one. Surely there was some biblical law about bowing and scraping in the presence of one of God’s holy messengers? “But, how?”
“How am I standing here without burning you up from the inside out? Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft -- the thing inside him -- flicked an invisible speck of dirt from his sleeve. “I asked him to lend me the use of his body. He kindly agreed. I don’t think either of us expected things to take so long.”
“You’re . . . possessing him?” John was suddenly filled with disgust. “How long?”
The angel at least had the decency to look faintly guilty. “Approximately twenty-seven of your years.”
“Twenty-sev-- Jesus.” John let out a shocked breath. “And he’s still in there with you?”
“In a sense.”
“Poor bastard.” John shook his head. He hadn’t been expecting to meet an angel in his lifetime, but if he had he wouldn’t have expected him to be like this. “Sherlock doesn’t know?”
“I believe he’s always suspected that his brother was not himself, but no, he knows nothing of Heaven, and I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”
"Why do you care?"
"John. You know my brother very nearly as well as I do." The careful use of the word "brother" wasn't lost on John. "If he were to discover the supernatural, do you imagine he'd take any basic precautions without scientific proof of its existence? Even if he were to survive, the discovery of something so inexplicable, completely unquantifiable in any human terms, don't you think it could destroy him? And I must say, I have grown rather . . . fond of Sherlock over the years."
John's mouth twisted with uncertainty. On the one hand, Mycroft had just applied the very arguments John had been giving to himself for six months. On the other, it didn't sit particularly well with his conscience to keep something this personal from his best friend. To cover up his hesitation, though he doubted he did a very good job of it, he said, "So what's so difficult that it takes an angel of God twenty-seven years to finish?"
"Heaven is at war."
"With Hell?"
Mycroft smiled blandly. "Who else?"
John looked back at him, equally blank. Mycroft studied him for a moment longer and continued, "The Antichrist is on Earth. In London, specifically."
"Of course," John muttered under his breath. "So the Antichrist is -- what, half-demon, out to destroy humanity?"
"No, nothing so straightforward, I'm afraid." Hands clasped behind his back, Mycroft turned to stare out the window at the still-dark skyline of western London. "You see, angelic possession, for want of a better term, is not nearly so simple as it is for demons. We require vessels of certain bloodlines, and permission before entering. And Lucifer, for all his ill repute, is still an angel. As is Michael. The Antichrist is the potential vessel of both."
Very slowly, John let the shotgun barrel drift towards the floor as he thought. "The Apocalypse, then."
"Yes."
"That's a new one."
Though John couldn't see it, Mycroft smiled. "Not really."
John wisely decided to let that one pass. "And the jug Sherlock found on the doorstep?"
"An amphora of holy oil. Likely left as a warning by a demon, though how he got hold of it I shudder to think."
"Right." John shook his head, still rather occupied with digesting the concept of actual angels. "I'll be going now." He began to back towards the door, unwilling to turn his back.
"A car will take you home."
"No," John said quite firmly. "The Tube's open by now. I'll walk." Halfway out the door, he paused to add, "The Antichrist. Do you know who he is?"
There was a long pause, which John interpreted as a yes. "Good-bye, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said finally. John left.
*
It was seven o'clock, and the city was just starting to wake up, early-bird commuters making the streets full but not enough of them yet to clog up the works. John walked at a leisurely pace, his mind full of angels and demons. He didn't quite trust Mycroft -- well, the angel, but for sanity's sake John decided to continue calling it by its vessel's name -- but what experienced hunter would, after all? (He wasn't a hunter, though, he continued to remind himself firmly. Not for years, and not now either.) But despite that, the urgency that had been churning in his stomach since Lestrade's drunken blabbing last night had finally abated. His best friend's brother was not in the hands of demons, he thought with relief. The world's entire system of government was also not in the hands of demons. The latter was probably more important.
He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he nearly didn't notice the sound like sunlight screaming that came from behind him, or the blinding white light that lit up the whole street. He turned just in time to see a woman crumple to the ground, a bloody gash across her throat. Burnt black wings stretched across the pavement from either shoulder. Behind the woman -- an angel, now dead, John could only presume -- stood a man with a bloody silver knife gripped loosely in his hand, in a suit so sharp it could cut corners.
