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holmesticePart 1
*****
The cab speeds across London. Sherlock looks at his phone, as if he can will Mycroft to answer him. Other than a brief message that the issue is still being looked into, there has been no word. He taps his fingers against his knee, taps his foot against the floor of the cab, sighs.
John is watching his reflection in the window. Watching Sherlock. Worry. Affection. Determination. Sherlock can name them all now.
“It comes as no surprise to you, I’m sure, that while I can easily evaluate what emotional responses are appropriate to elicit information, I am not skilled at reading them in others.”
John turns to him but doesn’t say anything. It would be superfluous.
“For example, when I came back, you laughed. So I thought you were happy. But then you ignored my texts for two weeks, which would indicate that you were angry.”
John huffs out a laugh. “That first time I saw you, I laughed because you were wearing a Blur t-shirt, baggy plaid trousers, and you had blue hair. But I wasn’t unhappy, Sherlock. I was angry at you, yes. But definitely happy you were actually alive.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get that part right.”
“Then ask me.”
He turns and opens his mouth to ask...what? What do you feel right now? Are you still angry? Is it wise that we kissed? Can we do it again? Will you still like me if I’m damaged after this? What if?
But John stops him, and possibly answers a few of his questions, by covering Sherlock’s mouth with his own. Sherlock feels a brief swipe of tongue against his own, feels it into his skull, down to his toes. For the first time in over two hours, he feels no pain. When John starts to pull away, too soon! Sherlock follows him, deepens the kiss for a few seconds before sitting back. He exhales slowly to calm his heart, sees John lick his lips out of the corner of his eye, and bursts out laughing.
“That was--” John says.
“Terrifying?”
“Yes. But I was going to say ridiculous. We are...absolutely ridiculous.”
“True.”
“On the plus side, you haven’t checked your phone in almost five minutes.”
Sherlock immediately checks his phone. Nothing. John laughs next to him.
*****
“What are we looking for, Sherlock?” Lestrade asks as he unlocks the door to Jasna’s flat.
“I’m not sure yet.”
They file into the flat. John finds a light switch in the entryway and flicks it on. Sherlock surveys the room. The setup is similar to the other two that he visited her in, mostly bare sitting room dominated by a massage table, sofa, reading lamps in two corners to keep the light low. Small kitchen to one side. Toilet. Door. He wonders if she chose each place for its similarity in layout.
He opens the door to a large room with two single beds, chest of drawers, a wardrobe, and door to what he assumes is the en suite. He hears John and Lestrade opening drawers in the kitchen, John calling out the contents of the refrigerator. Sherlock tilts his head and listens, then smiles.
The en suite is empty, a scattering of cosmetics and the usual sundries one finds on the counter. He pulls open the vinyl curtain of the bath to nothing. It’s possible the flat is empty, but Sherlock knows it isn’t. He closes his eyes. The pain has dulled to something bearable, his skin no longer flayed open, no more pounding head, the feeling not dissimilar to previous times he’d realize his suit was settling after a forced shift. While this doesn’t compute with known data, he decides it isn’t pertinent to the current endeavor. Opens his eyes, sees what he needs on the bathroom counter that he missed before. He walks back into the bedroom and turns on his torch.
“Sherlock, what?”
He holds up a hand, silencing John as he walks toward the wardrobe. Traditional keyhole door, closed, keys missing. Sherlock holds his breath as he leans close, examining the edges. There. Barely visible along the lower lip he spies a small metal clip. The snick of his switchblade is loud, so he quickly works it under the clip and lifts with a grunt, forcing the door open.
“What the --” he hears Lestrade say as the three of them stare at the boy crouched on the floor of the wardrobe.
*****
Tony. No last name. No known birthplace. Doesn’t know who his parents are. Either he is the best liar Sherlock has met, or the boy truly has no memories of life before Jasna Peaves.
Lestrade takes his picture and sends it for a missing persons check. Tony looks to be around ten. Sherlock recognizes him as the boy who was assisting Jasna at his visit in 2011.
“Do you recognize me?”
Tony shrugs. “Lots come and go.” But the way he avoids looking directly at Sherlock is telling.
“You do,” Sherlock says, narrowing his eyes.
He looks down. “Only from the pictures. Jas wouldn’t let me hang about too much when customers were here.”
“What pictures?” John asks.
“Them ones the lady Death showed me. Asking if you been around lately.”
“Lady Death? When was this?”
“Right before Jas disappeared.” He peers up at Sherlock. “Is she arrested? She’s not gonna like it I got caught.”
Lestrade gets a call while John and Sherlock share a look.
“Right,” Lestrade says. “I need to get him down to NSY. We may have a match.”
“No, wait!” Sherlock puts his hand out to Lestrade, who is shaking his head, why can’t the man see this is important!
“You can ride down and see if he’ll talk, but his parents are on their way, so you won’t have much time.”
“You can’t just --” but Lestrade pulls him into the other room by his arm. He yanks it back and glares. “Lestrade, I need to question the boy.”
“The boy? Was kidnapped out of his bed five years ago.”
“Kidnapped? No.”
“Yes. His parents have been looking for him.”
“No. She wouldn’t --”
“Leave it, Sherlock,” John says.
“But... ” Sherlock leans toward John, stares at him, tries to will him to understand how preposterous this is.
“Look,” John says. “You didn’t really know her, did you? No? You don’t know where those kids came from. She was scarred, you said. So she was most likely a very troubled woman. Maybe she thought she was helping Tony and the girl you saw, but – You. Don’t. Know.”
He blinks, shakes his head, more to clear it than to disagree, because John is making a surprising amount of sense. “Fine. We’ll ride with them and see what we can get.”
*****
“Anything from Mycroft?”
Sherlock stops flipping the phone between his hands to check. Shakes his head.
The interlude at NSY revealed little information that would help. Sherlock finds himself both frustrated and impressed with the young woman they are seeking. She has made herself both visible and not. Lets herself be seen, and yet leaves no clues as to her whereabouts. Though the one thing at which Deaths are expert is hiding.
So, back to Baker Street in the hopes of one clue. He shifts in his seat, irritated.
“Alright?”
Holds his hand in front of his face. Steady. Internal check. No headache. No secondary pain at all, in fact. “It would appear so.” He blinks. “Odd. The last two times it was... trying. For longer.”
“Two times? I don’t even know if I understand what happened. Something to do with your sig?”
Deep breath. “Did you know one in every one hundred thousand children is born with no suit?”
John nods. “I read an article about it in medical school. Usually, though, one manifests within the first year.”
Sherlock fiddles with his phone, mostly to keep his hands busy. “Usually, but not always. Of those one in one hundred thousand, one in one hundred settle on two, usually complementary ones. But in rare cases, I believe it’s one in sixty-five thousand, no significant manifests. In the past, such children were hospitalized, hidden away, locked in rooms, or killed.”
