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holmesticeTitle: With a Cup in One Hand and a Sword in the Other
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mundungus42
Author:goddessdster (AO3)
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, DI Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, OFC
Rating: Mature
Word Count: ~16,000
Warnings: Brief description of a child experiencing pain, mentions of drug use, M/M sexual content
Other Tags: Magical Realism, Demisexuality, First Time, Tarot
Author's Notes: Many thanks to my fantastic and tireless betas,annlarimer and dr_tectonic! It should go without saying that any remaining mistakes are entirely of my own doing. Additional information related to the story can be found at the end.
Summary: John's true self expresses as a Wand and Sherlock's as a Sword, so whatever they are, they're perfectly matched. Except maybe Sherlock isn't entirely a Sword. This would bear examining, if it weren't for the murderer stalking Deaths.
Love is not a state, a feeling, a disposition, but an exchange, uneven, fraught with history, with ghosts, with longings that are more or less legible to those who try to see one another with their own faulty vision.
Judith Butler, “Doubting Love”
Significant: The Knight of Swords
The day after Sherlock most certainly did not intend to commit suicide by poison, he leaned against the open doorway and watched John unpack the contents of three boxes. Three. John pulled a handful of books from the box in front of him and glanced around the attic bedroom.
“You can keep your books on the shelves in the sitting room, if you like.”
John tossed the books on his bed and looked over with a smile. “Ta.” His eyes roamed over Sherlock in a way that felt familiar and intrusive, causing his skin to itch. This needed addressing, and immediately.
“I don’t talk about it.”
John’s brow furrowed. “Okay.”
There. Done. He knew John wasn’t that much of an idiot, if the events of last night were any indication.
“But... you can feel it, right?”
Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Why does everybody have to make things complicated? Why does no one simply listen? He said he didn’t talk about it, what is so difficult-- “It’s nothing. It’s transport.” He tapped his temple. “This is what matters. This gets the work done. Not this,” he swept his hands down his front, “or this,” he waved his arms in the air over his head where he could - if he wanted, which was never - feel a slight weight.
John’s gaze darted away from the air above Sherlock’s head and he turned back to unpacking boxes. “All right.” His tone was mild. Sherlock was becoming familiar with it. It meant things, Sherlock could tell.
“Yours changed, as you know.”
“Oh, we’re allowed to talk about mine, then?”
Sherlock walked to the bed and picked up one of the books. He didn’t recognize the title, but the bright colors and lurid images on the covers told him enough – popular fiction. John watched him.
“Mine is irrelevant. It is merely another factor of being born and having to walk the surface of this world. It neither defines nor classifies me. But yours,” at this he dropped the book back on the bed, turned and walked in a tight circle around John, who merely raised an eyebrow. “Yours changed. You showed up at Barts with ten swords hanging off your back. Again, irrelevant. Anyone with half a brain could see your circumstances in your limp and the fray of your jumper. That most people choose not to look beyond a person’s significant implies the relative weakness to which the human mind has succumbed. To look beyond, beneath, to deduce. That is what sets me apart.”
“So my sig had no part in everything you knew about me.”
“I told you how I --”
“No, I get that – and again, brilliant – but you’re saying it didn’t factor in any of that at all.”
“Obviously, as those things I stated are still true, and yet here you are, an Ace of Wands, ready to begin a new adventure. Wands is your natural suit, correct?”
“But you also said you always miss something.”
“You do listen.” Sherlock smiled, then frowned when the meaning of John’s statement hit him. “It did--” he considered how much to reveal. “It did lead me to believe you would be a more amenable flatmate than most.”
He received a disbelieving look at that as John opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. He shrugged.
“Someone carrying a Ten of Swords is at a mental and emotional impasse, has given up, is less likely to complain about... things.”
This time, John smiled. “But as you figured out, I’m not a Sword; I’m a Wand. Is that going to be a problem?”
“You shot a man last night because you believed him a threat to me. A Sword would be less likely to have done that. So, no. Not a problem.”
John raised his eyebrows and turned back to his meager boxes. “Then I'd best get back to my unpacking.”
Past: Five of Cups
Emotional change or loss
1987
It wasn’t supposed to hurt. Mycroft always told him the significant was just air and light, nothing was actually poking him, no real water was pouring over his head, not real not real. But the light pierced like shards and his head was filled with ringing, no, clanging, no, blaring. A single thought could not hold on. Sherlock tried to recite the Periodic Table and got stuck to the point where he simply kept repeating the same three over and over, hoping to dislodge the pain clamped around his eyes and ears Titanium 47.867, Vanadium 50.942, Chromium 51.996, Manganese...Manganese...Manganese... the word became a chant that seemed to push everything away until--
“Sherlock.”
“Manganese. Manganese. Manganese!”
“Sherlock!”
“Shut up, Mycroft! Go away! Chromium 51.996, Manganese. Manganese...”
“54.938.”
A hand on his shoulder that he couldn’t shake off. “I know it!”
“I’m sure you do.” That was not Mycroft’s voice, soft and kind, weaving between the bleats of the horn currently lodged behind his occipital lobe and pushing his brain matter this way and that.
“Sherlock, the doctor has something for the pain.”
“My head!”
“Yes, for your head as well.”
“Why do I feel swords in my legs, like something slicing at me. You said it wouldn’t hurt!”
“I was wrong.”
That, just that. Enough to dampen the noisome pain and stop him pulling away. Mycroft was never wrong.
“Come along.”
He went.
*****
2002
He was ready this time.
He had calculated down to the milliliter the exact combination that would create the ameliorating and invigorating effect he would need. He had found the perfect Death, hiding as a Two of Pents, no less. Deaths always hid as Pentacles. This one would ask no questions, he’d been assured, would simply do as asked in exchange for the cash in Sherlock’s pocket. The trick would be timing the injection with the change. Before boarding the train from Cambridge, Sherlock had tabulated his weight, last meal (two digestives with his morning coffee), and BMI, and figured he should shoot up two to three minutes tops before the change took effect. He scowled at his reflection in the train window. He hated uncertainty. That sixty-second interval could be the difference between transcendence and interminable pain.
He pulled his notebook out and restarted his calculations, including his resting pulse rate. Why had he not thought of that before? Something. There was always something he missed. 0.0375 of an hour. He pulled out his stopwatch and set the timer for 2 minutes, fifteen seconds.
Fifty quid just to get through the door of an anonymous flat in Tower Hamlets to a room that smelled sweet and spicy, like a bite of frankincense in his nose. The Death was sitting cross-legged on a shabby sofa while a young girl cleaned off the massage table in the middle of the room. The room was warm. Sherlock unzipped his jacket, but left it on. When the girl was done cleaning and re-covering the table with a white sheet, the Death stood and walked over to Sherlock. In the dim light he could see several scars along her cheekbones and at her jawline. He kept his face stony. This Death wasn’t born to a family happy to see her.
Sherlock stood and waited, uncertain. The girl passed him on her way out the room, and only then did Sherlock see the visage of a skull overlaying her features. So, a Good Samaritan, then. Taking in others rejected by their families, apprenticing them. Deaths were killed as witches as recently as a hundred years ago. It was still not unusual for families ruled by superstition to react the same.
The Death didn’t move until the girl closed the door behind herself. She walked around Sherlock, eyeing him up and down. He forced his hands to relax at his sides, but couldn’t stop his eyes from studying her scars. Serbian, most likely, though several generations in the UK already. She tossed her hair back, giving him a better view. He smiled.
She smiled back. “Trying to hide your heartbreak, little Three?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He looked around the simple room, spotted the door to the toilet. “How long?”
“We can start right now, I’ll be ready in minutes.”
He pointed to the door. “May I? First?” He injected an appropriate amount of nervousness into his voice and darted his eyes to the side.
She gestured toward the door, then proceeded to ignore him as she rolled up her sleeves and stood at the head of the table, adjusting a flat pillow.
He cursed the eager trembling of his hands as he locked the door behind himself and pulled a pouch from the pocket of his jacket. He checked his watch before taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeve. He turned on the tap and set to work.
Two minutes later, Sherlock was lying on the table. The swirl of his stimulant-narcotic cocktail created a dreamy static around the edges of his mind. The touch of a cool hand on his chest made him flinch, and brought him back to his purpose.
“Ready to hide your heart, then,” she said, not unkindly.
He shook his head. “Trying to uncover it, actually,” he said, but his voice was faint, or the Death wasn’t paying attention. Her lips pursed, eyes closed, she looked... She looked... Sherlock searched his mind for the expression in his database. Angry, no. Disturbed, too dramatic. Troubled.
She looked inside Sherlock and was troubled by what she saw. When she pulled her hand away, her expression was...sad, no. Wait. Yes, sad.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “What you want. No. Choose a mask.”
“I don’t want a mask. Masks are dull and mean nothing. I simply want to --”
“Choose something. Wand. You want to look adventurous, yes? Lots of boys love adventure. Or, with those clothes, a Knight of Pentacles, all the girls will think you have money.”
“Stop being idiotic! I don’t want to pretend to be anything. I have nothing to hide; that’s why I’m here. I’ve tried to undo it myself and I can’t. I’ve tried to find the Death who did this originally and I can’t. You are, supposedly, the most powerful Death in London. You certainly cost enough. You can do this. I know you can.”
Sherlock sat up, pulled the hair on his head, on his arms, on his eyebrows, to keep himself focused. Talking too much, he was always talking too much. He realized the Death was petting his hands and shushing him, as if he were a child needing soothing.
“All right,” she was saying. “I’ll see what I can do.”
*****
2008
Sherlock opened his eyes. He was on a wide soft bed in a dim room. Within seconds, piercing pain shot through his eyeballs and he covered his ears. Not that covering his ears would do any good, as the blaring noise was inside his head. He curled over onto his side and tucked his head up against his knees. He felt a hand on his back and shook it off. It returned.
“Piss off, Mycroft!”
The hand left his back, but Mycroft's infuriating presence still choked the air out of the room. Sherlock could smell cigarette smoke, both stale and fresh. His nose, currently buried in his ratty jumper, identified the source of the stale, which would mean Mycroft has been indulging again. Perhaps he had actually died this time, as he couldn’t think of what other reason would cause his brother to pick up a cigarette. If Mycroft thought Sherlock was going to apologize for living his own life – for god’s sake, he was an adult.
“I have been looking for you for six months.”
Sherlock wrapped his arms over his head and curled further into himself, only noticing the IV by the tugging sensation on his hand. It was then he realized the blaring was more of a bleat and the sensation of being sliced by a thousand sharp blades was becoming faint.
“Hair of the dog? Bit hypocritical of you,” he said into the cradle of his lap.
“Considering the alternative was possible cardiac arrest, I can handle a touch of equivocation.”
“Has it occurred to you you’re the reason I am this way?”
“Sherlock, I was all of thirteen when the decision was made. How much power do you think I had?”
Sherlock snorted. Mummy always listened to Mycroft. Even when they were boys, Mycroft home from Eton, reeking of self-importance and morning coats, neck still stiff from the winged collars, in the drawing room during her welcoming teas where the two of them would sit together and chat like old school chums. Mummy’s head always leaned a certain way in Mycroft’s direction, as if she were intent on catching every word. Sherlock could smell lavender and woodsmoke in the air as if he were home right then. He longed, at that moment. He would have given anything to be there right now, Mummy’s eyes intent upon him as he explained his latest experiment. Always so careful to explain it right. Practicing his violin as close to the doorway as he dared, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
Mycroft sighed. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? Once it was done, it couldn’t be undone. That was clearly explained. What were you thinking?”