"We haven't met," the man said, with a friendly smile that seemed to belie the dead body at his feet, "but I think you've heard of me. My name is Moriarty." With a distasteful look at the bloody blade he held, he knelt to wipe it clean on the dead woman's jacket. "Much better," he said, tucking the knife safely away. He looked up again to see John's shotgun pointed at his heart.
"This is loaded with rock salt," John warned, though with all the confusion lately he wasn't even sure it would do any good. He tried not to let it show.
"John, John." With a wave of Moriarty's hand, the gun went clattering onto the pavement. "I'm disappointed. Do you really think that would be enough for me?" With another smile, this one rather colder, his eyes flickered black.
It suddenly occurred to John that they were standing in the middle of Central London's morning commute with a dead body at their feet and nobody had said a word. He glanced sideways at the passersby, but their eyes slid right over him, and they stepped around him with unerring precision, seeming not to notice.
"Oh, them," Moriarty said dismissively, sharp eyes missing nothing. "Humans. So easy to fool. Bend a light wave here, send out a subconscious avoidance message there, and voila! Your very own duckblind.
"Now, about your fine feathered friend Adriel. Though, he goes by Mycroft these days, doesn't he? He's the one that sent this little birdie after you, you know. Question is, though, was it to protect you?" The demon shrugged. "Unlikely. You're only a man. Was it to spy on you? But no," he added with mock surprise, as if the idea had only just occurred to him, "he's got all his fun little toys for that, hasn't he?" Moriarty rolled his eyes at the security camera perched on a building opposite. "So, what could it be?" He spent a moment "thinking", furrowing his brow and exaggerating a bemused expression. The final option was obvious, even to John, and the demon seemed to know it, merely shrugging and moving the topic along. "Anyway, he's told you everything, has he? Given the cat away, game's out of the bag, whatever the kids are calling it these days. Such a shame, I had a nice long speech all planned out for you. Oh well. Chop chop, Johnny, we've got a schedule to keep." He moved. John tried to dodge, but Moriarty was faster. A viselike grip closed on his wrist, and he felt himself sucked into blackness.
*
Sherlock grabbed the mobile impatiently from Clara's hands, calling yet again the contact marked "Harry".
"I'm telling you, Sherlock, he's not answering," Clara said, a hint of impatience creeping into her voice.
"It's noon," Sherlock insisted, throwing the phone down in frustration. "He should have been back hours ago."
"We know." Harry was at the desk, furiously cleaning, assembling, and then disassembling all her guns in turn. "You've been telling us that for hours."
"I'm calling Mycroft," Sherlock declared, reaching for the phone again, but Clara snatched it out of his reach.
"Absolutely not," she said firmly. "That's the last thing we want to do."
Sherlock glared at her for a moment before finally sinking back into his armchair. "You're right," he conceded reluctantly, looking as though the words left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. "We don't want him to know we know."
"Exactly." Harry slammed the clip into her Sig and tucked the handgun under her belt. "I know you're brilliant and all, but leave this to us, okay? We've done this before."
Sherlock's metaphorical ears seemed to prick, and he studied her with interest. "Have you?"
Harry seemed to realize she'd said too much, looking to Clara for assistance. Clara shrugged helplessly.
"What?" Sherlock demanded, leaning forward. "What is it you're not telling me?" He punched the arm of his chair, frustrated that he could quite seem to grasp it. There was something off-kilter, a place where the puzzle pieces of facts didn't quite slot together. And on top of it all John wasn't there to talk things out to. Well, he'd give it a shot. "You're fighters, the both of you. You were raised into it. Not military, you haven't been trained as soldiers. Your weapons are unconventional, even handmade. Both raised by single mothers, met when you were teenagers, no, early twenties. Coworkers, unconventional occupation. Something dangerous. John was in it too, before he quit. No permanent residence for a long time, but Harry is more used to it than Clara. You've been together on and off for several years, got a civil partnership a few years ago but annulled it quite recently, which is why John didn't know about it. Possibly because of Harry's drinking but more likely the catalyst that caused John to leave and join the army. A death? Yes, someone you were all close to. Preventable, theoretically, though no one's fault. Another coworker? No, there's not enough of a hole in your interactions. A parental figure, then, someone who--"
"Stop it," Clara broke in sharply. Sherlock was impressed, very few people allowed him to go on for so long before cutting him off. Harry was tightly gripping the barrel of her dissembled shotgun, seeming to have forgotten the cleaning rag hanging out the end.