“Now they call the most powerful Death in England?”
“All of Europe and Asia, actually.”
“Of course.” John shakes his head, rubs the back of his neck.
“He wouldn’t do it before he felt I was old enough to handle the pain.” He stares out the window, watches the city pass. “Have you ever masked? No. You haven’t, have you? Never felt it was necessary to hide yourself.” He feels half his face pull in a smile. “It takes a toll. Even a simple cover-up. Bigger ones, they drain a person.”
“How?”
“Experts have theories, but no one is certain. Let’s put it this way. I don’t think Mycroft lost weight because he diets.”
“I always wondered how American actors stayed so thin.” John leans toward him now. His knee presses into Sherlock’s thigh, keeping him from losing himself in memory.
“I was six when he came back.” He stops, unsure how to continue. How is this a story anyone can tell and make sense?
“And Mycroft came home from school,” John says softly.
“Don’t put the mantle of sentimentality on him, John.”
“I would too, if it were Harry.”
“He came home because our mother requested it. For her.”
“You don’t know that. You were a child, and based on your earlier description, not functioning too well. Besides, not important. What exactly did Pavel do?”
“He looked inside, pulled out the strongest suit he could find, and pushed it on me.”
“So, Swords.”
“It wasn’t that simple. According to what he told me later, Swords didn’t want to come out alone.”
“Didn’t what?”
“He’s... interesting. All Deaths are a bit insufferable with affectations. Gauzy fabrics, mood music, incense, and god, John, the language they use. It’s straight out of Tolkien. Don’t laugh until you’ve met one, it’s true. Regardless. The way Pavel tells it, I was born that way for a reason, and there was no way one suit was going to be ‘allowed to be sovereign,’ as he put it. As if the suits themselves have a say!”
“In your case, it would seem they did.”
“That’s just preposterous.”
“And yet?”
He turns to John, aware of how close they are. Of how John’s eyes never leave his face. Of how John’s hand is now on his thigh, as if it belongs there. It does. “I will never understand this part of me, of any of us. It defies all logic, this thing we carry. That we see in each other. We make assumptions and they just -- How did we ever learn to function as a society with, with all this!”
John suppresses a smile. Badly.
“He had to pull Cups out with the Swords. It was terrible. One minute I was figuring calculations. The next I was sulking in the garden. He had to come back and suppress the Cups, though he hated doing it. It was for the best.”
“I don’t know that I agree with that.”
“Trust me. It was necessary. Had I been capable of doing so, I would have chosen the same for myself. If it had been your child, you would have --”
“Don’t! If it had been my child? Hopefully, I would have been able to teach him that emotions are a part of life and dealing with them gets easier as we get older.”
“Easier like it is for Harry?”
“Don’t bring Harry into this. They made their mistakes, but I am not my parents.”
“Obviously you’re not mine, either.”
They’re silent for the remainder of the ride.
*****
Mycroft is waiting when they enter the flat. Mrs. Hudson is setting out sandwiches and tea, though it is going on midnight, and John instantly devours one, kisses her soundly on the cheek, and reaches for another. Sherlock grabs a cup just for something to hold. Sips it for something to do that is not standing by John until his heart stops twisting in his chest.
Mycroft, of course, knows instantly.
“How long ago did the shift start?” He pulls out his pocket watch.
“This morning,” he says the same time John answers, “Eleven thirty-seven a.m.” He raises his eyebrow and John shrugs. “That’s when you started acting strangely at the crime scene.”
Mycroft looks between them. Steps up to Sherlock with an inquisitive expression. Sherlock puts his cup down, clasps his hands behind his back, lifts up his chin, and suffers the indignity with only a clenched jaw to show for it. “Impressive, Sherlock.” He does, indeed, sound impressed.
“Piss off, Mycroft. Unless you have information for us.”
“I have every available resource looking for Pavel. Unfortunately, my earlier assumption that he was safe was based on the fact that we could not find him, and had no evidence to suggest he was dead,” at this he looks Sherlock up and down again. “However, we may have to revise that assumption. Anything you can share that might help?”
“First name Karina. Death, raised as an apprentice to Jasna Peaves, most likely kidnapped in early childhood and released in late adolescence. Current apprentice has been living with her for five years. She looked to be around twelve in 2002, so early twenties. Described by our young witness as currently having dyed black hair, brown eyes, and 'spots all over.'” Mycroft types into his Blackberry whilst Sherlock talks.
“Anything else?”
“She refuses to mask.”
Mycroft’s mouth twists, disgusted at the thought. Why someone who could easily mask themselves would choose not to is beyond him. Sherlock smiles and glances at John out of the corner of his eye. John quirks an eyebrow at him, and something in his chest eases.
Mycroft starts for the door. “You will contact me if you figure anything out?”
Sherlock tilts his head. “And you will do the same?”
“I don’t know that that is ideal.”
“I have to talk to her, Mycroft. She is looking for me.”
“All the more reason for you to avoid putting yourself in danger.”
“That is what we do. And, as you know,” he smiles at John, who smiles back, “I won’t be alone.”
Mycroft walks to the door, but Sherlock won’t see him out. “If I may. Last shift, you went off the rails, but this time you’re relatively stable not twelve hours after a major change. What’s different? “
John’s eyes are bright and warm and he will never not want to look at them. “I wasn’t alone.” John glances over Sherlock’s shoulder, raises his eyebrows, and smirks.
There’s the briefest hesitation. Sherlock holds his breath, his heart thudding for a completely different reason now. But all Mycroft says is, “I’ll be in touch, Sherlock. John.”
Unable to stand it any longer, Sherlock doesn’t even wait to hear the downstairs door close before he is moving towards John, cradling his face in trembling hands and kissing him. The kiss is more intense than the earlier ones, which were tentative in comparison. He dives into John’s mouth, knowing he must seem clumsy, over-eager, a bit too toothy, but John doesn’t seem to mind, only moans, slides his tongue over Sherlock’s, and grabs Sherlock’s hips to pull him closer. It’s both too much and not enough. He wants to crawl inside, dig his fingers into John’s skin, meld their bodies together. His breath huffs out his nose and he moves his hands into John’s hair, under the collar of his shirt, feels John’s hands under his own shirt on his lower back. Sherlock’s belly shivers at the touch, and he's suddenly driven by something inexplicable and certain; he has to pull away.
“What,” John protests, tugging, eyebrows furrowed, so Sherlock has to kiss him again, briefly.
“Bedroom.” Sherlock's heart pounds as he says the word, considers the implications.
“Brilliant,” he gets in response, except this causes John’s hands to abandon his skin when he pulls away to cross the room. He tugs Sherlock’s hand, but suddenly Sherlock is rooted to the spot.