Sherlock curled more tightly into himself. This would pass more quickly if he refused to talk. Eventually, the suit shift would settle, the drugs would exit his system, and he could leave.
Two days later and the IV had been replaced by a regularly scheduled sequence of pills of decreasing dosage. Sherlock wandered the halls of the isolated house, caught the night nurse asleep, deduced the stone-faced security crew, and worked out he was somewhere in the Lake District by the topography outside his window. Despite the security presence, Sherlock knew he could have left at any time. Each passing hour sharpened his focus, however, and the welcome noise of his brain coming back to rights made him grateful for the quiet of his surroundings. Not that he would ever admit as much to Mycroft, who visited two days later with his violin.
“I’m ready to leave,” he said. He was stretched out on the settee, cradling, but not playing, the violin. He stared out the window at the rolling green hills. In the distance he spotted a sliver of silvery water.
“Are you asking my permission?”
“Of course not. Though it would be a gesture of good faith if you could provide me with a ride back to London.”
When he received no answer, he forced himself to turn his head. He blinked. Mycroft looked so much older than Sherlock had anticipated. Slimmer, though jowlier. Sharper. More tired. It had been almost three years since he had last seen his brother, and Sherlock wondered for the first time what Mycroft thought when he looked at him.
“You look like you could use a few meals, and a haircut wouldn’t hurt,” Mycroft said.
“You look as if you’ve finally stopped eating a few yourself.”
“Must we do this today, Sherlock?”
Tired. Mycroft sounded tired. Because of him? Worry? No. Mycroft didn’t worry. Mycroft solved. Mycroft made things happen as he needed. He was not one to sit about chewing his nails over his lost baby brother.
“All I need is a ride back to London.”
“And the shift?”
“It’s complete; no more pain. Everything is fine now. It won’t happen again.” Sherlock made himself look into his brother’s eyes as he said this. For the most part, he even meant it.
Mycroft stood. Straightened his waistcoat. Checked his pocket watch. Pulled out his phone and tapped a few buttons. “There will be a car here for you in three hours. It will drop you at a flat I’ve arranged. Don’t look at me like that, where exactly were you thinking of going? Back to those filthy tunnels I pulled you out of? Stop rolling your eyes, you’re not a child anymore.”
Sherlock turned to stare out the window. “Fine.”
He kept his head turned away, never fooling himself for a moment that Mycroft wasn’t aware Sherlock could see him in its reflection. Only after Mycroft exited the room did Sherlock dare touch the strings of his instrument.
*****
2011
Different block of Council flats, eighty quid at the door, same Death, different apprentice. This time there would be no bite of the needle in his veins. No need.
She watched him as he headed toward the table, pulling off his scarf and coat.
“I don’t think so, Twin-Suit.”
He scowled. Leave it to a Death to talk like some fantasy novel elf lord. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Time to do this. Now or never. “I’m not here to attempt that again.” He sat, then laid supine on the table.
“You’re different,” she said, and it was true. He was, though in many ways he had not the time to categorize.
“You look the same,” he said. It was the truth, though he didn’t need to check every scar along her jawline to confirm. Her eyes had the same troubled expression, as if nine years hadn’t passed. “I’m not here for the same as before,” he repeated, “Just a simple mask.”
“Could’ve gone to anyone for a simple mask, why pay my fees?”
“Your discretion is renowned. I...need that right now.”
She smiled. It wasn’t unpleasant. “Hiding your sig won’t hide you from the police.”
“That isn't what I'm aiming for.” He looked to the clock again. He was running out of time. Everything depended on timing. He swallowed and stared into her eyes, hoping his desperation would work on her as it had before. “Please.”
Briefly staring, then she nodded, rolled up her sleeves and placed her palm on his chest. “What are you aiming for, then?”
He closed his eyes in relief. “Nothing.”
Present: Eight of Swords
Powerlessness overcome by intuition
Three photographs are taped to the mirror. In one, a man, later sixties, bludgeoned on the side of the head. The second, another man, younger, mid-fifties, also bludgeoned, this time at the base of the skull. The third features a woman in her early thirties. The attacker had not anticipated that she would fight back, and the majority of his blows landed on the side of her face before the fatal blow to her forehead dropped her in the heap of rubbish in which she was found. Her eyes stare at Sherlock from the photograph.
Sherlock paces in front of the pictures.
“Not a lot up there.”
Sherlock just stops himself from flinching. That never used to happen. John sneaking up on him. Or simply being where Sherlock wasn’t expecting him to be. “I thought you went to the shop.”
“Yes. And then I returned. Here I am. Returned.” John stands next to him and looks at the pictures. “Tell me what happened here.”
“What do you see?”
John sighs and scratches his chin. “The men were attacked from behind, most likely surprise attacks, but the woman was hit multiple times. Are you sure it’s the same person?”
“The attacks were spread over a four-month period, but Molly was able to match the marks on all the victims’ skin as being from the same weapon.”
John raises his eyebrows. “She’s good.”
“That she is.” It’s an afterthought, as Sherlock's attention is already back on the pictures. He senses as John steps away though, wonders when he stopped noticing how close John stands. “Hand me the postmortem, no, not that. Anderson’s forensics were rubbish. The other --” he waves his hand until John places a page in it. He tapes it next to the first victim. “Devin Bell. Pawnbroker. Found in the alley near his shop in Battersea. Body left where it was murdered.” He looks at the second paper John automatically hands him and tapes it in place. “Robert Nessa. Managed his parents’ financial interests, which were vast. Found by his car in Croydon. Also found at his murder scene.” He hesitates before grabbing the third page, staring at the photograph of the beaten woman.
“Sherlock?”
“Jasna Peaves. No known occupation. Found in Lewisham. Not killed in the alley in which she was found.”
John looks at the page in his hand. “What makes her different? Aside from being female, unemployed, killed somewhere other than where her body was found, and beaten until almost unrecognizable.”
“What, indeed.” Sherlock paces in front of the mirror, his eyes tracking every detail he can get from the two-dimensional images. He doesn’t realize he’s stopped in front of Jasna Peaves’s photo until he feels John’s hand on his arm.
“What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”
Oh, that tone again. Sherlock wishes he could lie. Wants to obfuscate. Knows he can get away with it. John is so hell-bent on trusting him, on proving his trust is a gift, not to be earned, no matter how untrustworthy Sherlock has been. He could say anything, nothing, the littlest of things, and John would believe him. But then, but then. Eventually it will come out.
“They’re Deaths. Someone stalked them, waited until the perfect moment, then killed them. Someone chose them specifically.”
John picks up the report from NSY. “There’s nothing in here about their sigs.”
“Of course not, John. Deaths don’t hang out literal signs.”
“So how did you--”
Sherlock taps the picture in front of him. “I used her services, on that last day. To... to mask my significant, so it would appear --”
“Got it,” John said, suddenly busy straightening paperwork in front of him.
“John,” Sherlock says, too softly for him to hear over the shuffling of paper. “It’s important that she was chosen,” he says more loudly. John’s aggressive organization stops, but he doesn’t look up. “She’s powerful, expensive, probably the best Death in London.”
“Nothing but the best for you, yeah?”
Sherlock sits in his chair, steeples his hands under his chin. “Do we need to talk about this?”
“About what?”
“You being angry with me.” His eyes are closed, but he can track John moving away from the table and sitting in his own chair across. He waits for John to say something, but there is only silence. Sherlock doesn’t know how long he is supposed to wait for John to say something. He just knows these are the sorts of conversations friends have. Aren’t they? Friends? He presses the tips of his fingers together almost painfully. “Are you angry with me?”
“Have I ever had a problem expressing my anger toward you?”
Eyes still closed, Sherlock smiles. “No.”
“Then I’ll let you know. Never worry.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
“Of course. Just asking out of curiosity, were you?”
This entire conversation is ridiculous. There’s work to be done. What was he hoping... ? “So, never mind?”
“Done.”
“Good.” He stands, rubbing his palms together. “I predict Mycroft will be here before the day is over to tell us we can’t work this case.”
John raises his eyebrows. “Best get to work.”
A sudden burst of adoration blooms in Sherlock's chest and almost takes his breath away. He covers with a slight cough and starts rifling through the papers on the table. Anderson's forensics get binned. Molly’s reports of evidence collected off the body get handed to John, who starts reading out loud, while Sherlock considers the scant information before him.
“Three Deaths murdered in four months. Three. Is there symbolism in three?”
John stops reading. “You’re serious? Where should I start?”
Fearing another lecture on the Solar System, Sherlock waves his hand. “Never mind. This won't be the last murder.” He turns and scrutinizes John, who looks back impassively. He is used to this. “You were a three yesterday, but today I see the garland. Four. You like it when we have a plan.”
“I think that's obvious by now.” John tilts his head and very unsubtly looks Sherlock over. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again.
He doesn’t need the reminder, the weight of seven sharp swords digging into his shoulders are enough. Tonight, he’ll put his mind to the puzzle and the weight will ease by one. John never comments, though. Sherlock sees him look, but since their conversation when he first moved in, John has held his opinion on what he sees. Oh, there are signs. More patience when ten blades pierce his back. Quiet when three cross where his heart beats that only the violin will soothe. Excitement when the garland hangs from a single blade, for that means the game’s afoot. Despite Sherlock’s attempts to ignore his significant, John never does.
*****
Mrs. Hudson is setting out tea when Sherlock hears a distinctive step on the stairs. He pauses mid-codetta, then continues playing. John is sticking map pins in a map locating the businesses of known Deaths. It may not be necessary, but it helps John feel useful, which will keep him from leaving to meet Stamford, or some new friend he made in Sherlock’s absence.
“We’ll need another setting, Mrs. H,” he says.
“He never drinks it,” John mumbles around a pin.
“It would be impolite not to offer, John,” Sherlock says.
Mrs. Hudson grumbles as she gets another out of the cupboard in the kitchen. He shares an amused glance with John before Mycroft appears in the doorway. Sherlock finishes with a flourish and sees John stifle a laugh behind his hand. They sit across from each other at the table. John pours.
“Cuppa, Mycroft?”
Instead of answering, Mycroft walks to what used to be the mirror and stares at the papers and photos taped to its surface. Sherlock has managed to work out timelines for Nessa and Bell’s final days, but Peaves's is proving to be a mystery. On several occasions earlier, Sherlock has found himself standing in front of her picture, lost in thought. John had become increasingly quiet through the afternoon, which is how he ended up placing pushpins on a map.
“You won’t find any answers in timelines, Sherlock,” Mycroft says.
“Simply gathering data. Don’t know what’s important yet, therefore everything is.”
“The only important information is that someone is hunting Deaths, making protecting those who are alive much more difficult.”
“Why is that?” John asks.
“Deaths are secretive for a reason. Once word gets out that they're in danger, they all go underground,” Sherlock answers.
John looks between them. “What am I missing?”
“Only everything,” Mycroft sighs. Sherlock smirks. “Yours is safe, by the way,” Mycroft says.
Sherlock freezes, waiting.
“But I thought...” John looks at Jasna Peaves’s picture, then at Sherlock, who can’t quite meet his eyes, then at Mycroft. Who Sherlock could strangle. Bloody Mycroft, always instigating.
“What about yours?” Sherlock cuts in before John can react. “I hope she’s safely protecting the Emperor of Britain’s secret identity.” There. Let Mycroft stew on that. As if he were actually fooling anyone with that silly Page’s mask.