"Then tell me," Sherlock growled, tearing the bandage from his head and throwing it to one side. "Or I'll go out and find John by myself."
Harry and Clara exchanged cryptic looks. "Should we tell him?" Clara asked, seeming torn.
"John didn't want him to know," Harry reminded her, looking very much as if she agreed with the sentiment.
"Yeah, but he's clever, and he knows the city better than we do."
"He's also annoying as shit."
"I'm sitting right here," Sherlock reminded them. Both women ignored him.
"He could help."
"We're just going to tell him everything?"
Clara shrugged.
Harry let out a heavy sigh. "Right. You." She jabbed the shotgun barrel still in her hand in Sherlock's general direction. "Demons are real, we fight them, your brother is one. Any questions?"
Sherlock's eyes briefly glazed over as he retreated to his mind palace, fitting in this last unlikely puzzle piece to the assembly of previously gathered facts. It fit like a glove, which to be honest was a phrase he had never really understood. "No," he said, pulling himself back to the sitting room.
Harry frowned. "Wait, really? Usually people start researching the nearest crazyhouse right about now."
"When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock leaned back in his chair, mind racing as he fit new facts into old ideas. "I've never seen any proof that demons do or do not exist. Why would I assume that they don't?"
Clara whistled. "I'm starting to get what John sees in this guy."
"I do have one question, though," Sherlock added. "If there are demons, does that mean angels exist as well?"
Harry and Clara exchanged startled glances. "Of course not," Harry said, rolling her eyes. "Don't be stupid. Come on, I'll teach you the basics."
*
As annoying as Sherlock was, Harry had to admit he was a quick study. In the hour or so since Clara had left to look for any trace of John, he'd already committed all the exorcisms and holy water blessings she knew to memory, and he had the layout of seven different Devil's traps down pat. She was just showing him how to pack salt rounds when the sound of a single pair of feet on the stairs made them pause.
"She didn't find him," Harry said, without much surprise. Sherlock scowled at the empty metal casings in front of him.
The door opened, and Clara stepped through, disappointment written across her face. "No luck," she said, shaking her head. "It was a long shot, anyway," but the encouraging addition didn't cheer anyone up.
"Right," Sherlock said, standing. "I'm going to talk to Mycroft."
"I'm going with you," Harry agreed, shoulders set in determination.
"You're both crazy," Clara said, but she reached for the nearest gun nevertheless. "You said he was practically the British government. We can't take on the British government with three people."
"Three people and a skull," Harry said, pointing at the mantelpiece.
Clara grinned. "Oh, well then. How can we fail? Count me in."
*
"This is it," Sherlock said, already halfway to the front door. Clara grabbed his arm and pulled him back to the curb before turning to Harry, who was studying the layout of the building with expert eyes.
"What do you think?"
"Two exits, lobby full of civilians," Harry observed. "Two staircases and an elevator."
"Let's go," Sherlock said crossly, tugging ineffectually at Clara's surprisingly strong grip on his wrist. They'd let him carry the bag with the salt guns, if only because the security knew him and was less likely to search him, and the weight dragged down at him, knowing he should be helping John with them instead of just lugging them about.
"I say we go in the back door and up the back staircase," Clara said, ignoring him. "Sherlock can get us into Mycroft's office. Jesus, Harry, this is the craziest thing we've ever done."
"It's the last place we know John went," Harry insisted, though all three knew that this was reckless beyond belief. "We going or what?"