“We don’t--” he starts.
“Do you want to?” John's hand is hot in his own, but his face is kind.
Sherlock can only nod, swallowing hard. “I’m not. I’ve never.” Thud. Thud. Thud.
John smiles. Reaches up. Touches fingertips to Sherlock’s lips, which are now so sensitive and desire more contact. “Me neither, not like this, but you’re a genius and I’m not a complete idiot. So we should be able to figure something out. Yeah?”
He nods again. John’s fingers trace the inside of his lower lip and Sherlock touches them with the tip of his tongue. John’s expression to shifts to something Sherlock knows he’s never categorized. He crowds into John’s space, pushes him across the room into his bedroom. They pause by the bed, and John gives a wry smile as he toes off his shoes and socks. Sherlock follows suit, feeling awkward. Is this something people consider before having sex? Taking shoes off feels like such the effort at the moment. John laughs at his expression and pushes him down on the bed. Sherlock twists to put his mobile on the table.
“If Mycroft calls,” he manages to get out before John’s tongue is in his mouth again and their legs tangle together. He can feel the sole of John’s foot pushing up his trouser leg, resolving The Shoes Conundrum.
“I know,” John says between kisses down his neck. Sherlock gasps at the sensation, pushes his hands under John’s shirt and pulls it off. “Remind me to grab my gun if that happens.”
“God, I love you,” Sherlock says.
John freezes in the midst of unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt and looks at him. He’s stopping. Why is he – Sherlock replays the last statement. “Well. That... slipped out.”
John, bless him, runs his tongue over Sherlock’s right nipple, grins wickedly when Sherlock whimpers, and slips one hand inside Sherlock's trousers. It is at that moment, or possibly the one immediately after while he is arching off the bed at the sensation, that Sherlock realizes how hard he is. John’s hand. He forces himself to breathe through his nose. Breathe. Christ. John is sucking on his neck and moaning and Sherlock can feel John’s erection against his thigh and he reaches his hands down to mirror John’s which are hot and hard-soft-hard and Sherlock is painfully aware of the noises coming out of his own mouth and that is possibly embarrassing, so he ducks his head down to kiss John again, because now they can drown out each other’s noises. John pushes Sherlock’s trousers and pants down, and then his own, which leaves so much more skin for Sherlock to touch, sharp hipbones, soft belly, the curve of his bottom and, oh god, John’s hands are everywhere (hip, cock, hair, shoulder, arm, hip), like he can't decide where to touch and Sherlock feels. He feels, and he can’t stop trying to kiss John, whose teeth are nipping at his bottom lip while he pants against Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock can hear John chanting his name over and over and it is a litany. Sherlock bites the point where John’s neck meets his shoulder as he slides his palm over the top of John’s erection and John’s moan sends Sherlock over the edge as he cries out John’s name and hears feels John do the same and he hears “I love you I love you I love you, fuck, Sherlock,” before his head falls back on the pillow and Sherlock realizes he never took his own shirt off.
*****
Sherlock is playing his favorite Rozsa when he hears John in the shower the next morning. Though he spent the remainder of the night putting his mind to Jasna’s murderer, he found he knew too little about her to determine where she might be hiding. He sent an alert out to the Homeless Network, but there’s been no reply. Playing is doing little to ease his frustration.
John walks into the sitting room. Sherlock’s back is to him, but he can sense something, so he turns. John is staring. Why is he staring. Is Sherlock supposed to kiss him? Is this a thing they do now? He supposes it is, and is not opposed, but as things happened so suddenly last night, and as he and John are not in the habit of “What?”
He is looking over and around Sherlock in disbelief. “I can honestly say I have never seen such a thing in my life.”
He turns to the mirror, but it is covered in papers. “What?”
“Sherlock. You’re...”
That’s when he feels it. The seven swords and more. Something over his head. If he concentrates, pushes away thoughts about Pavel possibly being dead and Karina the murderess and why Jasna Peaves was killed, the impression of water, as if overflowing from a cup onto his head.
Sherlock rips the papers from the mirror and stares at his reflection. The two significants are faintly visible. His breathing is harsh, his eyes bright with panic. “What is this, what is happening, John, what--” then John’s hands are on his shoulders, turning him, on his face. He closes his eyes.
“Breathe,” John is saying, “breathe. You’re all right. It’s just transport, remember? It’s not you, it’s not what matters. Sherlock. Look at me.”
He does and thinks about John last night, whispering his heart, holding Sherlock until his trembling stopped. John's eyes are bright and warm and look no different than they looked yesterday or last week. John taps Sherlock's temple. “That gets the work done, yeah?”
“But.”
“But nothing. Nothing about you is changed.”
God, he truly did fall in love with an idiot. Obviously everything is changed.
“I mean,” John rolls his eyes. “You’re still you. You’re just... more.”
“I didn’t choose this.”
“No you didn’t. We don’t choose our sigs. They don’t define us, you said that and you were right. Yes, I'm saying it. They’re just an expression of who we are.”
“How is this an expression?”
“Well, I see a man who is still wrestling with a problem he is having trouble solving, and who has also, for lack of a better term, recently had a shag.” John laughs. “Look at me. I’m a bloody Page of Wands, for Christ’s sake. New uni students are Pages, not men nearly forty!”
“And Mycroft.” Sherlock wants to kiss him. Wants to, but won’t, because Pavel is still missing, and four people are dead. Four dead people are a mystery to him, a puzzle to be solved. To John, they are a tragedy to be mourned. John sees this, it seems, because he brushes his fingertips over Sherlock’s eyebrows once and pulls his hands away with a wry smile.
“Coffee?”
Sherlock nods, finds he is still holding his violin, puts it down, follows John into the kitchen. John measures out careful spoonfuls into the cafetiere, while Sherlock flips on the kettle. John gets down cups and Sherlock pulls out the sugar bowl for himself. These are the movements of any normal day, he thinks. John is acting like it’s not different, except now when he hands Sherlock a spoon for his sugar, his fingertips brush against the inside of Sherlock's wrist. Except now when John prepares the coffee, Sherlock stands close enough to smell John’s shampoo. He could wrap his dressing gown around the two of them, pull John close, kiss his neck. John would turn and they would laugh while they kissed. Sherlock steps closer.
“You’re a distraction,” John says. “You’re going to make me spill.” He reaches a hand back and pats Sherlock’s hip, nudging him away so he can turn and hand him a cup.
Sherlock stirs sugar into his coffee, stirs and stirs and stirs. “I didn’t know it would be like this.”
“Didn’t know... bad?” Mild tone. Means things.
“No,” he says, but that isn’t entirely true, and he promised. “I don’t know. Different, I suppose.” He turns then, but John looks like John, not sad or angry or worried. Just. Right. Certain.