But John isn’t reacting, no snorts or giggles, or anything that will annoy Mycroft and make him leave, because if he doesn’t have something useful to offer other than insinuations that will mess everything up with John, he needs to go. Six months. Six months of cases and adventures and danger and laughter and fretting about damaged furniture, and sniping about experiments and whose turn is was to buy the milk. He risks a look at John, whose lips are pursed. Sherlock waits. He doesn’t wait long.
“Right,” John says as he stands. He wipes his hand over his mouth and his eyebrows are doing terrible things and Sherlock wants to tell him to wait, but he doesn’t. “Right,” he says again, because he does love to repeat things. “You two can stand around playing your juvenile mindgames without me. Don’t know why I missed this.” While Sherlock is still glaring daggers at his brother, John grabs his jacket and leaves.
Sherlock should let him go. He will return. Will he return? Before Sherlock's... absence, he would have returned. Whatever Sherlock had done to anger John would be forgotten and a new mystery would distract him from even remembering why he was angry in the first place, or one of them would almost get killed, or Sherlock would decide they needed disguises, or breaking into a warehouse. But that was Then.
Sherlock clatters down the stairs. “John!” He yells before he has the door open, and just stops himself before smacking into the person in question. Who is simply standing outside with his hands on his hips. “John.”
John isn’t looking at him. He is breathing forcefully through his nose and his mouth is twisted and Sherlock doesn’t know how to say what he needs to say.
“When you came back, Sherlock...” John says. Sherlock waits, because he knows how this sentence ends. But John doesn’t say anything more, simply angry breathes some more.
“I promised you I wouldn’t keep things from you again. But this doesn’t count, because Mycroft is referring to something that happened before I knew you. So it can’t count as lying, or hiding, if it’s something you never knew.”
John looks at him, his eyes shifting between Sherlock’s eyes, over his face, over the hilts of three swords, and licks his lips. Sherlock lets him look. “Is... whatever it is, important to the case?”
“I don’t know. As of right now, I highly doubt it.”
“If, for some reason, it becomes--”
“Yes.”
John doesn’t believe him, Sherlock can tell. John wants to believe him, but his hands are clenching and opening unconsciously at his sides and his jaw twitches twice before he nods sharply.
“I’m going to,” John waves his hand, indicating leaving. Sherlock opens his mouth to stop him, but he holds up his other with a look of caution on his face. “You and Mycroft... finish whatever it is you have going on up there.” He scratches his jaw. “Get something we can use?”
Sherlock can only nod and watch John walk away. He’ll be back.
Mycroft is waiting for him in John’s chair when he returns. “Trouble in paradise?”
Sherlock ignores him, picks up his violin, but doesn’t play. He forces himself to not stand at the window and watch for John, sits on the sofa.
“If you’re going to insist on working this case against my better judgment, and no matter what I say, antagonising me will not help.”
“Jasna Peaves moved no fewer than seven times in the nine years between my visits to her.”
“Deaths relocate frequently.”
Sherlock scowls.
“Their work frequently attracts unsavory characters. It’s not unheard of for a Death as sought after as Jasna to change locations, names, masks,” Mycroft says easily, checks his nails.
“Two or three times, maybe. But move too much and your customers can’t find you, and will seek the services of another.”
Mycroft remains silent, watchful. If Sherlock was holding anything but his violin, it would be hurtling for his head.
“Who – or what – was she actually hiding from?”
“I promised Mummy--”
“Oh, leave Mummy out of this! For once, Mycroft.”
Mycroft stands. Of course, he will leave now. Just like a true Holmes - himself included - leaving is preferable to actually communicating. Sherlock stares at the mantle, the desk, anything rather than his brother’s insufferable face, so he is surprised to feel Mycroft sit next to him on the sofa.
“You would disappear. For months at a time. Even when I knew where you were, you weren’t safe. She was my only point of contact for you; the last person to see you when you...”
He looks over. Old. Mycroft looks older than he is. Sherlock bites back the ugly retort fighting for release. Stupid, to not do that, but something about Mycroft looking old and admitting he had been a bit (most likely terribly) worried. When did they get so sentimental about each other?
“Pavel is truly safe?” Sherlock asks instead.
“As far as I know.”
“What will happen if he is killed?”
“I have consulted every Death expert at my disposal. There is no consensus on the matter, though most believe, at the very least, that the suppressed suit might become... perceivable.”
Something in Sherlock’s chest constricts. Then releases. It could be done with. He isn’t quite certain how this makes him feel. Then again, feeling hasn't ever been something he worries over. Emotions are abstract nouns used to qualify behavior. Caring is not a advantage. Love is a vicious motivator. Abstractions to be pitied and scoffed, not examined or, god forbid, experienced. How much of that is due to the work Pavel did - for an exorbitant fee - when he was six, or is a side-effect of growing up Holmes, will never be known. He could speculate. Certainly John would have an opinion or two on the matter, but there would be no consensus.
Too much uncertainty.
“What do you know?”
Mycroft stands. Pulls a thumb drive out of his waistcoat pocket and places it on the table. “There isn’t much there. Database of last known addresses, assumed skill level, though I wouldn’t waste my time with those with lesser abilities. Your murderer is after someone specific.”
“He hates the concealment aspect of it.”
“To say the least.”
Sherlock narrows his eyes. “He is hoping to unmask a particular person. You? No. This isn’t political.” Sherlock stands, walks to the photos taped to his mirror. Looks at how hard and how often Jasna’s face was hit. “This is personal.”
“Thus more dangerous.” Mycroft starts for the door. “I don’t need to tell you to be careful. You wouldn’t be, even if my wishes mattered.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. Once he hears the front door close, he grabs the thumb drive and John’s laptop and goes to work.
*****
When John returns, Sherlock is lying on the sofa, lost in thought. He barely registers the sounds of John walking around the flat as he prepares for bed. At one point, he is vaguely aware of someone standing over him, but he doesn’t acknowledge the presence, and so it leaves.
Death. What is it about Death? Deaths mask, John stated simplistically. A dead Death unmasks the mask. Deaths are secretive, they mask themselves, and usually hide in occupations and lives that belie their power and under-the-table income. He thought Nessa was the outlier due to his lavish lifestyle, but that had been until Sherlock saw photos of his simple flat. The financial holdings were a protection put in place by his family, part of his mask.
Jasna Peaves, though.
His disdain for the importance others place on significants is no secret. Walk into a pub and the obvious is on a visual platter for all to see. Who is heartbroken, or has received a bonus, or wants to meet a new lover, all surface indicators that lead people to believe they know something about who they’re chatting up. Only Sherlock can see that the bonus will be pointless unless that Six of Pentacles quits gambling (evident from the way he checks multiple football scores on his phone and how the results affect what drink he orders next). Or that the Five of Cups is heartbroken because she is a pathological adulterer (as proven by the way her left thumb continuously rubs against the crease of her bare ring finger of the same hand). How sad it is that no one ever bothers to look past the surface until it is too late, now your heart is the broken one, your bank account has been drained. Petty entanglements best avoided by the ability to observe what others ignore.
John asked him once if that’s why he preferred dead bodies, murders, to cases involving the living. Sherlock thinks he was joking at the time, but in retrospect, John was right. A dead body carries no significant. It doesn’t even matter anymore what that person ever manifested. It equalizes everyone. It’s clean, leaving only data, not assumptions.
Jasna Peaves’s Deathless dead eyes stare at him. At their first meeting, she offered him a glass of an expensive Macallan to “take the edge off,” not knowing Sherlock had already covered that eventuality. It had been a kindness Sherlock was not expecting. It occurs to him now that they had been around the same age, and yet she seemed much older. This is important, though he isn’t certain why.
On a shelf, the ubiquitous copy of The Meaning of Your Significant: Discover Your Purpose, Uncover Your Hidden Motivations, and Find Your Best Matches!, which should be subtitled: most likely purchased by John whilst he was actively dating one dull woman after another, opens automatically to the section breaking down significant compatibility. Sherlock snorts and starts at the beginning.
He hears John moving about several hours later. When he stumbles into the kitchen, Sherlock holds a cup of coffee out for him in an effort to draw him over to the table before he sits with the paper. John raises his eyebrows in thanks and then raises them again when he sees what Sherlock is reading. Stage set, Sherlock puts the book down.
“How essential do you see your significant being, John?” He watches John’s face, tired still after so little sleep, creases more visible from being mashed by a pillow, eyes heavy-lidded before morning caffeine. He’s lovely, Sherlock thinks. Not handsome or dashing. Just...real, there, alive and unchanging. So many ways this could have been lost to him.
He mentally shakes himself. Perhaps he should have played his violin last night instead of reading that insipid book.
“Not very,” John says, interrupting his reverie.
“Come now.”
“No. No. You were right. Sigs are just,” he blows out a breath, “window dressing.”
Sherlock picks up the book. “Linda Goodman would disagree.” John quirks a smile and plucks the book from his hands and flips through it.
“Thought I was going to find my soulmate from this. Silly stuff.”
Sherlock scowls and looks at his own (cold) coffee. “Mother despaired that neither Mycroft nor I was born a Pentacle. She feared we would ruin the family financially.”
John tilts his head, then looks down at his cup. “Every time I got into a scrap as a boy, my mum would shrug it off. ‘There goes my Wand. Inviting trouble,’ she’d say.” He takes a sip of coffee, most likely to hide the troubled look now brewing in his eyes. Sherlock wishes to place his hand over them until it eases. “Suppose I couldn’t ask for more, being born to a family of Cups.”
Sherlock tilts his head, thinking. “Your whole family?” At John’s nod, he continues, “My whole family is Swords and I--”
“Was born a Sword? Not unusual, from what I hear.”
He inhales sharply. “Right.”
John shrugs. “I’m always the exception, it seems.”
Sherlock quirks a smile at him before getting up. He needs to move while he talks this through. “Deaths are born, unlike other Majors.” Step. Step. Step. Turn. “Usually into families dominated by Pentacles.” Step. Step. Step. “How is it others manifest Majors?” At John’s silence, he turns to see if he is paying attention. Ridiculous to check. John always pays attention, even if he can’t follow. He sees John’s raised eyebrows and pursed lips. Confusion? No. Wants to say something. Sherlock holds his hands outspread in invitation.
“I had a mate. American. In Afghanistan. After a particularly brutal tour, he had some, I don’t know, spiritual awakening? Spent his leave at some monastery, came back a Temperance. Other than His Highness, he’s the only Major I know. Bloody good shot, he was.”
“Mycroft turned Emperor around five years ago. We’d...lost touch. Change happened sometime in between.”
“Lost touch?”
Sherlock stops pacing enough to wave a hand. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter to the case? Or doesn’t matter at all?”
Step. Step. St-- “To the case.”
“All right.”
Sherlock exhales. Squints. “I was using. Heavily. Morphine and cocaine, mostly.”
He hears a sigh. Waits for some clucking or somesuch. John can be so adorably fussy sometimes. Hazards a glance only to see that John still looks...tired? No. Sad? Yes. Sad. Why is John sad? He doesn’t care if Sherlock and Mycroft get along. Think! What makes John sad? Oh.
Sometime he is so stupid.
“I’m not--”
“I know,” John says.
“--other than the occasional cigarette, which I know perfectly well you can smell, by the way. Not as if I’m hiding it from you.”
“Sherlock.”