They circled around to the back of the building. It was locked, but Sherlock had the key, and had it open in a moment. They were moving on stealth now, and Harry cast a meaningful glance at Clara, who nodded and pulled a can of spraypaint from under her jacket. She tilted her head back to study the ceiling, looking for the optimal spot to place a Devil's trap. Sherlock tapped her shoulder to get her attention and pointed at a particular patch of ceiling that would be easy to reach with the paint while forcing all but the smallest demon to cross it when going up or down the stairs. Clara nodded in thanks and then glanced at Harry, who knelt to give her a boost. One quick vandalism later and they had a functional Devil's trap blocking the way. With the grace of a particularly quiet cat, Clara stepped down from her living stepladder and they continued up the stairs.
The halls were strangely empty for a government building in the middle of the afternoon on a Friday. Harry's eyes darted from side to side warily, but Clara was staring straight ahead, back upright. Sherlock was impressed; she looked the very model of a government employee, if underdressed.
"This one," he said, pointing to an unmarked door before pushing it open and flouncing inside. He made for the inner door without even sparing a glance for the secretary typing away at her desk.
"I'm sorry, sir, Mr. Holmes isn't in right now," she called after him.
"Of course he is, he's always in." Sherlock marched into Mycroft's office, prepared to either demand an explanation or pull out one of the shotguns in his bag -- whichever the situation required -- but was surprised to find it actually empty, as the secretary had warned. Harry and Clara piled up in the doorway behind him, tripping over the unexpected stop.
"What?" Clara asked, poking Harry irritably in the back. "You're too tall, the both of you."
"He's not here," Sherlock growled, shoving his way back out into the secretary's office. Without looking up from her desk, she smiled slightly, managing to look as if it were only just beyond her dignity to burst out with an "I told you so".
"Okay," Clara said as they returned to the hallway, putting in a valiant effort not to look too crestfallen. "Plan B."
"We have a Plan B?" Harry wondered, for a moment no longer looking as if she were about to punch a wall.
Clara smiled a little grimly. "We do now."
*
"All right." Clara spilled her armful of books across the desk. "It's in here somewhere, so let's start looking."
"What exactly are we looking for?" Harry wondered, pulling one of the leather-bound volumes towards herself. Sherlock had already seized a book of his own and was flipping through it greedily.
"A ritual." Clara's grin was half-mad and more than a little giddy as she began skimming pages. "The most powerful one Mom had."
"Your mother was a witch," Sherlock observed, nose still buried in his book. "As are you."
"Only part-time. Look for a ritual called Invoco Mortem."
"Summoning Death?" Sherlock translated, looking far too excited at the prospect.
Clara shrugged. "He's bound to know where John is."
"And something big's definitely going down," Harry said, feeling a swell of pride in her chest for her partner's brilliance. "Demons don't call this much attention to themselves without a reason. Whatever it is, having the incarnation of Death on our side can't hurt."
"As long as we don't piss him off," Clara laughed nervously, and returned to her reading.
They sat in silence for several minutes, the only sound the turning of dry, old pages.
"Found it," Harry announced triumphantly, slapping her hand down on the page. Clara snatched the book from her and gave the ritual a quick scan, making a mental checklist of supplies.
"Pretty standard stuff," she said thoughtfully. "I think we've got almost everything in the car. No, hang on." She got up and brought down the skull from the mantelpiece. "Can I borrow this?"
Sherlock grinned almost as widely as the skull.
*
"Invoco mortem," Clara chanted, her voice like black silk, "Te in mea potestate. Defixi. Nunc et in aeturnum." She nodded at Sherlock, who leaned forward to light the incense right on cue. There was a flash, and where the bowl had been there stood a pale man, tall and thin, with a silver-headed cane gripped in his skeletal hands.
"Oh, not again," he said.
"Death?" Clara said carefully. He fixed his black gaze on her, and she felt her knees tremble a little as her feet froze in place with the force behind it.
"You're the one that summoned me, are you." It wasn't a question, but the weary irritation in his voice was obvious. "Well, what is it you want? Shall I go kill someone you have a petty grudge against?"
"We want you to find my brother," Harry said loudly, arms crossed. He turned his gaze to her and Clara felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders, stumbling a little and breathing in deeply.