“Look. It's not as if there isn't enough confusing bullshit happening already,” John says. “Plenty of time to talk about this after.”
Sherlock nods. Sips his coffee. John squeezes his arm as he walks out of the kitchen to sit in his chair with the paper. A normal day.
It is almost an hour before his phone beeps. Sherlock looks at it and shuts his eyes.
“Pavel Ovechkin is dead.”
*****
Mycroft’s car waits for them outside the door. Mycroft is alone in the back. Sherlock expects a comment on his significants, but receives none. Glances over, and sees John glaring at his brother as if daring him to speak.
“What did she do this time?”
“It’s not what you’re expecting.”
He waits, but nothing more is forthcoming. The car’s interior is stifling with unsaid statements. After twenty minutes, the streets look familiar and something clicks.
“We’re headed to Tower Hamlets?”
*****
Pavel’s body is sitting on the ground, leaning against the cement wall of the tower of flats that was once home to Jasna Peaves and her soon-to-be murderous assistant. His eyes are open. There are no bruises on his face or head. One of Mycroft’s anonymous minions indicates the works on the ground next to him and obvious mark on his arm. Suicide. It doesn’t compute.
“Morphine,” Mycroft says.
“He looks old.” Sherlock feels stupid saying it. Possibly Pavel had always been old, and he hadn’t noticed.
“He was dying, Sherlock.” Mycroft hands a folder to John, who reads it, eyebrows furrowed.
“Aggressive T-cell lymphoma. He had forgone any further treatment as of one week ago and was only accepting palliative,” John says. “Does this mean --”
But Sherlock is already walking away, thinking. Tower Hamlets. Lewisham. Karina showing up at Jasna’s flat with a picture of Sherlock, acting as if she were looking for him, but she had another motive. What? No. She was looking for him. Wants to draw him out. Talked the most estimable Death into killing himself in order to do that. Tower Hamlets. Jasna’s body was found in Lewisham, but it was assumed she hadn’t been killed in the alley in which she had been found, but somewhere near. Somewhere – Sherlock looks to the third floor for the apartment he visited almost twelve years ago, hoping to fix what was wrong with him so a Strength would love him. Hoped she could undo what had been done, even though she knew he wasn’t ready. He had wanted to go back to the beginning so he could try to do it right this time -- “Oh!”
He rushes to the street, sees and cab and hails it. “Lewisham,” he tells the cabbie.
During the ride he thinks about beginnings. About himself at eight. About a pair of trainers, Carl Powers, Richard Brook. When placed at a crossroads and every possibility seems probable, the best route to take is to go back to the start. When he returned from the dead. When John let him return into his life, Sherlock threw them into the first case he could convince Lestrade to let him take on. Wanted to remind John of how it had started, and how it could be again. Helped John remember why he’d chosen this life in the first place.
John. He pulls out his phone.
Find out which flat at the Lewisham bodydump address had once been Jasna’s. Meet me there. SH
*****
Dammit Sherlock don’t you dare go in there without me
One window has the traditional hanging, a flag with a white flower emblazoned on it. Sherlock climbs the stair to the fifth floor. He raises his eyebrows at the man sitting outside the door, who holds up five fingers. Sherlock slips fifty pounds into his hand and walks in the door.
She is sitting cross-legged on a settee against the far wall, the yellow glow from a dim lamp forcing him to step closer. He freezes when he sees the revolver in her right hand.
“I knew you’d find me. Bit later than I thought.” He can barely hear her with her head down, inky black hair covering her face.
“Karina Ovechkin.”
She tilts her head up towards him. The skull visage of her significant wavers in the light as it plays over the shadows of her face. He quickly surveys the area. No other furniture in the room, small kitchen to one side, toilet, door.
“In 2002, I contacted Pavel to ask for his help. I didn’t hear from him, but his assistant emailed to let me know Pavel had retired eight years before when his granddaughter disappeared.”
“I walked right in front of you.” She is looking to the left of him now, lost in the memory of that night, her voice flat, empty.
He remembers a young girl with ginger hair and freckles, Death mask, sliding glance in his direction as she walked through the door into her room, but he had been too intent on his task, on timing everything perfectly. “She kidnapped you, brought you to this very flat. Raised you. Then abandoned you when you were old enough to be on your own.”
“Raised me? She brainwashed me. She taught me to hate myself and everything about me, while at the same time she charged money to fools like you, how much did you pay?”
“Fifty at the door. Five hundred when she finished.”
“Five hundred fucking quid.” She snorts. “I got ten? fifteen, maybe? For washing her sheets and listening to her rave about how you lot hated all of us, about how the only thing you’re good for is your money.” She waves the revolver around. Sherlock fights the instinct to duck. “You probably thought she was so kind. You probably wanted to fuck her.”
“She really wasn’t my type.” He steps closer, now that she isn’t watching him. Wonders if he can dive for the weapon, then spots the syringe and kit on the cushion next to her. He breathes slowly. “Heroin?”
“None of it matters now. It’s over now.”
He clasps his hands behind his back. “You could’ve simply hired me, you know. To find out who you are.”
She lifts her chin. “I know who I am. I am a Death. And if my grandfather had raised me, I would have been proud of that my whole life, I wouldn’t have --”
“Murdered someone? Been responsible for the murders of three others?”
“How else was I supposed to...?” She glares at him. “I saw you in the papers. Some genius detective. I walked right in front of you.” Her head lolls against the back of the settee. Sherlock steps closer.
He dares another step closer. “How did you convince Pavel to suicide?”
“I didn’t. He wanted to. Said that now that he’s seen me, he can let go.” She looks at the gun, eyes welling. “Why?”
Sherlock hears a brief scuffle outside the door. He isn’t worried. John has his gun. As the front door bursts open with John’s yelled, “Sherlock!” he darts to the settee and pulls the gun from Karina’s hand. He kneels on the floor and grabs her arm, which he can now see is dotted with several needle marks. Blows out a breath just as John enters the room.
“It’s safe, John, but we’ll need an ambulance.” He turns. John’s furious expression clears as he moves forward and pushes Sherlock out of the way.
“Mycroft’s downstairs,” John says as he checks her pinpoint pupils and her pulse, which Sherlock has already determined to be weak and thready.
Sherlock texts his brother. Watches John.
“He left you a note.” Her eyes are closed, voice slurring. Slowing. She waves the arm not in John’s grip at the kitchen counter. “He said you were meant to be more. That you were his greatest regret. You...”
Sherlock can only stare. The sound of sirens filters through the open front door.