He feels a sudden compulsion to stand by John, put his hand on John's shoulder. To let John feel the solidity of him and his presence. Before he can take step, step, step, though, John is up and heading for the stairs. He will go to his room and dress and think about Sherlock strung out and alone and feel helpless and sad, but when he returns he will look unbothered by any of it. Sherlock watches him go three steps before asking, “So which suit is the most compatible match for a Wand?”
John stops, but doesn’t turn. “Swords, of course.”
Of course. Sherlock blinks at the stairs long after John has ascended them.
*****
Lestrade texts later that morning.
They gather around a body face down outside a junk shop in Camden Town. As John crouches and turns the body to examine the multiple bruises on its face, Sherlock snaps photos and studies them. Male, late twenties, recently moved to London from Manchester. Black trousers, well cut, green cashmere jumper, frequently worn, a favorite. The soles of his black loafers indicate wearing on the outer edge of the left shoe, which also have a slightly thicker heel. A limper. Callouses and staining on the right hand from polishing silver.
None of this is relevant. Think! He exhales in frustration.
“Name’s Robert Walker. Inherited this shop from his uncle and moved here eight months ago,” Lestrade reads.
“Obvious.”
Lestrade stares at him for a moment, then continues, “Found by that guy over there when he came to open his shop at seven this morning.”
Sherlock barely glances at the witness. Irrelevant. John comes to join them, peeling off his gloves, and looking between Sherlock and Lestrade as if waiting for something.
“So...”
“So, what?”
“What do you see?”
He looks at the body, battered, dead, hard worker, limped, felt left out, accent obvious, cared about this shop, owned a dog, most likely Cocker Spaniel, probably hated being a Death. Probably left Manchester to avoid being a Death. Just wanted to keep a quaint little junk shop in Camden Town, meet a good bloke, hope whatever mask he had chosen would fool everyone enough. Dead. Battered. Hunted. All the way from Manchester?
He sighs. “Nothing.”
“What?”
“There is nothing here!”
“Sherlock.” He whirls around when John calls his name and scowls at him. John simply looks back at him, curious, not upset. Seven wands cross over John's head. Stubborn man. He will stand here and wait, regardless of the consequences. Never let it be said John Watson doesn’t choose his battles. John’s hand on his arm, steady and warm.
“He wasn’t even working as a Death. Why was he killed?”
“Doesn’t mean he never masked anyone,” John says.
“Our murderer is supposed to be hunting more powerful Deaths, not inactive weak ones!”
John’s hand squeezes his arm once, let's go. “Okay, let’s take this back to the flat. Talk it out.”
“No! This makes no sense. This--” He feels. He feels. Unmoored, all of a sudden. He grips John by his shoulders and stares into his eyes. “Tell me what you see.”
“What? Sherlock.”
“Tell me!”
His gaze briefly roams over Sherlock. “Seven,” he says softly. “Same seven you were yesterday, then you were Six, then briefly a Three, then a Six this morning. But now Seven again.”
“That’s it?”
John nods once, confused.
“Swords?” The clarification is necessary right now.
“What else?”
His heart pounding, Sherlock does a quick internal check. Seven blades rest on his shoulders, telling him he is stuck. Dull. He knows he’s stuck. Current approaches are failing. Obvious. God, he hates significants. Something is different, though. The blades cut. They hurt. Significants don’t hurt, one doesn’t even notice them unless one tries. But these, the sensation of their sharp edges digging into and under his skin, feeling almost as if they were crawling out from under--
John is still watching him, biting his lips, brow furrowed. Lovely, concerned man. Wants to say something. Won’t. Sherlock inhales once sharply. “We need to go.” John nods and takes his arm, leading him away. Does he seem that fragile?
“Sherlock!” Lestrade. He’d forgotten. Body. Yes.
“Not the same murderer. Connected, but not the one responsible. Look into known contract killers who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Most likely recently released from prison, needing the money. If you catch him, let me know.” He starts walking, thankful for John's guiding hand. “He has information I need.”
*****
Sherlock texts Mycroft. Is surprised he isn’t waiting for them when they return to the flat. John remains silent, watchful, biding his time until they are alone.
He perches in his chair, pulls his legs up to his chest, and breathes. The impression of blades gliding along his skin hasn’t abated. He is aware of a loop going through his mind Titanium 47.867, Vanadium 50.942, Chromium 51.996, Manganese... His heart is pounding, trying to beat out of his chest. He wants to let it. John sits in the chair opposite, waiting.
“Victor Trevor.”
“Okay.”
“He was reading Law at Cambridge while I was there. He came from a family steeped in public service. Good works. Had a purpose handed to him with his birth certificate.”
“A friend.”
“He was,” he hesitates, tasting the way the word wants to skew his mouth, “good. Right. Certain.”
“So a long walk from Sebastian, then.”
He barks out a laugh. “Also, unlike Sebastian in that he was clever. A bright star, his tutor used to say. He was planning on working with the poor, on his way to becoming an MP for his family’s district.” He shakes his head. “Labour, of course.” Talking is helping, he realizes. He looks at John and can’t look away.
John is... Good. Right. Certain.
“He turned Strength before we were twenty-one. I mocked him. It was so painfully pure, so filled with integrity, and self-confidence. Which is what he was, I suppose. What I... liked about him.”
“He didn’t care when you mocked him? That is a friend.”
He shakes his head. “No. It wasn’t.” He uncurls his legs carefully, feeling returning to his feet distracting him from the pain in his head. “We had a row. He told me I would be lucky if I turned Major at all. All of my...gifts... and I was so... he told me he could see me one day, and I would be The Hermit, and it would be my own fault.”
He hears John inhale and smirks at him. “I was being a total arse.”
“Still that’s not --”
“Not much different from being called a machine.”
“So you were deliberately pushing him away, too?”
Leave it to John to simply know these things. “Possibly. But there was more.”
“What more? Sherlock, what is going on? You can’t sit still. You’re pale and shaking. And you’ve been checking your phone every half-minute through this whole conversation.”
“Bloody Mycroft. Always around when he’s not wanted. But now...”
“Why do we need Mycroft?”
“So he can explain everything!” He stands. Walks over to the photographs on shaky legs. Stares at Jasna’s broken, scarred face. “I thought she had fought back. I thought he had surprised her.” He turns to John. “She was strong, you know? Her family hated her. Tried to cut the skull off her skin, and she survived. She was kind, in spite of it all. But she didn’t fight. Not until the end. This was personal for someone.”
“So she is the key.”
“Yes, but why?”
“You’ll figure it out.” John is looking at him with such earnestness, it makes Sherlock feel nauseated.
“So much faith.” He can't stand any longer, but he doesn't want John to worry, but he must sit immediately or his head will explode. The decision is removed by a hand on his back, pushing him to the sofa. He sprawls against the arm while John sits on the edge and checks his forehead (clammy, not feverish), his hands (trembling, cold), his pulse (hammering). John studies him, hand still on his neck where his carotid artery is attempting to beat through his skin into John’s fingertips.
“What do we need Mycroft to explain?”
“Why I’m like this.”
“You can explain. Explain it to me.” John’s voice is so soft. Probably the same one he uses with scared children. Titanium 47.867, Vanadium 50.942, Chromium... Sherlock blinks. Breathes.
“You don’t understand. I couldn’t think. I wanted to, but I would simply wander around the house, repeating elements, or the chemical composition of complex compounds. Or I would play my violin, practicing until my fingers bled. I wouldn’t talk to anyone. Couldn’t look at anyone. Mummy cried all the time. I didn’t mean to upset her. She would try to touch me and I would run away yelling, then hide under her chair so I could still be close to her.” He remembers it so clearly. The plush carpet beneath his fingertips. The proper cross of his mother's ankles in front of the chair. Lavender. Woodsmoke.
“That sounds terribly lonely.”
“I didn't even notice. They brought in experts, most of whom recommended special schools, but she didn’t want to send me away, no matter what Father said.”
“You’re her son.” John’s fingertips leave his neck and grab his hand. “So what did they do?”
“Pavel. Pavel fixed everything. He was kind. His voice was soft and he didn’t try to touch me until I was ready and he always had sesame cream fudge in his pocket and Mycroft came home from school to be there and his skull didn’t scare me at all.”
“He was a Death.”
Sherlock nods. “I would stare at it and try to catch it moving separate from his face, but it didn’t. I thought it was beautiful. Like having your bones live outside your skin.”
John is closer now, holding Sherlock's hands, keeping them from shaking. He grasps John’s capable fingers, his anchor now, possibly always. Holding them allows him to close his eyes. John pulls one hand away and Sherlock protests until he feels it against his forehead again, pushing his hair out of his face. He leans into the touch and thinks he hears John murmur something, but doesn’t catch the words. He notices his heartbeat slowing, though. Breathing becoming less difficult.
“So what did Pavel do?”
“He fixed me.” His blinks slowly. “Pavel’s in trouble.”
“Is that why you texted Mycroft?”
“Yes, he needs to find Pavel.” He hates that his voice is choking up, feels the knot in his throat of impending tears. He won’t cry, though. Because John is right here. He believes that quite possibly the only thing keeping him from spiraling into the morass crowding his thoughts is John. Here. One hand on Sherlock's face, thumb stroking his temple (throbbing), the other gripped between his two.
“Probably Mycroft is looking for Pavel now,” John says in his most Reasonable Doctor Voice. “That’s why he isn’t here.”
“But I need him to help me think!”
“No. No, you don’t. You can think just fine without him. You’ve been doing it for years.”
“Not like this!”
“Sherlock Holmes, look at me.” He does. John’s determined face is all he can see, all he wants to see. John grips his face. “I may not know much, but I am certain you have the most brilliant mind in the world. I have watched you think through bigger problems on less sleep, under the influence of hallucinogens, and quite literally under the gun. Whatever is going on, I can assure you, your mind is still as sharp and amazing as it was this morning. So think!”
He breathes. The swordpoints still sharp, his head still a throbbing mess. He breathes. Something teases the edges of his thoughts. “It was personal.”
“You said that. What made Jasna’s murder personal?”
“I went to Jasna so she could undo what Pavel had done. After Victor. So I could... She was different, something was different.”
“She was strong. A survivor.”
“No. Yes, but. She took in apprentices. Kids, probably kicked out of their homes, or runaways. Both times I saw her, she had a different child there. Of course the first one, a girl, I believe, would have been old enough to be on her own by the time I went back.”
“So where is her current apprentice?”
He shakes his head. Finds he can smile a bit at John. “Text Lestrade. We need to see her flat.” Though his legs are still shaky, he stands, looks for his coat, realizes he’s still wearing it, straightens his scarf. He starts for the door, but is stopped by John’s hand on his chest.
John’s face is serious. Sherlock searches his database for what he is looking at. Finds it hard to categorize because it’s a combination, he thinks. Worry. Affection? Maybe. Determination.
“We’ve a murderer to catch right now, but we’re not done talking about what’s going on with you. Later, all right?”
It happens like this, he knows. The bright-hot bloom in his chest. The rightness of John’s touch. Sherlock leans forward. Hesitates. Doesn’t want it to be like Victor, that gentle push away, but he could handle it if it were John. Whatever ‘it’ is. Closes the distance. Gently touches his lips to John’s once. Twice. Thinks about a third, but John beats him to it by stepping up. The kisses are soft and brief, but Sherlock can feel the pressure of John’s lips after they part. Can feel and isn’t afraid. When he pulls back, John’s eyes are bright and he’s smiling and puzzled, but smiling all the same.
“I promise,” Sherlock answers. This time, he can tell, John believes him.