"Your brother." Death seemed fractionally less bored with the whole ordeal. "A name would help."
Sherlock stepped in boldly. "John Watson."
Death turned to him now, and it may have been Clara's imagination but she could have sworn that -- just for a moment -- the Horseman was startled.
"He's being held in a warehouse," Death said finally, though the gaze he had fixed on Sherlock was less annoyed and more fascinated. "At Warbank Crescent and Valentyne Close in New Addington. Now, if you could." He held out his wrist, where an iron shackle flickered in and out of view.
"You're not going to kill us, are you?" Harry asked warily.
If Death had been less dignified he might have rolled his eyes. "Death's honor."
Clara nodded and consulted the book still held in her hands. She muttered the reverse incantation and the shackle disappeared, along with the Horseman himself a moment later.
"Well?" Sherlock said, already zooming in to the location on his phone. "Let's go."
*
"Okay," Harry said, handing out the guns. "I'll take point. Clara, with me. Sherlock, stay at the door and keep watch."
"No."
Harry frowned. "Excuse me?"
"I'm going in," Sherlock declared. "I have the building blueprints memorized and I know how to shoot a gun." He didn't add John's in there, but he may as well have.
Harry scowled. "Look, Holmes, you may be a genius, but--"
"Harry." Clara broke in, shaking her head. "It's all right. I'll keep watch. Sherlock can go in with you."
"Fine." Harry threw up her hands in defeat. "Sherlock and I are going in. Clara, make sure no one but us gets in or out.
"You stay behind me," she warned, turning to Sherlock. "Don't shoot until I do, don't speak, and follow my lead."
"Fine." It was a mark of how anxious he was to get into the warehouse that he didn't stop to argue his orders, though how closely he'd follow them was anyone's guess.
Harry and Clara took out the single demon at the door with practised stealth, a good blow to the head, and a hastily muttered exorcism. "Okay," Harry said, her eyes already a little brighter with the promise of a fight. "Sherlock?"
"Ready." He checked his weapon and nodded, shoulders squared in determination. Very carefully, Harry nudged the door open and slipped inside. Sherlock followed, and then Clara, who propped it slightly ajar behind her. She stood with her back to it, eyes skimming across the interior of the warehouse.
It was all one room -- more of a pit, really -- with the main space a full story below ground level. The door they had entered through opened onto a narrow metal walkway stretching around the entire perimeter of the warehouse. The space was dim and nearly empty, but for John tied to a chair dead center and a handful of demons standing around looking bored.
Harry and Sherlock were already halfway down the metal stairs, and Clara couldn't tell if the demons hadn't noticed them yet or if they were just waiting for the enemy to reach them before attacking. She leaned forward slightly, straining to see better in the dim light, when suddenly a soft hand slipped over her mouth, and a not-so-soft knife was tucked under her chin.
"Hello, Clara, dear," a horribly familiar voice said cheerfully into her ear. "It's me! Long time no see." Her muscles tensed, heart pounding, but he tilted the blade a little closer to her jugular and she stayed very still. "Do me a favor, will you? Don't move, don't speak." The hand and knife disappeared, and the man they belonged to stepped around into her line of vision.
He looked exactly the same as she remembered: a pressed suit, a hint of a smirk lingering about his mouth, and eyes so dark that the only change when they flickered black was the whites. She tried to take a step back, but found her muscles locked in place. What do you want? she tried to say, but found her throat frozen too.
Moriarty smiled in satisfaction. "Ten minutes should do, I think." He sauntered towards the stairs, a man with all the time in the world, but the knife gleamed dangerously in his hand, and Harry and Sherlock had their backs to him as they tried to work out the best way to untie a half-conscious John. Half a dozen more demons slipped soundlessly past Clara, leering silently at her where she stood, and followed their boss down the stairs.
The fight happened exactly as expected, and Clara quickly realized that Moriarty had positioned her there on purpose, forcing her to watch everything as the events unfolded. She wasn't sure she'd have been able to tear her eyes away even if she hadn't been frozen.