*****
After the hospital, at which Karina is given IV fluids, a narcotic antagonist, and placed on a ventilator;
after hours explaining everything to Lestrade (“But why kill the other three if all she wanted was to find where she was from and punish Peaves?” “To get my attention, of course.” “Of course.”), helping him find the contract killer Karina had used, and giving reports;
after John walked up to Sherlock, stepped into his space, kissed him hard, called him the most thoughtless dick on the planet, stormed out of NSY and into a cab (most likely to his sister’s, but Sherlock hasn’t checked);
Baker Street is silent.
*****
“You know, your friend was wrong about the Hermit. It’s not a significant of isolation or loneliness.”
Sherlock pauses before putting down the pipette he is holding and pulling off his goggles. He, of course, heard the door open and close, recognized John’s tread on the stair, waited in this very position for the fifteen seconds it took John to be right where he stands.
He nods, won’t stop looking intently at John. Sherlock can see the lines on John's face produced by back pain from sleeping on Harry's sofa. John looks tired, but not angry, sad, or even disappointed. “You’re not angry with me anymore?”
“Did you even understand why I was in the first place?”
“Well, no. There was no actual danger. And I did believe I could defend myself against a young woman --”
“Who was holding a loaded weapon, who may have had a contract killer with her, god, Sherlock.” John paces the kitchen. “I get it. I do. You have these... lightbulb moments and nothing can stop you, everything else becomes peripheral. Just.”
“You’d rather you weren’t peripheral.”
John stops, hands on his hips, nostrils flared. Sherlock loves him so intensely at that moment. Upset, and yet, still standing there.
“I did think to text you,” he offers.
“God, you are such a bastard sometimes, I don't even know what... ”
I see in you, Sherlock mentally finishes. “I don't either, if it helps.”
John exhales, looks up to the ceiling. “I know what it’s like to have to live without you. And the thing is? I can. I did, and I could again.” John rubs his hand over his face. Then, for some reason Sherlock can’t fathom, smiles. “But I don’t want to.”
Because John loves him. Always. There is always something he misses.
“I’ll try to remember to text you sooner?”
“That's the best I’m going to get right now, isn't it?”
Sherlock shrugs. John laughs. Then he isn’t, because Sherlock cannot wait another second to stand, push John against the counter, and kiss him.
*****
“What do you see?”
“You can’t tell?”
“I don’t want to feel it right now, John, please.”
They lie in his bed, naked, sweaty. It is not unpleasant. Sherlock thinks perhaps his heart will never stop racing, though empirically he knows that to be untrue. John lifts up on one elbow and runs a hand down Sherlock’s chest, gaze following.
“Knight of Swords, as you usually are after a case is solved. Seven of Cups, not sure what that one means, honestly, but it doesn’t seem bad. And...”
Oh, no. “There’s more?”
“Faintish Wands. Six? Hard to tell.”
Sherlock covers his face with his hands. “They’re all coming out now. At this rate, I’ll be balancing our accounts by the end of the week.”
“Be a nice change,” John says archly.
“You lied to me,” he says. It comes out muffled still behind his hands.
“What? When?”
“They do define us, don’t they?”
John lies down next to him. Talks to the ceiling. “I was born Wands. So whenever I ran around, as kids do, my mum always wrote it off to the suit. She never tried to reign me in, or tell me not to throw myself into the scrum. When Harry would get low and wobbly, nobody taught her how to cope with that. They would just shrug it off and think, ‘Typical Cup.’”
“This is a chicken versus egg argument. Tiresome.”
“But still true. Pavel chose your suit, but your parents probably would've chosen the same, because they were Swords and figured that would create the best outcome. But you were already bright and curious, and talking everyone’s right ear off. So.” John’s head tentatively rests on his shoulder. Sherlock wraps his arm around John's shoulders to secure him in place and feels John relax against him. His hand rests on Sherlock's chest. Better.
“Pavel's letter explained that he thought children like I was are actually born a Major no one can see. Something we need to be trained to become.”
“What do you think?”
“I think,” he stops. Allows himself to sense the pressure of a burgeoning brightness inside his chest. Breathes through the panic of the unfamiliar. Focuses instead on the scent of John’s skin and the tangle of their intertwined fingers, the slowing of his heart. “I think I will sleep on it.”
Future: The Tower
Sudden change, breaking illusions, revelation. Requires another card for a proper outcome to the reading...
Sherlock will wake.
There will be no reason for an internal check. He will feel the weight of the robe, the faint infinity glimmering like a distant star above his head. He won’t know how to feel about this, but will know he has no choice anymore. Significants may not be chosen, but evidently they will not be ignored.
John will still sleep, curled on his side, his back to Sherlock, inviting Sherlock’s hands to brush against his hip, thigh, stomach. Soon, Sherlock will curl his front against John’s back, tangle their legs together, slide his hand to John’s erection, bite John’s neck. swallow John’s moans. Something heated, glowing, unfamiliar, will unfurl in Sherlock’s belly at John’s climax. He will imagine it is the closest to happiness he has ever felt.
When John can finally turn to see him, Sherlock will suffer the scrutiny of his surprise-widened eyes. It will not itch, or feel intrusive, because John knows him. Because it won’t matter to John what Sherlock is. The Major he carries this morning, and for the rest of his days, won’t change a thing. John will always know him.
Then John will make a joke. Something like, that was magical or I always knew you had the hands of a magician, or something equally barmy, but John will laugh and laugh. It will be terrible, and Sherlock will love it.
END
Author Endnotes: There are many interpretations and beliefs regarding use of the Tarot as a divination tool. Though I have read about Tarot for years, I am by no means an expert. I have used my knowledge to create this world, but intended for this to be my interpretation only.
For reference, I have used the traditional Rider Deck.
Common Personality Traits of the Suits of the Minor Arcana
Wands: Active, adventurous, passionate, forthright, goal-oriented, defiant, spoiling for a fight, aggressive
Cups: Reflective, emotional, spiritual, romantic, sentimental, melancholic, passive-aggressive, lethargic
Swords: Curious, exacting, intellectual, talkative, energetic, argumentative, sharp-tongued, sarcastic
Pentacles: Stable, reliable, practical, hard-working, thorough, controlling, over-indulging, patient
The cab speeds across London. Sherlock looks at his phone, as if he can will Mycroft to answer him. Other than a brief message that the issue is still being looked into, there has been no word. He taps his fingers against his knee, taps his foot against the floor of the cab, sighs.
John is watching his reflection in the window. Watching Sherlock. Worry. Affection. Determination. Sherlock can name them all now.
“It comes as no surprise to you, I’m sure, that while I can easily evaluate what emotional responses are appropriate to elicit information, I am not skilled at reading them in others.”
John turns to him but doesn’t say anything. It would be superfluous.
“For example, when I came back, you laughed. So I thought you were happy. But then you ignored my texts for two weeks, which would indicate that you were angry.”