Part 2
Recipient:
mundungus42Author:
goddessdster (AO3)Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, DI Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, OFC
Rating: Mature
Word Count: ~16,000
Warnings: Brief description of a child experiencing pain, mentions of drug use, M/M sexual content
Other Tags: Magical Realism, Demisexuality, First Time, Tarot
Author's Notes: Many thanks to my fantastic and tireless betas,
annlarimer and dr_tectonic! It should go without saying that any remaining mistakes are entirely of my own doing. Additional information related to the story can be found at the end.Summary: John's true self expresses as a Wand and Sherlock's as a Sword, so whatever they are, they're perfectly matched. Except maybe Sherlock isn't entirely a Sword. This would bear examining, if it weren't for the murderer stalking Deaths.
Love is not a state, a feeling, a disposition, but an exchange, uneven, fraught with history, with ghosts, with longings that are more or less legible to those who try to see one another with their own faulty vision.
Judith Butler, “Doubting Love”
Significant: The Knight of Swords
The day after Sherlock most certainly did not intend to commit suicide by poison, he leaned against the open doorway and watched John unpack the contents of three boxes. Three. John pulled a handful of books from the box in front of him and glanced around the attic bedroom.
“You can keep your books on the shelves in the sitting room, if you like.”
John tossed the books on his bed and looked over with a smile. “Ta.” His eyes roamed over Sherlock in a way that felt familiar and intrusive, causing his skin to itch. This needed addressing, and immediately.
“I don’t talk about it.”
John’s brow furrowed. “Okay.”
There. Done. He knew John wasn’t that much of an idiot, if the events of last night were any indication.
“But... you can feel it, right?”
Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Why does everybody have to make things complicated? Why does no one simply listen? He said he didn’t talk about it, what is so difficult-- “It’s nothing. It’s transport.” He tapped his temple. “This is what matters. This gets the work done. Not this,” he swept his hands down his front, “or this,” he waved his arms in the air over his head where he could - if he wanted, which was never - feel a slight weight.
John’s gaze darted away from the air above Sherlock’s head and he turned back to unpacking boxes. “All right.” His tone was mild. Sherlock was becoming familiar with it. It meant things, Sherlock could tell.
“Yours changed, as you know.”
“Oh, we’re allowed to talk about mine, then?”
Sherlock walked to the bed and picked up one of the books. He didn’t recognize the title, but the bright colors and lurid images on the covers told him enough – popular fiction. John watched him.
“Mine is irrelevant. It is merely another factor of being born and having to walk the surface of this world. It neither defines nor classifies me. But yours,” at this he dropped the book back on the bed, turned and walked in a tight circle around John, who merely raised an eyebrow. “Yours changed. You showed up at Barts with ten swords hanging off your back. Again, irrelevant. Anyone with half a brain could see your circumstances in your limp and the fray of your jumper. That most people choose not to look beyond a person’s significant implies the relative weakness to which the human mind has succumbed. To look beyond, beneath, to deduce. That is what sets me apart.”
“So my sig had no part in everything you knew about me.”
“I told you how I --”
“No, I get that – and again, brilliant – but you’re saying it didn’t factor in any of that at all.”
“Obviously, as those things I stated are still true, and yet here you are, an Ace of Wands, ready to begin a new adventure. Wands is your natural suit, correct?”
“But you also said you always miss something.”
“You do listen.” Sherlock smiled, then frowned when the meaning of John’s statement hit him. “It did--” he considered how much to reveal. “It did lead me to believe you would be a more amenable flatmate than most.”
He received a disbelieving look at that as John opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. He shrugged.
“Someone carrying a Ten of Swords is at a mental and emotional impasse, has given up, is less likely to complain about... things.”
This time, John smiled. “But as you figured out, I’m not a Sword; I’m a Wand. Is that going to be a problem?”
“You shot a man last night because you believed him a threat to me. A Sword would be less likely to have done that. So, no. Not a problem.”
John raised his eyebrows and turned back to his meager boxes. “Then I'd best get back to my unpacking.”
Past: Five of Cups
Emotional change or loss
1987
It wasn’t supposed to hurt. Mycroft always told him the significant was just air and light, nothing was actually poking him, no real water was pouring over his head, not real not real. But the light pierced like shards and his head was filled with ringing, no, clanging, no, blaring. A single thought could not hold on. Sherlock tried to recite the Periodic Table and got stuck to the point where he simply kept repeating the same three over and over, hoping to dislodge the pain clamped around his eyes and ears Titanium 47.867, Vanadium 50.942, Chromium 51.996, Manganese...Manganese...Manganese... the word became a chant that seemed to push everything away until--
“Sherlock.”
“Manganese. Manganese. Manganese!”
“Sherlock!”
“Shut up, Mycroft! Go away! Chromium 51.996, Manganese. Manganese...”
“54.938.”
A hand on his shoulder that he couldn’t shake off. “I know it!”
“I’m sure you do.” That was not Mycroft’s voice, soft and kind, weaving between the bleats of the horn currently lodged behind his occipital lobe and pushing his brain matter this way and that.
“Sherlock, the doctor has something for the pain.”
“My head!”
“Yes, for your head as well.”
“Why do I feel swords in my legs, like something slicing at me. You said it wouldn’t hurt!”
“I was wrong.”
That, just that. Enough to dampen the noisome pain and stop him pulling away. Mycroft was never wrong.
“Come along.”
He went.
2002
He was ready this time.
He had calculated down to the milliliter the exact combination that would create the ameliorating and invigorating effect he would need. He had found the perfect Death, hiding as a Two of Pents, no less. Deaths always hid as Pentacles. This one would ask no questions, he’d been assured, would simply do as asked in exchange for the cash in Sherlock’s pocket. The trick would be timing the injection with the change. Before boarding the train from Cambridge, Sherlock had tabulated his weight, last meal (two digestives with his morning coffee), and BMI, and figured he should shoot up two to three minutes tops before the change took effect. He scowled at his reflection in the train window. He hated uncertainty. That sixty-second interval could be the difference between transcendence and interminable pain.
He pulled his notebook out and restarted his calculations, including his resting pulse rate. Why had he not thought of that before? Something. There was always something he missed. 0.0375 of an hour. He pulled out his stopwatch and set the timer for 2 minutes, fifteen seconds.
Fifty quid just to get through the door of an anonymous flat in Tower Hamlets to a room that smelled sweet and spicy, like a bite of frankincense in his nose. The Death was sitting cross-legged on a shabby sofa while a young girl cleaned off the massage table in the middle of the room. The room was warm. Sherlock unzipped his jacket, but left it on. When the girl was done cleaning and re-covering the table with a white sheet, the Death stood and walked over to Sherlock. In the dim light he could see several scars along her cheekbones and at her jawline. He kept his face stony. This Death wasn’t born to a family happy to see her.
Sherlock stood and waited, uncertain. The girl passed him on her way out the room, and only then did Sherlock see the visage of a skull overlaying her features. So, a Good Samaritan, then. Taking in others rejected by their families, apprenticing them. Deaths were killed as witches as recently as a hundred years ago. It was still not unusual for families ruled by superstition to react the same.
The Death didn’t move until the girl closed the door behind herself. She walked around Sherlock, eyeing him up and down. He forced his hands to relax at his sides, but couldn’t stop his eyes from studying her scars. Serbian, most likely, though several generations in the UK already. She tossed her hair back, giving him a better view. He smiled.
She smiled back. “Trying to hide your heartbreak, little Three?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He looked around the simple room, spotted the door to the toilet. “How long?”
“We can start right now, I’ll be ready in minutes.”
He pointed to the door. “May I? First?” He injected an appropriate amount of nervousness into his voice and darted his eyes to the side.
She gestured toward the door, then proceeded to ignore him as she rolled up her sleeves and stood at the head of the table, adjusting a flat pillow.
He cursed the eager trembling of his hands as he locked the door behind himself and pulled a pouch from the pocket of his jacket. He checked his watch before taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeve. He turned on the tap and set to work.
Two minutes later, Sherlock was lying on the table. The swirl of his stimulant-narcotic cocktail created a dreamy static around the edges of his mind. The touch of a cool hand on his chest made him flinch, and brought him back to his purpose.
“Ready to hide your heart, then,” she said, not unkindly.
He shook his head. “Trying to uncover it, actually,” he said, but his voice was faint, or the Death wasn’t paying attention. Her lips pursed, eyes closed, she looked... She looked... Sherlock searched his mind for the expression in his database. Angry, no. Disturbed, too dramatic. Troubled.
She looked inside Sherlock and was troubled by what she saw. When she pulled her hand away, her expression was...sad, no. Wait. Yes, sad.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “What you want. No. Choose a mask.”
“I don’t want a mask. Masks are dull and mean nothing. I simply want to --”
“Choose something. Wand. You want to look adventurous, yes? Lots of boys love adventure. Or, with those clothes, a Knight of Pentacles, all the girls will think you have money.”
“Stop being idiotic! I don’t want to pretend to be anything. I have nothing to hide; that’s why I’m here. I’ve tried to undo it myself and I can’t. I’ve tried to find the Death who did this originally and I can’t. You are, supposedly, the most powerful Death in London. You certainly cost enough. You can do this. I know you can.”
Sherlock sat up, pulled the hair on his head, on his arms, on his eyebrows, to keep himself focused. Talking too much, he was always talking too much. He realized the Death was petting his hands and shushing him, as if he were a child needing soothing.
“All right,” she was saying. “I’ll see what I can do.”
2008
Sherlock opened his eyes. He was on a wide soft bed in a dim room. Within seconds, piercing pain shot through his eyeballs and he covered his ears. Not that covering his ears would do any good, as the blaring noise was inside his head. He curled over onto his side and tucked his head up against his knees. He felt a hand on his back and shook it off. It returned.
“Piss off, Mycroft!”
The hand left his back, but Mycroft's infuriating presence still choked the air out of the room. Sherlock could smell cigarette smoke, both stale and fresh. His nose, currently buried in his ratty jumper, identified the source of the stale, which would mean Mycroft has been indulging again. Perhaps he had actually died this time, as he couldn’t think of what other reason would cause his brother to pick up a cigarette. If Mycroft thought Sherlock was going to apologize for living his own life – for god’s sake, he was an adult.
“I have been looking for you for six months.”
Sherlock wrapped his arms over his head and curled further into himself, only noticing the IV by the tugging sensation on his hand. It was then he realized the blaring was more of a bleat and the sensation of being sliced by a thousand sharp blades was becoming faint.
“Hair of the dog? Bit hypocritical of you,” he said into the cradle of his lap.
“Considering the alternative was possible cardiac arrest, I can handle a touch of equivocation.”
“Has it occurred to you you’re the reason I am this way?”
“Sherlock, I was all of thirteen when the decision was made. How much power do you think I had?”
Sherlock snorted. Mummy always listened to Mycroft. Even when they were boys, Mycroft home from Eton, reeking of self-importance and morning coats, neck still stiff from the winged collars, in the drawing room during her welcoming teas where the two of them would sit together and chat like old school chums. Mummy’s head always leaned a certain way in Mycroft’s direction, as if she were intent on catching every word. Sherlock could smell lavender and woodsmoke in the air as if he were home right then. He longed, at that moment. He would have given anything to be there right now, Mummy’s eyes intent upon him as he explained his latest experiment. Always so careful to explain it right. Practicing his violin as close to the doorway as he dared, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
Mycroft sighed. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? Once it was done, it couldn’t be undone. That was clearly explained. What were you thinking?”
