FIC: More Things in Heaven and Earth 3/9
"More Things in Heaven and Earth Chapters 1 and 2"
Chapter Three
Threadbare Theology
There was nothing else to be learned from the tiny piece of ground on which Sherlock and the faux angel stood. There were only the golden gates, and he couldn't approach them without risking getting bisected by an implausibly flaming sword. He briefly considered calling the creature's bluff, decided to try less risky strategies first. Like talking.
"You clearly don't expect me to rush the gates, and this environment seems entirely static, so you must be waiting for me to say something, probably to ask you questions. But rational enquiries into the nature of this experience so far have made you mildly uncomfortable, so you're looking for something else. Confusion, maybe fear? Some reaction that you can use to bolster your authority and make me willing to accept whatever happens next."
He smiled coldly at the winged being. "That's not going to happen. Why don't you just skip the psychological strong-arm stuff and just tell me whatever it is that you want me to know?"
The slight flare of the wings outwards, the rustle of the feathers as they were pulled back into place might well signify anxiety or annoyance. The angel had done it several times now.
"Very well, Sherlock Holmes. You are dead. These are the gates to Heaven, through which you can pass only if I judge you worthy. If not you will be cast down into Hell for all eternity. Clear?"
It was a very good liar. Sherlock couldn't detect any visible signs of dissembling; to all outward appearances it seemed to believe what it was saying.
Sherlock hadn't deleted every part of his religious education. "Is that it? What happened to Purgatory? The dead awaiting Judgement Day? Don't I get to stand before God? Your theology seems remarkably threadbare, angel. Do you even know what category of angel you're meant to be? Do you have a name?"
The feathers shook again. "This is all that is necessary."
"Necessary for what?"
"Necessary to ensure that the correct result is obtained."
"What constitutes a correct result?" Sherlock took a step forward but the sword didn't appear. The creature was distracted.
"That good is rewarded and evil punished, of course."
"Naturally," Sherlock said sarcastically. "Good and evil. Right and wrong. Black and white. No room for subjectivity there. Tell me, do you try this on everyone who dies?"
"Everyone."
"Good. I trust Jim Moriarty found a way to rip your little tableau to shreds."
The wings shivered.
"Of course I'm not dead, and the whole thing is a fraud. But get on with it. Judge me. Everyone else has."
The angel drew itself upright, extended its wings to their full span. It looked impressive, if you didn't know that it was impossible and therefore fake.
"I shall be brief, for there is little that needs to be said. You disliked humanity, in general and particular. You rejected those who nurtured you and took pleasure in tormenting those who reached out to you. You used the people around you without a thought to their wants and needs. The world of sorrows and misery was your playground and ther ones who loved you were merely resources for exploitation."
He paused, continued. "Set against that, the single glowing example of your final sacrifice is not enough."
Was that it? The angel seemed to be waiting for his response. Sherlock hadn't intended to be drawn into defending himself, but really, this was stupid.
"How many lives did my work save, angel? No mention of them?"
"Not relevant. You didn't care about them."
"So it's all about motives? That's a meaningless measure of a life. Any fool who never has an original thought in his life, never achieves anything, never betters the lot of his fellow man in any respect can 'care'. The world was a safer place because of me. The guilty were punished, the innocent released. I was on," he raised an eyebrow at the thing, wondering if the phrase's resonance would mean anything to it, "the side of the angels."
"How many people died because you played games with Jim Moriarty?"
Sherlock's mind immediately turned to John. And Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. Had they been killed? Surely the angel, whatever it was, would know.
"Are they dead?"
The angel shook his head. "We are still at the moment of your death. Their fate still lies in the future."
Again it seemed sincere, though the statement was nonsense. He was alive and time had passed while he had been on this piece of rock. John was dead, or not dead, already. And this was a pointless debate. What did he care what the thing said? The outcome had been fixed from the start.
"Enough of this. You have ceased to be interesting, and I've failed to meet your completely inane criteria for worthiness. We might as well get on with the next bit."
The angel took a breath, obviously about to make some proclamation, then shrugged, annoyed, and gestured abruptly. Ground, angel, gates and mist disappeared and Sherlock was in freefall for the second time that day. His eyes had closed in reflex; he opened them a slit against the cold air streaming upwards around him. A blink was all he needed; the image below was instantly recognisable. The sunlit blue river wound between miles of white and grey buildings, the parks were sharp with the green of early Spring, the late afternoon light reflected up from the Dome, flashed off the white of the Millennium wheel. He was falling face down towards Central London, from a height of around five thousand feet.