John huffs out a laugh. “That first time I saw you, I laughed because you were wearing a Blur t-shirt, baggy plaid trousers, and you had blue hair. But I wasn’t unhappy, Sherlock. I was angry at you, yes. But definitely happy you were actually alive.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get that part right.”
“Then ask me.”
He turns and opens his mouth to ask...what? What do you feel right now? Are you still angry? Is it wise that we kissed? Can we do it again? Will you still like me if I’m damaged after this? What if?
But John stops him, and possibly answers a few of his questions, by covering Sherlock’s mouth with his own. Sherlock feels a brief swipe of tongue against his own, feels it into his skull, down to his toes. For the first time in over two hours, he feels no pain. When John starts to pull away, too soon! Sherlock follows him, deepens the kiss for a few seconds before sitting back. He exhales slowly to calm his heart, sees John lick his lips out of the corner of his eye, and bursts out laughing.
“That was--” John says.
“Terrifying?”
“Yes. But I was going to say ridiculous. We are...absolutely ridiculous.”
“True.”
“On the plus side, you haven’t checked your phone in almost five minutes.”
Sherlock immediately checks his phone. Nothing. John laughs next to him.
“What are we looking for, Sherlock?” Lestrade asks as he unlocks the door to Jasna’s flat.
“I’m not sure yet.”
They file into the flat. John finds a light switch in the entryway and flicks it on. Sherlock surveys the room. The setup is similar to the other two that he visited her in, mostly bare sitting room dominated by a massage table, sofa, reading lamps in two corners to keep the light low. Small kitchen to one side. Toilet. Door. He wonders if she chose each place for its similarity in layout.
He opens the door to a large room with two single beds, chest of drawers, a wardrobe, and door to what he assumes is the en suite. He hears John and Lestrade opening drawers in the kitchen, John calling out the contents of the refrigerator. Sherlock tilts his head and listens, then smiles.
The en suite is empty, a scattering of cosmetics and the usual sundries one finds on the counter. He pulls open the vinyl curtain of the bath to nothing. It’s possible the flat is empty, but Sherlock knows it isn’t. He closes his eyes. The pain has dulled to something bearable, his skin no longer flayed open, no more pounding head, the feeling not dissimilar to previous times he’d realize his suit was settling after a forced shift. While this doesn’t compute with known data, he decides it isn’t pertinent to the current endeavor. Opens his eyes, sees what he needs on the bathroom counter that he missed before. He walks back into the bedroom and turns on his torch.
“Sherlock, what?”
He holds up a hand, silencing John as he walks toward the wardrobe. Traditional keyhole door, closed, keys missing. Sherlock holds his breath as he leans close, examining the edges. There. Barely visible along the lower lip he spies a small metal clip. The snick of his switchblade is loud, so he quickly works it under the clip and lifts with a grunt, forcing the door open.
“What the --” he hears Lestrade say as the three of them stare at the boy crouched on the floor of the wardrobe.
Tony. No last name. No known birthplace. Doesn’t know who his parents are. Either he is the best liar Sherlock has met, or the boy truly has no memories of life before Jasna Peaves.
Lestrade takes his picture and sends it for a missing persons check. Tony looks to be around ten. Sherlock recognizes him as the boy who was assisting Jasna at his visit in 2011.
“Do you recognize me?”
Tony shrugs. “Lots come and go.” But the way he avoids looking directly at Sherlock is telling.
“You do,” Sherlock says, narrowing his eyes.
He looks down. “Only from the pictures. Jas wouldn’t let me hang about too much when customers were here.”
“What pictures?” John asks.
“Them ones the lady Death showed me. Asking if you been around lately.”
“Lady Death? When was this?”
“Right before Jas disappeared.” He peers up at Sherlock. “Is she arrested? She’s not gonna like it I got caught.”
Lestrade gets a call while John and Sherlock share a look.
“Right,” Lestrade says. “I need to get him down to NSY. We may have a match.”
“No, wait!” Sherlock puts his hand out to Lestrade, who is shaking his head, why can’t the man see this is important!
“You can ride down and see if he’ll talk, but his parents are on their way, so you won’t have much time.”
“You can’t just --” but Lestrade pulls him into the other room by his arm. He yanks it back and glares. “Lestrade, I need to question the boy.”
“The boy? Was kidnapped out of his bed five years ago.”
“Kidnapped? No.”
“Yes. His parents have been looking for him.”
“No. She wouldn’t --”
“Leave it, Sherlock,” John says.
“But... ” Sherlock leans toward John, stares at him, tries to will him to understand how preposterous this is.
“Look,” John says. “You didn’t really know her, did you? No? You don’t know where those kids came from. She was scarred, you said. So she was most likely a very troubled woman. Maybe she thought she was helping Tony and the girl you saw, but – You. Don’t. Know.”
He blinks, shakes his head, more to clear it than to disagree, because John is making a surprising amount of sense. “Fine. We’ll ride with them and see what we can get.”
“Anything from Mycroft?”
Sherlock stops flipping the phone between his hands to check. Shakes his head.
The interlude at NSY revealed little information that would help. Sherlock finds himself both frustrated and impressed with the young woman they are seeking. She has made herself both visible and not. Lets herself be seen, and yet leaves no clues as to her whereabouts. Though the one thing at which Deaths are expert is hiding.
So, back to Baker Street in the hopes of one clue. He shifts in his seat, irritated.
“Alright?”
Holds his hand in front of his face. Steady. Internal check. No headache. No secondary pain at all, in fact. “It would appear so.” He blinks. “Odd. The last two times it was... trying. For longer.”
“Two times? I don’t even know if I understand what happened. Something to do with your sig?”
Deep breath. “Did you know one in every one hundred thousand children is born with no suit?”
John nods. “I read an article about it in medical school. Usually, though, one manifests within the first year.”
Sherlock fiddles with his phone, mostly to keep his hands busy. “Usually, but not always. Of those one in one hundred thousand, one in one hundred settle on two, usually complementary ones. But in rare cases, I believe it’s one in sixty-five thousand, no significant manifests. In the past, such children were hospitalized, hidden away, locked in rooms, or killed.”
“Now they call the most powerful Death in England?”
“All of Europe and Asia, actually.”
“Of course.” John shakes his head, rubs the back of his neck.
“He wouldn’t do it before he felt I was old enough to handle the pain.” He stares out the window, watches the city pass. “Have you ever masked? No. You haven’t, have you? Never felt it was necessary to hide yourself.” He feels half his face pull in a smile. “It takes a toll. Even a simple cover-up. Bigger ones, they drain a person.”
“How?”
“Experts have theories, but no one is certain. Let’s put it this way. I don’t think Mycroft lost weight because he diets.”
“I always wondered how American actors stayed so thin.” John leans toward him now. His knee presses into Sherlock’s thigh, keeping him from losing himself in memory.