Sherlock curled more tightly into himself. This would pass more quickly if he refused to talk. Eventually, the suit shift would settle, the drugs would exit his system, and he could leave.
Two days later and the IV had been replaced by a regularly scheduled sequence of pills of decreasing dosage. Sherlock wandered the halls of the isolated house, caught the night nurse asleep, deduced the stone-faced security crew, and worked out he was somewhere in the Lake District by the topography outside his window. Despite the security presence, Sherlock knew he could have left at any time. Each passing hour sharpened his focus, however, and the welcome noise of his brain coming back to rights made him grateful for the quiet of his surroundings. Not that he would ever admit as much to Mycroft, who visited two days later with his violin.
“I’m ready to leave,” he said. He was stretched out on the settee, cradling, but not playing, the violin. He stared out the window at the rolling green hills. In the distance he spotted a sliver of silvery water.
“Are you asking my permission?”
“Of course not. Though it would be a gesture of good faith if you could provide me with a ride back to London.”
When he received no answer, he forced himself to turn his head. He blinked. Mycroft looked so much older than Sherlock had anticipated. Slimmer, though jowlier. Sharper. More tired. It had been almost three years since he had last seen his brother, and Sherlock wondered for the first time what Mycroft thought when he looked at him.
“You look like you could use a few meals, and a haircut wouldn’t hurt,” Mycroft said.
“You look as if you’ve finally stopped eating a few yourself.”
“Must we do this today, Sherlock?”
Tired. Mycroft sounded tired. Because of him? Worry? No. Mycroft didn’t worry. Mycroft solved. Mycroft made things happen as he needed. He was not one to sit about chewing his nails over his lost baby brother.
“All I need is a ride back to London.”
“And the shift?”
“It’s complete; no more pain. Everything is fine now. It won’t happen again.” Sherlock made himself look into his brother’s eyes as he said this. For the most part, he even meant it.
Mycroft stood. Straightened his waistcoat. Checked his pocket watch. Pulled out his phone and tapped a few buttons. “There will be a car here for you in three hours. It will drop you at a flat I’ve arranged. Don’t look at me like that, where exactly were you thinking of going? Back to those filthy tunnels I pulled you out of? Stop rolling your eyes, you’re not a child anymore.”
Sherlock turned to stare out the window. “Fine.”
He kept his head turned away, never fooling himself for a moment that Mycroft wasn’t aware Sherlock could see him in its reflection. Only after Mycroft exited the room did Sherlock dare touch the strings of his instrument.
2011
Different block of Council flats, eighty quid at the door, same Death, different apprentice. This time there would be no bite of the needle in his veins. No need.
She watched him as he headed toward the table, pulling off his scarf and coat.
“I don’t think so, Twin-Suit.”
He scowled. Leave it to a Death to talk like some fantasy novel elf lord. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Time to do this. Now or never. “I’m not here to attempt that again.” He sat, then laid supine on the table.
“You’re different,” she said, and it was true. He was, though in many ways he had not the time to categorize.
“You look the same,” he said. It was the truth, though he didn’t need to check every scar along her jawline to confirm. Her eyes had the same troubled expression, as if nine years hadn’t passed. “I’m not here for the same as before,” he repeated, “Just a simple mask.”
“Could’ve gone to anyone for a simple mask, why pay my fees?”
“Your discretion is renowned. I...need that right now.”
She smiled. It wasn’t unpleasant. “Hiding your sig won’t hide you from the police.”
“That isn't what I'm aiming for.” He looked to the clock again. He was running out of time. Everything depended on timing. He swallowed and stared into her eyes, hoping his desperation would work on her as it had before. “Please.”
Briefly staring, then she nodded, rolled up her sleeves and placed her palm on his chest. “What are you aiming for, then?”
He closed his eyes in relief. “Nothing.”
Present: Eight of Swords
Powerlessness overcome by intuition
Three photographs are taped to the mirror. In one, a man, later sixties, bludgeoned on the side of the head. The second, another man, younger, mid-fifties, also bludgeoned, this time at the base of the skull. The third features a woman in her early thirties. The attacker had not anticipated that she would fight back, and the majority of his blows landed on the side of her face before the fatal blow to her forehead dropped her in the heap of rubbish in which she was found. Her eyes stare at Sherlock from the photograph.
Sherlock paces in front of the pictures.
“Not a lot up there.”
Sherlock just stops himself from flinching. That never used to happen. John sneaking up on him. Or simply being where Sherlock wasn’t expecting him to be. “I thought you went to the shop.”
“Yes. And then I returned. Here I am. Returned.” John stands next to him and looks at the pictures. “Tell me what happened here.”
“What do you see?”
John sighs and scratches his chin. “The men were attacked from behind, most likely surprise attacks, but the woman was hit multiple times. Are you sure it’s the same person?”
“The attacks were spread over a four-month period, but Molly was able to match the marks on all the victims’ skin as being from the same weapon.”
John raises his eyebrows. “She’s good.”
“That she is.” It’s an afterthought, as Sherlock's attention is already back on the pictures. He senses as John steps away though, wonders when he stopped noticing how close John stands. “Hand me the postmortem, no, not that. Anderson’s forensics were rubbish. The other --” he waves his hand until John places a page in it. He tapes it next to the first victim. “Devin Bell. Pawnbroker. Found in the alley near his shop in Battersea. Body left where it was murdered.” He looks at the second paper John automatically hands him and tapes it in place. “Robert Nessa. Managed his parents’ financial interests, which were vast. Found by his car in Croydon. Also found at his murder scene.” He hesitates before grabbing the third page, staring at the photograph of the beaten woman.
“Sherlock?”
“Jasna Peaves. No known occupation. Found in Lewisham. Not killed in the alley in which she was found.”
John looks at the page in his hand. “What makes her different? Aside from being female, unemployed, killed somewhere other than where her body was found, and beaten until almost unrecognizable.”
“What, indeed.” Sherlock paces in front of the mirror, his eyes tracking every detail he can get from the two-dimensional images. He doesn’t realize he’s stopped in front of Jasna Peaves’s photo until he feels John’s hand on his arm.
“What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”
Oh, that tone again. Sherlock wishes he could lie. Wants to obfuscate. Knows he can get away with it. John is so hell-bent on trusting him, on proving his trust is a gift, not to be earned, no matter how untrustworthy Sherlock has been. He could say anything, nothing, the littlest of things, and John would believe him. But then, but then. Eventually it will come out.
“They’re Deaths. Someone stalked them, waited until the perfect moment, then killed them. Someone chose them specifically.”
John picks up the report from NSY. “There’s nothing in here about their sigs.”
“Of course not, John. Deaths don’t hang out literal signs.”
“So how did you--”
Sherlock taps the picture in front of him. “I used her services, on that last day. To... to mask my significant, so it would appear --”
“Got it,” John said, suddenly busy straightening paperwork in front of him.
“John,” Sherlock says, too softly for him to hear over the shuffling of paper. “It’s important that she was chosen,” he says more loudly. John’s aggressive organization stops, but he doesn’t look up. “She’s powerful, expensive, probably the best Death in London.”
“Nothing but the best for you, yeah?”
Sherlock sits in his chair, steeples his hands under his chin. “Do we need to talk about this?”
“About what?”
“You being angry with me.” His eyes are closed, but he can track John moving away from the table and sitting in his own chair across. He waits for John to say something, but there is only silence. Sherlock doesn’t know how long he is supposed to wait for John to say something. He just knows these are the sorts of conversations friends have. Aren’t they? Friends? He presses the tips of his fingers together almost painfully. “Are you angry with me?”
“Have I ever had a problem expressing my anger toward you?”
Eyes still closed, Sherlock smiles. “No.”
“Then I’ll let you know. Never worry.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
“Of course. Just asking out of curiosity, were you?”
This entire conversation is ridiculous. There’s work to be done. What was he hoping... ? “So, never mind?”
“Done.”
“Good.” He stands, rubbing his palms together. “I predict Mycroft will be here before the day is over to tell us we can’t work this case.”
John raises his eyebrows. “Best get to work.”
A sudden burst of adoration blooms in Sherlock's chest and almost takes his breath away. He covers with a slight cough and starts rifling through the papers on the table. Anderson's forensics get binned. Molly’s reports of evidence collected off the body get handed to John, who starts reading out loud, while Sherlock considers the scant information before him.
“Three Deaths murdered in four months. Three. Is there symbolism in three?”
John stops reading. “You’re serious? Where should I start?”
Fearing another lecture on the Solar System, Sherlock waves his hand. “Never mind. This won't be the last murder.” He turns and scrutinizes John, who looks back impassively. He is used to this. “You were a three yesterday, but today I see the garland. Four. You like it when we have a plan.”
“I think that's obvious by now.” John tilts his head and very unsubtly looks Sherlock over. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again.
He doesn’t need the reminder, the weight of seven sharp swords digging into his shoulders are enough. Tonight, he’ll put his mind to the puzzle and the weight will ease by one. John never comments, though. Sherlock sees him look, but since their conversation when he first moved in, John has held his opinion on what he sees. Oh, there are signs. More patience when ten blades pierce his back. Quiet when three cross where his heart beats that only the violin will soothe. Excitement when the garland hangs from a single blade, for that means the game’s afoot. Despite Sherlock’s attempts to ignore his significant, John never does.
Mrs. Hudson is setting out tea when Sherlock hears a distinctive step on the stairs. He pauses mid-codetta, then continues playing. John is sticking map pins in a map locating the businesses of known Deaths. It may not be necessary, but it helps John feel useful, which will keep him from leaving to meet Stamford, or some new friend he made in Sherlock’s absence.
“We’ll need another setting, Mrs. H,” he says.
“He never drinks it,” John mumbles around a pin.
“It would be impolite not to offer, John,” Sherlock says.
Mrs. Hudson grumbles as she gets another out of the cupboard in the kitchen. He shares an amused glance with John before Mycroft appears in the doorway. Sherlock finishes with a flourish and sees John stifle a laugh behind his hand. They sit across from each other at the table. John pours.
“Cuppa, Mycroft?”
Instead of answering, Mycroft walks to what used to be the mirror and stares at the papers and photos taped to its surface. Sherlock has managed to work out timelines for Nessa and Bell’s final days, but Peaves's is proving to be a mystery. On several occasions earlier, Sherlock has found himself standing in front of her picture, lost in thought. John had become increasingly quiet through the afternoon, which is how he ended up placing pushpins on a map.
“You won’t find any answers in timelines, Sherlock,” Mycroft says.
“Simply gathering data. Don’t know what’s important yet, therefore everything is.”
“The only important information is that someone is hunting Deaths, making protecting those who are alive much more difficult.”
“Why is that?” John asks.
“Deaths are secretive for a reason. Once word gets out that they're in danger, they all go underground,” Sherlock answers.
John looks between them. “What am I missing?”
“Only everything,” Mycroft sighs. Sherlock smirks. “Yours is safe, by the way,” Mycroft says.
Sherlock freezes, waiting.
“But I thought...” John looks at Jasna Peaves’s picture, then at Sherlock, who can’t quite meet his eyes, then at Mycroft. Who Sherlock could strangle. Bloody Mycroft, always instigating.
“What about yours?” Sherlock cuts in before John can react. “I hope she’s safely protecting the Emperor of Britain’s secret identity.” There. Let Mycroft stew on that. As if he were actually fooling anyone with that silly Page’s mask.