She caught a glimpse of Harry, lying in a pool of what seemed to be both demon blood and her own, and the very sight caused bile to rise in her throat. John was on his feet but woozy, one arm dangling limp by his side. The other hand was armed with a broken knife that he wielded with obvious skill, but he wouldn't be able to hold off six demons for long. They were already fanning out, circling to get around behind him. So caught up in the action was Clara that she failed to notice Moriarty and Sherlock melt into the shadows on the far side of the warehouse.
*
"Sherlock," the demon nearly purred. "Join me."
The wall was pressed against Sherlock's back, the demon leaning so close that he could feel warm breath on his face.
"Those people you came here with, they don't care about you. They think you're weak, they think they're better than you. They wanted to leave you behind. Clara up there, she let me walk right past her. Didn't even say a word."
If he strained his eyes, Sherlock could just make out a figure near the door, watching the fight going on below her without reaction. But no, something was wrong there.
"John trusts her," Sherlock said slowly.
"John, John, John!" The demon threw up his hands, turning away in disgust. "You're so enamored with your little pet. But he'll get bored of you. He'll get tired of praising you and picking up after you, and he'll leave. That's what people do, isn't it? They leave. They always leave."
Sherlock said nothing.
"Do you really think he cares for you? He's been keeping secrets from you all this time. He lies to you -- you, the great Sherlock Holmes -- and you're so caught up in him you don't even notice. He never told you about his past; you had to force it out of his sister. Ask yourself, why wouldn't he tell you? Why would he bury it so far down that even you couldn't dig it out? Is it that he doesn't trust you, or that he just. Doesn't. Care."
For the first time in a long time, doubt lodged itself in Sherlock's throat. "He had his reasons," he said, but it sounded unconvincing even to himself.
"I'm sure he did, Sherlock," the demon called Moriarty said soothingly, condescendingly. "But do you really want to stick around and find out what those reasons were? Come with me. I won't lie to you, Sherlock, not like he did. I can give you puzzles, interesting ones. You'll never have to be bored again."
Sherlock hesitated. "I--"
Twin beams of light shot out suddenly from the melée in the center of the warehouse, cutting briefly across the shadows that obscured Moriarty's face. Sherlock switched his gaze just in time to see two demons crumple, and a man standing over them with a palm against each of their foreheads. Moriarty whirled, mouth just opening in surprise and, yes, fear.
"Damn," he said, and vanished.
Before Sherlock could react, the stranger had disposed of the remaining demons the same way, placing a hand on their foreheads and forcing light out through their eyes and mouth. It might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn the man moved from place to place without walking.
"And that's how it's done, folks," the stranger announced to the room at large. Only then did he seem to notice Harry on the ground by his feet. He made as if to step towards her, but John's face twisted into a feral snarl as he leaned protectively over his sister with knife in hand.
"Get away from her, demon!" he spat.
The stranger looked affronted. "Actually, I'm an angel."
"I don't bloody care what you are, just keep your fucking hands off her!"
In a detached sort of way, like a spectator to a sports match (dull, so very dull) Sherlock took note of John's tendency to use more vulgar expressions when under adrenaline-fueled stress.
"FYI, bucko, I'm on your side." John's blade was suddenly in the stranger's hand, whole and pointed safely at the floor. "Your sister's sleeping now. She's perfectly fine." He offered the knife back handle-first, one eyebrow raised. John took it warily but didn't put it away.
Suddenly the stranger's eyes flickered up to the catwalk and he snapped his fingers. "Hey you up there. You can move now. Come on down." Footsteps echoed on the metal stairs and Clara emerged into the light, shotgun leveled.
"I have him covered," she said, voice wavering a little. "John, check her pulse."
Keeping his eyes on the stranger, John crouched to touch two fingers to the base of Harry's jaw. "It's steady," he reported after a moment, and stood warily.
The stranger rolled his eyes. "I told you, she's fine."
"But who are you?" Sherlock asked, stepping forward.
"Oh, sorry. I thought you might know." The man pulled a sweet from his pocket and tossed it into his mouth. The wrapper seemed to vanish on the way. "They call me Gabriel. Sorry you had to start the Apocalypse without me."
| Act Three -->