“I was six when he came back.” He stops, unsure how to continue. How is this a story anyone can tell and make sense?
“And Mycroft came home from school,” John says softly.
“Don’t put the mantle of sentimentality on him, John.”
“I would too, if it were Harry.”
“He came home because our mother requested it. For her.”
“You don’t know that. You were a child, and based on your earlier description, not functioning too well. Besides, not important. What exactly did Pavel do?”
“He looked inside, pulled out the strongest suit he could find, and pushed it on me.”
“So, Swords.”
“It wasn’t that simple. According to what he told me later, Swords didn’t want to come out alone.”
“Didn’t what?”
“He’s... interesting. All Deaths are a bit insufferable with affectations. Gauzy fabrics, mood music, incense, and god, John, the language they use. It’s straight out of Tolkien. Don’t laugh until you’ve met one, it’s true. Regardless. The way Pavel tells it, I was born that way for a reason, and there was no way one suit was going to be ‘allowed to be sovereign,’ as he put it. As if the suits themselves have a say!”
“In your case, it would seem they did.”
“That’s just preposterous.”
“And yet?”
He turns to John, aware of how close they are. Of how John’s eyes never leave his face. Of how John’s hand is now on his thigh, as if it belongs there. It does. “I will never understand this part of me, of any of us. It defies all logic, this thing we carry. That we see in each other. We make assumptions and they just -- How did we ever learn to function as a society with, with all this!”
John suppresses a smile. Badly.
“He had to pull Cups out with the Swords. It was terrible. One minute I was figuring calculations. The next I was sulking in the garden. He had to come back and suppress the Cups, though he hated doing it. It was for the best.”
“I don’t know that I agree with that.”
“Trust me. It was necessary. Had I been capable of doing so, I would have chosen the same for myself. If it had been your child, you would have --”
“Don’t! If it had been my child? Hopefully, I would have been able to teach him that emotions are a part of life and dealing with them gets easier as we get older.”
“Easier like it is for Harry?”
“Don’t bring Harry into this. They made their mistakes, but I am not my parents.”
“Obviously you’re not mine, either.”
They’re silent for the remainder of the ride.
Mycroft is waiting when they enter the flat. Mrs. Hudson is setting out sandwiches and tea, though it is going on midnight, and John instantly devours one, kisses her soundly on the cheek, and reaches for another. Sherlock grabs a cup just for something to hold. Sips it for something to do that is not standing by John until his heart stops twisting in his chest.
Mycroft, of course, knows instantly.
“How long ago did the shift start?” He pulls out his pocket watch.
“This morning,” he says the same time John answers, “Eleven thirty-seven a.m.” He raises his eyebrow and John shrugs. “That’s when you started acting strangely at the crime scene.”
Mycroft looks between them. Steps up to Sherlock with an inquisitive expression. Sherlock puts his cup down, clasps his hands behind his back, lifts up his chin, and suffers the indignity with only a clenched jaw to show for it. “Impressive, Sherlock.” He does, indeed, sound impressed.
“Piss off, Mycroft. Unless you have information for us.”
“I have every available resource looking for Pavel. Unfortunately, my earlier assumption that he was safe was based on the fact that we could not find him, and had no evidence to suggest he was dead,” at this he looks Sherlock up and down again. “However, we may have to revise that assumption. Anything you can share that might help?”
“First name Karina. Death, raised as an apprentice to Jasna Peaves, most likely kidnapped in early childhood and released in late adolescence. Current apprentice has been living with her for five years. She looked to be around twelve in 2002, so early twenties. Described by our young witness as currently having dyed black hair, brown eyes, and 'spots all over.'” Mycroft types into his Blackberry whilst Sherlock talks.
“Anything else?”
“She refuses to mask.”
Mycroft’s mouth twists, disgusted at the thought. Why someone who could easily mask themselves would choose not to is beyond him. Sherlock smiles and glances at John out of the corner of his eye. John quirks an eyebrow at him, and something in his chest eases.
Mycroft starts for the door. “You will contact me if you figure anything out?”
Sherlock tilts his head. “And you will do the same?”
“I don’t know that that is ideal.”
“I have to talk to her, Mycroft. She is looking for me.”
“All the more reason for you to avoid putting yourself in danger.”
“That is what we do. And, as you know,” he smiles at John, who smiles back, “I won’t be alone.”
Mycroft walks to the door, but Sherlock won’t see him out. “If I may. Last shift, you went off the rails, but this time you’re relatively stable not twelve hours after a major change. What’s different? “
John’s eyes are bright and warm and he will never not want to look at them. “I wasn’t alone.” John glances over Sherlock’s shoulder, raises his eyebrows, and smirks.
There’s the briefest hesitation. Sherlock holds his breath, his heart thudding for a completely different reason now. But all Mycroft says is, “I’ll be in touch, Sherlock. John.”
Unable to stand it any longer, Sherlock doesn’t even wait to hear the downstairs door close before he is moving towards John, cradling his face in trembling hands and kissing him. The kiss is more intense than the earlier ones, which were tentative in comparison. He dives into John’s mouth, knowing he must seem clumsy, over-eager, a bit too toothy, but John doesn’t seem to mind, only moans, slides his tongue over Sherlock’s, and grabs Sherlock’s hips to pull him closer. It’s both too much and not enough. He wants to crawl inside, dig his fingers into John’s skin, meld their bodies together. His breath huffs out his nose and he moves his hands into John’s hair, under the collar of his shirt, feels John’s hands under his own shirt on his lower back. Sherlock’s belly shivers at the touch, and he's suddenly driven by something inexplicable and certain; he has to pull away.
“What,” John protests, tugging, eyebrows furrowed, so Sherlock has to kiss him again, briefly.
“Bedroom.” Sherlock's heart pounds as he says the word, considers the implications.
“Brilliant,” he gets in response, except this causes John’s hands to abandon his skin when he pulls away to cross the room. He tugs Sherlock’s hand, but suddenly Sherlock is rooted to the spot.
“We don’t--” he starts.
“Do you want to?” John's hand is hot in his own, but his face is kind.
Sherlock can only nod, swallowing hard. “I’m not. I’ve never.” Thud. Thud. Thud.
John smiles. Reaches up. Touches fingertips to Sherlock’s lips, which are now so sensitive and desire more contact. “Me neither, not like this, but you’re a genius and I’m not a complete idiot. So we should be able to figure something out. Yeah?”
He nods again. John’s fingers trace the inside of his lower lip and Sherlock touches them with the tip of his tongue. John’s expression to shifts to something Sherlock knows he’s never categorized. He crowds into John’s space, pushes him across the room into his bedroom. They pause by the bed, and John gives a wry smile as he toes off his shoes and socks. Sherlock follows suit, feeling awkward. Is this something people consider before having sex? Taking shoes off feels like such the effort at the moment. John laughs at his expression and pushes him down on the bed. Sherlock twists to put his mobile on the table.