But John isn’t reacting, no snorts or giggles, or anything that will annoy Mycroft and make him leave, because if he doesn’t have something useful to offer other than insinuations that will mess everything up with John, he needs to go. Six months. Six months of cases and adventures and danger and laughter and fretting about damaged furniture, and sniping about experiments and whose turn is was to buy the milk. He risks a look at John, whose lips are pursed. Sherlock waits. He doesn’t wait long.
“Right,” John says as he stands. He wipes his hand over his mouth and his eyebrows are doing terrible things and Sherlock wants to tell him to wait, but he doesn’t. “Right,” he says again, because he does love to repeat things. “You two can stand around playing your juvenile mindgames without me. Don’t know why I missed this.” While Sherlock is still glaring daggers at his brother, John grabs his jacket and leaves.
Sherlock should let him go. He will return. Will he return? Before Sherlock's... absence, he would have returned. Whatever Sherlock had done to anger John would be forgotten and a new mystery would distract him from even remembering why he was angry in the first place, or one of them would almost get killed, or Sherlock would decide they needed disguises, or breaking into a warehouse. But that was Then.
Sherlock clatters down the stairs. “John!” He yells before he has the door open, and just stops himself before smacking into the person in question. Who is simply standing outside with his hands on his hips. “John.”
John isn’t looking at him. He is breathing forcefully through his nose and his mouth is twisted and Sherlock doesn’t know how to say what he needs to say.
“When you came back, Sherlock...” John says. Sherlock waits, because he knows how this sentence ends. But John doesn’t say anything more, simply angry breathes some more.
“I promised you I wouldn’t keep things from you again. But this doesn’t count, because Mycroft is referring to something that happened before I knew you. So it can’t count as lying, or hiding, if it’s something you never knew.”
John looks at him, his eyes shifting between Sherlock’s eyes, over his face, over the hilts of three swords, and licks his lips. Sherlock lets him look. “Is... whatever it is, important to the case?”
“I don’t know. As of right now, I highly doubt it.”
“If, for some reason, it becomes--”
“Yes.”
John doesn’t believe him, Sherlock can tell. John wants to believe him, but his hands are clenching and opening unconsciously at his sides and his jaw twitches twice before he nods sharply.
“I’m going to,” John waves his hand, indicating leaving. Sherlock opens his mouth to stop him, but he holds up his other with a look of caution on his face. “You and Mycroft... finish whatever it is you have going on up there.” He scratches his jaw. “Get something we can use?”
Sherlock can only nod and watch John walk away. He’ll be back.
Mycroft is waiting for him in John’s chair when he returns. “Trouble in paradise?”
Sherlock ignores him, picks up his violin, but doesn’t play. He forces himself to not stand at the window and watch for John, sits on the sofa.
“If you’re going to insist on working this case against my better judgment, and no matter what I say, antagonising me will not help.”
“Jasna Peaves moved no fewer than seven times in the nine years between my visits to her.”
“Deaths relocate frequently.”
Sherlock scowls.
“Their work frequently attracts unsavory characters. It’s not unheard of for a Death as sought after as Jasna to change locations, names, masks,” Mycroft says easily, checks his nails.
“Two or three times, maybe. But move too much and your customers can’t find you, and will seek the services of another.”
Mycroft remains silent, watchful. If Sherlock was holding anything but his violin, it would be hurtling for his head.
“Who – or what – was she actually hiding from?”
“I promised Mummy--”
“Oh, leave Mummy out of this! For once, Mycroft.”
Mycroft stands. Of course, he will leave now. Just like a true Holmes - himself included - leaving is preferable to actually communicating. Sherlock stares at the mantle, the desk, anything rather than his brother’s insufferable face, so he is surprised to feel Mycroft sit next to him on the sofa.
“You would disappear. For months at a time. Even when I knew where you were, you weren’t safe. She was my only point of contact for you; the last person to see you when you...”
He looks over. Old. Mycroft looks older than he is. Sherlock bites back the ugly retort fighting for release. Stupid, to not do that, but something about Mycroft looking old and admitting he had been a bit (most likely terribly) worried. When did they get so sentimental about each other?
“Pavel is truly safe?” Sherlock asks instead.
“As far as I know.”
“What will happen if he is killed?”
“I have consulted every Death expert at my disposal. There is no consensus on the matter, though most believe, at the very least, that the suppressed suit might become... perceivable.”
Something in Sherlock’s chest constricts. Then releases. It could be done with. He isn’t quite certain how this makes him feel. Then again, feeling hasn't ever been something he worries over. Emotions are abstract nouns used to qualify behavior. Caring is not a advantage. Love is a vicious motivator. Abstractions to be pitied and scoffed, not examined or, god forbid, experienced. How much of that is due to the work Pavel did - for an exorbitant fee - when he was six, or is a side-effect of growing up Holmes, will never be known. He could speculate. Certainly John would have an opinion or two on the matter, but there would be no consensus.
Too much uncertainty.
“What do you know?”
Mycroft stands. Pulls a thumb drive out of his waistcoat pocket and places it on the table. “There isn’t much there. Database of last known addresses, assumed skill level, though I wouldn’t waste my time with those with lesser abilities. Your murderer is after someone specific.”
“He hates the concealment aspect of it.”
“To say the least.”
Sherlock narrows his eyes. “He is hoping to unmask a particular person. You? No. This isn’t political.” Sherlock stands, walks to the photos taped to his mirror. Looks at how hard and how often Jasna’s face was hit. “This is personal.”
“Thus more dangerous.” Mycroft starts for the door. “I don’t need to tell you to be careful. You wouldn’t be, even if my wishes mattered.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. Once he hears the front door close, he grabs the thumb drive and John’s laptop and goes to work.
When John returns, Sherlock is lying on the sofa, lost in thought. He barely registers the sounds of John walking around the flat as he prepares for bed. At one point, he is vaguely aware of someone standing over him, but he doesn’t acknowledge the presence, and so it leaves.
Death. What is it about Death? Deaths mask, John stated simplistically. A dead Death unmasks the mask. Deaths are secretive, they mask themselves, and usually hide in occupations and lives that belie their power and under-the-table income. He thought Nessa was the outlier due to his lavish lifestyle, but that had been until Sherlock saw photos of his simple flat. The financial holdings were a protection put in place by his family, part of his mask.
Jasna Peaves, though.
His disdain for the importance others place on significants is no secret. Walk into a pub and the obvious is on a visual platter for all to see. Who is heartbroken, or has received a bonus, or wants to meet a new lover, all surface indicators that lead people to believe they know something about who they’re chatting up. Only Sherlock can see that the bonus will be pointless unless that Six of Pentacles quits gambling (evident from the way he checks multiple football scores on his phone and how the results affect what drink he orders next). Or that the Five of Cups is heartbroken because she is a pathological adulterer (as proven by the way her left thumb continuously rubs against the crease of her bare ring finger of the same hand). How sad it is that no one ever bothers to look past the surface until it is too late, now your heart is the broken one, your bank account has been drained. Petty entanglements best avoided by the ability to observe what others ignore.
John asked him once if that’s why he preferred dead bodies, murders, to cases involving the living. Sherlock thinks he was joking at the time, but in retrospect, John was right. A dead body carries no significant. It doesn’t even matter anymore what that person ever manifested. It equalizes everyone. It’s clean, leaving only data, not assumptions.
Jasna Peaves’s Deathless dead eyes stare at him. At their first meeting, she offered him a glass of an expensive Macallan to “take the edge off,” not knowing Sherlock had already covered that eventuality. It had been a kindness Sherlock was not expecting. It occurs to him now that they had been around the same age, and yet she seemed much older. This is important, though he isn’t certain why.
On a shelf, the ubiquitous copy of The Meaning of Your Significant: Discover Your Purpose, Uncover Your Hidden Motivations, and Find Your Best Matches!, which should be subtitled: most likely purchased by John whilst he was actively dating one dull woman after another, opens automatically to the section breaking down significant compatibility. Sherlock snorts and starts at the beginning.
He hears John moving about several hours later. When he stumbles into the kitchen, Sherlock holds a cup of coffee out for him in an effort to draw him over to the table before he sits with the paper. John raises his eyebrows in thanks and then raises them again when he sees what Sherlock is reading. Stage set, Sherlock puts the book down.
“How essential do you see your significant being, John?” He watches John’s face, tired still after so little sleep, creases more visible from being mashed by a pillow, eyes heavy-lidded before morning caffeine. He’s lovely, Sherlock thinks. Not handsome or dashing. Just...real, there, alive and unchanging. So many ways this could have been lost to him.
He mentally shakes himself. Perhaps he should have played his violin last night instead of reading that insipid book.
“Not very,” John says, interrupting his reverie.
“Come now.”
“No. No. You were right. Sigs are just,” he blows out a breath, “window dressing.”
Sherlock picks up the book. “Linda Goodman would disagree.” John quirks a smile and plucks the book from his hands and flips through it.
“Thought I was going to find my soulmate from this. Silly stuff.”
Sherlock scowls and looks at his own (cold) coffee. “Mother despaired that neither Mycroft nor I was born a Pentacle. She feared we would ruin the family financially.”
John tilts his head, then looks down at his cup. “Every time I got into a scrap as a boy, my mum would shrug it off. ‘There goes my Wand. Inviting trouble,’ she’d say.” He takes a sip of coffee, most likely to hide the troubled look now brewing in his eyes. Sherlock wishes to place his hand over them until it eases. “Suppose I couldn’t ask for more, being born to a family of Cups.”
Sherlock tilts his head, thinking. “Your whole family?” At John’s nod, he continues, “My whole family is Swords and I--”
“Was born a Sword? Not unusual, from what I hear.”
He inhales sharply. “Right.”
John shrugs. “I’m always the exception, it seems.”
Sherlock quirks a smile at him before getting up. He needs to move while he talks this through. “Deaths are born, unlike other Majors.” Step. Step. Step. Turn. “Usually into families dominated by Pentacles.” Step. Step. Step. “How is it others manifest Majors?” At John’s silence, he turns to see if he is paying attention. Ridiculous to check. John always pays attention, even if he can’t follow. He sees John’s raised eyebrows and pursed lips. Confusion? No. Wants to say something. Sherlock holds his hands outspread in invitation.
“I had a mate. American. In Afghanistan. After a particularly brutal tour, he had some, I don’t know, spiritual awakening? Spent his leave at some monastery, came back a Temperance. Other than His Highness, he’s the only Major I know. Bloody good shot, he was.”
“Mycroft turned Emperor around five years ago. We’d...lost touch. Change happened sometime in between.”
“Lost touch?”
Sherlock stops pacing enough to wave a hand. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter to the case? Or doesn’t matter at all?”
Step. Step. St-- “To the case.”
“All right.”
Sherlock exhales. Squints. “I was using. Heavily. Morphine and cocaine, mostly.”
He hears a sigh. Waits for some clucking or somesuch. John can be so adorably fussy sometimes. Hazards a glance only to see that John still looks...tired? No. Sad? Yes. Sad. Why is John sad? He doesn’t care if Sherlock and Mycroft get along. Think! What makes John sad? Oh.
Sometime he is so stupid.
“I’m not--”
“I know,” John says.
“--other than the occasional cigarette, which I know perfectly well you can smell, by the way. Not as if I’m hiding it from you.”
“Sherlock.”