Chapter Four Why This is Hell
Chapter Three
Threadbare Theology
There was nothing else to be learned from the tiny piece of ground on which Sherlock and the faux angel stood. There were only the golden gates, and he couldn't approach them without risking getting bisected by an implausibly flaming sword. He briefly considered calling the creature's bluff, decided to try less risky strategies first. Like talking.
"You clearly don't expect me to rush the gates, and this environment seems entirely static, so you must be waiting for me to say something, probably to ask you questions. But rational enquiries into the nature of this experience so far have made you mildly uncomfortable, so you're looking for something else. Confusion, maybe fear? Some reaction that you can use to bolster your authority and make me willing to accept whatever happens next."
He smiled coldly at the winged being. "That's not going to happen. Why don't you just skip the psychological strong-arm stuff and just tell me whatever it is that you want me to know?"
The slight flare of the wings outwards, the rustle of the feathers as they were pulled back into place might well signify anxiety or annoyance. The angel had done it several times now.
"Very well, Sherlock Holmes. You are dead. These are the gates to Heaven, through which you can pass only if I judge you worthy. If not you will be cast down into Hell for all eternity. Clear?"
It was a very good liar. Sherlock couldn't detect any visible signs of dissembling; to all outward appearances it seemed to believe what it was saying.
Sherlock hadn't deleted every part of his religious education. "Is that it? What happened to Purgatory? The dead awaiting Judgement Day? Don't I get to stand before God? Your theology seems remarkably threadbare, angel. Do you even know what category of angel you're meant to be? Do you have a name?"
The feathers shook again. "This is all that is necessary."
"Necessary for what?"
"Necessary to ensure that the correct result is obtained."
"What constitutes a correct result?" Sherlock took a step forward but the sword didn't appear. The creature was distracted.
"That good is rewarded and evil punished, of course."
"Naturally," Sherlock said sarcastically. "Good and evil. Right and wrong. Black and white. No room for subjectivity there. Tell me, do you try this on everyone who dies?"
"Everyone."
"Good. I trust Jim Moriarty found a way to rip your little tableau to shreds."
The wings shivered.
"Of course I'm not dead, and the whole thing is a fraud. But get on with it. Judge me. Everyone else has."
The angel drew itself upright, extended its wings to their full span. It looked impressive, if you didn't know that it was impossible and therefore fake.
"I shall be brief, for there is little that needs to be said. You disliked humanity, in general and particular. You rejected those who nurtured you and took pleasure in tormenting those who reached out to you. You used the people around you without a thought to their wants and needs. The world of sorrows and misery was your playground and ther ones who loved you were merely resources for exploitation."
He paused, continued. "Set against that, the single glowing example of your final sacrifice is not enough."
Was that it? The angel seemed to be waiting for his response. Sherlock hadn't intended to be drawn into defending himself, but really, this was stupid.
"How many lives did my work save, angel? No mention of them?"
"Not relevant. You didn't care about them."
"So it's all about motives? That's a meaningless measure of a life. Any fool who never has an original thought in his life, never achieves anything, never betters the lot of his fellow man in any respect can 'care'. The world was a safer place because of me. The guilty were punished, the innocent released. I was on," he raised an eyebrow at the thing, wondering if the phrase's resonance would mean anything to it, "the side of the angels."
"How many people died because you played games with Jim Moriarty?"
Sherlock's mind immediately turned to John. And Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. Had they been killed? Surely the angel, whatever it was, would know.
"Are they dead?"
The angel shook his head. "We are still at the moment of your death. Their fate still lies in the future."
Again it seemed sincere, though the statement was nonsense. He was alive and time had passed while he had been on this piece of rock. John was dead, or not dead, already. And this was a pointless debate. What did he care what the thing said? The outcome had been fixed from the start.
"Enough of this. You have ceased to be interesting, and I've failed to meet your completely inane criteria for worthiness. We might as well get on with the next bit."
The angel took a breath, obviously about to make some proclamation, then shrugged, annoyed, and gestured abruptly. Ground, angel, gates and mist disappeared and Sherlock was in freefall for the second time that day. His eyes had closed in reflex; he opened them a slit against the cold air streaming upwards around him. A blink was all he needed; the image below was instantly recognisable. The sunlit blue river wound between miles of white and grey buildings, the parks were sharp with the green of early Spring, the late afternoon light reflected up from the Dome, flashed off the white of the Millennium wheel. He was falling face down towards Central London, from a height of around five thousand feet.
Chapter Four Why This is Hell