He feels a sudden compulsion to stand by John, put his hand on John's shoulder. To let John feel the solidity of him and his presence. Before he can take step, step, step, though, John is up and heading for the stairs. He will go to his room and dress and think about Sherlock strung out and alone and feel helpless and sad, but when he returns he will look unbothered by any of it. Sherlock watches him go three steps before asking, “So which suit is the most compatible match for a Wand?”
John stops, but doesn’t turn. “Swords, of course.”
Of course. Sherlock blinks at the stairs long after John has ascended them.
Lestrade texts later that morning.
They gather around a body face down outside a junk shop in Camden Town. As John crouches and turns the body to examine the multiple bruises on its face, Sherlock snaps photos and studies them. Male, late twenties, recently moved to London from Manchester. Black trousers, well cut, green cashmere jumper, frequently worn, a favorite. The soles of his black loafers indicate wearing on the outer edge of the left shoe, which also have a slightly thicker heel. A limper. Callouses and staining on the right hand from polishing silver.
None of this is relevant. Think! He exhales in frustration.
“Name’s Robert Walker. Inherited this shop from his uncle and moved here eight months ago,” Lestrade reads.
“Obvious.”
Lestrade stares at him for a moment, then continues, “Found by that guy over there when he came to open his shop at seven this morning.”
Sherlock barely glances at the witness. Irrelevant. John comes to join them, peeling off his gloves, and looking between Sherlock and Lestrade as if waiting for something.
“So...”
“So, what?”
“What do you see?”
He looks at the body, battered, dead, hard worker, limped, felt left out, accent obvious, cared about this shop, owned a dog, most likely Cocker Spaniel, probably hated being a Death. Probably left Manchester to avoid being a Death. Just wanted to keep a quaint little junk shop in Camden Town, meet a good bloke, hope whatever mask he had chosen would fool everyone enough. Dead. Battered. Hunted. All the way from Manchester?
He sighs. “Nothing.”
“What?”
“There is nothing here!”
“Sherlock.” He whirls around when John calls his name and scowls at him. John simply looks back at him, curious, not upset. Seven wands cross over John's head. Stubborn man. He will stand here and wait, regardless of the consequences. Never let it be said John Watson doesn’t choose his battles. John’s hand on his arm, steady and warm.
“He wasn’t even working as a Death. Why was he killed?”
“Doesn’t mean he never masked anyone,” John says.
“Our murderer is supposed to be hunting more powerful Deaths, not inactive weak ones!”
John’s hand squeezes his arm once, let's go. “Okay, let’s take this back to the flat. Talk it out.”
“No! This makes no sense. This--” He feels. He feels. Unmoored, all of a sudden. He grips John by his shoulders and stares into his eyes. “Tell me what you see.”
“What? Sherlock.”
“Tell me!”
His gaze briefly roams over Sherlock. “Seven,” he says softly. “Same seven you were yesterday, then you were Six, then briefly a Three, then a Six this morning. But now Seven again.”
“That’s it?”
John nods once, confused.
“Swords?” The clarification is necessary right now.
“What else?”
His heart pounding, Sherlock does a quick internal check. Seven blades rest on his shoulders, telling him he is stuck. Dull. He knows he’s stuck. Current approaches are failing. Obvious. God, he hates significants. Something is different, though. The blades cut. They hurt. Significants don’t hurt, one doesn’t even notice them unless one tries. But these, the sensation of their sharp edges digging into and under his skin, feeling almost as if they were crawling out from under--
John is still watching him, biting his lips, brow furrowed. Lovely, concerned man. Wants to say something. Won’t. Sherlock inhales once sharply. “We need to go.” John nods and takes his arm, leading him away. Does he seem that fragile?
“Sherlock!” Lestrade. He’d forgotten. Body. Yes.
“Not the same murderer. Connected, but not the one responsible. Look into known contract killers who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Most likely recently released from prison, needing the money. If you catch him, let me know.” He starts walking, thankful for John's guiding hand. “He has information I need.”
Sherlock texts Mycroft. Is surprised he isn’t waiting for them when they return to the flat. John remains silent, watchful, biding his time until they are alone.
He perches in his chair, pulls his legs up to his chest, and breathes. The impression of blades gliding along his skin hasn’t abated. He is aware of a loop going through his mind Titanium 47.867, Vanadium 50.942, Chromium 51.996, Manganese... His heart is pounding, trying to beat out of his chest. He wants to let it. John sits in the chair opposite, waiting.
“Victor Trevor.”
“Okay.”
“He was reading Law at Cambridge while I was there. He came from a family steeped in public service. Good works. Had a purpose handed to him with his birth certificate.”
“A friend.”
“He was,” he hesitates, tasting the way the word wants to skew his mouth, “good. Right. Certain.”
“So a long walk from Sebastian, then.”
He barks out a laugh. “Also, unlike Sebastian in that he was clever. A bright star, his tutor used to say. He was planning on working with the poor, on his way to becoming an MP for his family’s district.” He shakes his head. “Labour, of course.” Talking is helping, he realizes. He looks at John and can’t look away.
John is... Good. Right. Certain.
“He turned Strength before we were twenty-one. I mocked him. It was so painfully pure, so filled with integrity, and self-confidence. Which is what he was, I suppose. What I... liked about him.”
“He didn’t care when you mocked him? That is a friend.”
He shakes his head. “No. It wasn’t.” He uncurls his legs carefully, feeling returning to his feet distracting him from the pain in his head. “We had a row. He told me I would be lucky if I turned Major at all. All of my...gifts... and I was so... he told me he could see me one day, and I would be The Hermit, and it would be my own fault.”
He hears John inhale and smirks at him. “I was being a total arse.”
“Still that’s not --”
“Not much different from being called a machine.”
“So you were deliberately pushing him away, too?”
Leave it to John to simply know these things. “Possibly. But there was more.”
“What more? Sherlock, what is going on? You can’t sit still. You’re pale and shaking. And you’ve been checking your phone every half-minute through this whole conversation.”
“Bloody Mycroft. Always around when he’s not wanted. But now...”
“Why do we need Mycroft?”
“So he can explain everything!” He stands. Walks over to the photographs on shaky legs. Stares at Jasna’s broken, scarred face. “I thought she had fought back. I thought he had surprised her.” He turns to John. “She was strong, you know? Her family hated her. Tried to cut the skull off her skin, and she survived. She was kind, in spite of it all. But she didn’t fight. Not until the end. This was personal for someone.”
“So she is the key.”
“Yes, but why?”
“You’ll figure it out.” John is looking at him with such earnestness, it makes Sherlock feel nauseated.
“So much faith.” He can't stand any longer, but he doesn't want John to worry, but he must sit immediately or his head will explode. The decision is removed by a hand on his back, pushing him to the sofa. He sprawls against the arm while John sits on the edge and checks his forehead (clammy, not feverish), his hands (trembling, cold), his pulse (hammering). John studies him, hand still on his neck where his carotid artery is attempting to beat through his skin into John’s fingertips.
“What do we need Mycroft to explain?”
“Why I’m like this.”
“You can explain. Explain it to me.” John’s voice is so soft. Probably the same one he uses with scared children. Titanium 47.867, Vanadium 50.942, Chromium... Sherlock blinks. Breathes.
“You don’t understand. I couldn’t think. I wanted to, but I would simply wander around the house, repeating elements, or the chemical composition of complex compounds. Or I would play my violin, practicing until my fingers bled. I wouldn’t talk to anyone. Couldn’t look at anyone. Mummy cried all the time. I didn’t mean to upset her. She would try to touch me and I would run away yelling, then hide under her chair so I could still be close to her.” He remembers it so clearly. The plush carpet beneath his fingertips. The proper cross of his mother's ankles in front of the chair. Lavender. Woodsmoke.
“That sounds terribly lonely.”
“I didn't even notice. They brought in experts, most of whom recommended special schools, but she didn’t want to send me away, no matter what Father said.”
“You’re her son.” John’s fingertips leave his neck and grab his hand. “So what did they do?”
“Pavel. Pavel fixed everything. He was kind. His voice was soft and he didn’t try to touch me until I was ready and he always had sesame cream fudge in his pocket and Mycroft came home from school to be there and his skull didn’t scare me at all.”
“He was a Death.”
Sherlock nods. “I would stare at it and try to catch it moving separate from his face, but it didn’t. I thought it was beautiful. Like having your bones live outside your skin.”
John is closer now, holding Sherlock's hands, keeping them from shaking. He grasps John’s capable fingers, his anchor now, possibly always. Holding them allows him to close his eyes. John pulls one hand away and Sherlock protests until he feels it against his forehead again, pushing his hair out of his face. He leans into the touch and thinks he hears John murmur something, but doesn’t catch the words. He notices his heartbeat slowing, though. Breathing becoming less difficult.
“So what did Pavel do?”
“He fixed me.” His blinks slowly. “Pavel’s in trouble.”
“Is that why you texted Mycroft?”
“Yes, he needs to find Pavel.” He hates that his voice is choking up, feels the knot in his throat of impending tears. He won’t cry, though. Because John is right here. He believes that quite possibly the only thing keeping him from spiraling into the morass crowding his thoughts is John. Here. One hand on Sherlock's face, thumb stroking his temple (throbbing), the other gripped between his two.
“Probably Mycroft is looking for Pavel now,” John says in his most Reasonable Doctor Voice. “That’s why he isn’t here.”
“But I need him to help me think!”
“No. No, you don’t. You can think just fine without him. You’ve been doing it for years.”
“Not like this!”
“Sherlock Holmes, look at me.” He does. John’s determined face is all he can see, all he wants to see. John grips his face. “I may not know much, but I am certain you have the most brilliant mind in the world. I have watched you think through bigger problems on less sleep, under the influence of hallucinogens, and quite literally under the gun. Whatever is going on, I can assure you, your mind is still as sharp and amazing as it was this morning. So think!”
He breathes. The swordpoints still sharp, his head still a throbbing mess. He breathes. Something teases the edges of his thoughts. “It was personal.”
“You said that. What made Jasna’s murder personal?”
“I went to Jasna so she could undo what Pavel had done. After Victor. So I could... She was different, something was different.”
“She was strong. A survivor.”
“No. Yes, but. She took in apprentices. Kids, probably kicked out of their homes, or runaways. Both times I saw her, she had a different child there. Of course the first one, a girl, I believe, would have been old enough to be on her own by the time I went back.”
“So where is her current apprentice?”
He shakes his head. Finds he can smile a bit at John. “Text Lestrade. We need to see her flat.” Though his legs are still shaky, he stands, looks for his coat, realizes he’s still wearing it, straightens his scarf. He starts for the door, but is stopped by John’s hand on his chest.
John’s face is serious. Sherlock searches his database for what he is looking at. Finds it hard to categorize because it’s a combination, he thinks. Worry. Affection? Maybe. Determination.
“We’ve a murderer to catch right now, but we’re not done talking about what’s going on with you. Later, all right?”
It happens like this, he knows. The bright-hot bloom in his chest. The rightness of John’s touch. Sherlock leans forward. Hesitates. Doesn’t want it to be like Victor, that gentle push away, but he could handle it if it were John. Whatever ‘it’ is. Closes the distance. Gently touches his lips to John’s once. Twice. Thinks about a third, but John beats him to it by stepping up. The kisses are soft and brief, but Sherlock can feel the pressure of John’s lips after they part. Can feel and isn’t afraid. When he pulls back, John’s eyes are bright and he’s smiling and puzzled, but smiling all the same.
“I promise,” Sherlock answers. This time, he can tell, John believes him.
Part 2
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Date: 2012-12-03 05:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-04 11:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-15 02:07 am (UTC)