“If Mycroft calls,” he manages to get out before John’s tongue is in his mouth again and their legs tangle together. He can feel the sole of John’s foot pushing up his trouser leg, resolving The Shoes Conundrum.
“I know,” John says between kisses down his neck. Sherlock gasps at the sensation, pushes his hands under John’s shirt and pulls it off. “Remind me to grab my gun if that happens.”
“God, I love you,” Sherlock says.
John freezes in the midst of unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt and looks at him. He’s stopping. Why is he – Sherlock replays the last statement. “Well. That... slipped out.”
John, bless him, runs his tongue over Sherlock’s right nipple, grins wickedly when Sherlock whimpers, and slips one hand inside Sherlock's trousers. It is at that moment, or possibly the one immediately after while he is arching off the bed at the sensation, that Sherlock realizes how hard he is. John’s hand. He forces himself to breathe through his nose. Breathe. Christ. John is sucking on his neck and moaning and Sherlock can feel John’s erection against his thigh and he reaches his hands down to mirror John’s which are hot and hard-soft-hard and Sherlock is painfully aware of the noises coming out of his own mouth and that is possibly embarrassing, so he ducks his head down to kiss John again, because now they can drown out each other’s noises. John pushes Sherlock’s trousers and pants down, and then his own, which leaves so much more skin for Sherlock to touch, sharp hipbones, soft belly, the curve of his bottom and, oh god, John’s hands are everywhere (hip, cock, hair, shoulder, arm, hip), like he can't decide where to touch and Sherlock feels. He feels, and he can’t stop trying to kiss John, whose teeth are nipping at his bottom lip while he pants against Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock can hear John chanting his name over and over and it is a litany. Sherlock bites the point where John’s neck meets his shoulder as he slides his palm over the top of John’s erection and John’s moan sends Sherlock over the edge as he cries out John’s name and hears feels John do the same and he hears “I love you I love you I love you, fuck, Sherlock,” before his head falls back on the pillow and Sherlock realizes he never took his own shirt off.
Sherlock is playing his favorite Rozsa when he hears John in the shower the next morning. Though he spent the remainder of the night putting his mind to Jasna’s murderer, he found he knew too little about her to determine where she might be hiding. He sent an alert out to the Homeless Network, but there’s been no reply. Playing is doing little to ease his frustration.
John walks into the sitting room. Sherlock’s back is to him, but he can sense something, so he turns. John is staring. Why is he staring. Is Sherlock supposed to kiss him? Is this a thing they do now? He supposes it is, and is not opposed, but as things happened so suddenly last night, and as he and John are not in the habit of “What?”
He is looking over and around Sherlock in disbelief. “I can honestly say I have never seen such a thing in my life.”
He turns to the mirror, but it is covered in papers. “What?”
“Sherlock. You’re...”
That’s when he feels it. The seven swords and more. Something over his head. If he concentrates, pushes away thoughts about Pavel possibly being dead and Karina the murderess and why Jasna Peaves was killed, the impression of water, as if overflowing from a cup onto his head.
Sherlock rips the papers from the mirror and stares at his reflection. The two significants are faintly visible. His breathing is harsh, his eyes bright with panic. “What is this, what is happening, John, what--” then John’s hands are on his shoulders, turning him, on his face. He closes his eyes.
“Breathe,” John is saying, “breathe. You’re all right. It’s just transport, remember? It’s not you, it’s not what matters. Sherlock. Look at me.”
He does and thinks about John last night, whispering his heart, holding Sherlock until his trembling stopped. John's eyes are bright and warm and look no different than they looked yesterday or last week. John taps Sherlock's temple. “That gets the work done, yeah?”
“But.”
“But nothing. Nothing about you is changed.”
God, he truly did fall in love with an idiot. Obviously everything is changed.
“I mean,” John rolls his eyes. “You’re still you. You’re just... more.”
“I didn’t choose this.”
“No you didn’t. We don’t choose our sigs. They don’t define us, you said that and you were right. Yes, I'm saying it. They’re just an expression of who we are.”
“How is this an expression?”
“Well, I see a man who is still wrestling with a problem he is having trouble solving, and who has also, for lack of a better term, recently had a shag.” John laughs. “Look at me. I’m a bloody Page of Wands, for Christ’s sake. New uni students are Pages, not men nearly forty!”
“And Mycroft.” Sherlock wants to kiss him. Wants to, but won’t, because Pavel is still missing, and four people are dead. Four dead people are a mystery to him, a puzzle to be solved. To John, they are a tragedy to be mourned. John sees this, it seems, because he brushes his fingertips over Sherlock’s eyebrows once and pulls his hands away with a wry smile.
“Coffee?”
Sherlock nods, finds he is still holding his violin, puts it down, follows John into the kitchen. John measures out careful spoonfuls into the cafetiere, while Sherlock flips on the kettle. John gets down cups and Sherlock pulls out the sugar bowl for himself. These are the movements of any normal day, he thinks. John is acting like it’s not different, except now when he hands Sherlock a spoon for his sugar, his fingertips brush against the inside of Sherlock's wrist. Except now when John prepares the coffee, Sherlock stands close enough to smell John’s shampoo. He could wrap his dressing gown around the two of them, pull John close, kiss his neck. John would turn and they would laugh while they kissed. Sherlock steps closer.
“You’re a distraction,” John says. “You’re going to make me spill.” He reaches a hand back and pats Sherlock’s hip, nudging him away so he can turn and hand him a cup.
Sherlock stirs sugar into his coffee, stirs and stirs and stirs. “I didn’t know it would be like this.”
“Didn’t know... bad?” Mild tone. Means things.
“No,” he says, but that isn’t entirely true, and he promised. “I don’t know. Different, I suppose.” He turns then, but John looks like John, not sad or angry or worried. Just. Right. Certain.
“Look. It's not as if there isn't enough confusing bullshit happening already,” John says. “Plenty of time to talk about this after.”
Sherlock nods. Sips his coffee. John squeezes his arm as he walks out of the kitchen to sit in his chair with the paper. A normal day.
It is almost an hour before his phone beeps. Sherlock looks at it and shuts his eyes.
“Pavel Ovechkin is dead.”
Mycroft’s car waits for them outside the door. Mycroft is alone in the back. Sherlock expects a comment on his significants, but receives none. Glances over, and sees John glaring at his brother as if daring him to speak.
“What did she do this time?”
“It’s not what you’re expecting.”
He waits, but nothing more is forthcoming. The car’s interior is stifling with unsaid statements. After twenty minutes, the streets look familiar and something clicks.
“We’re headed to Tower Hamlets?”
Pavel’s body is sitting on the ground, leaning against the cement wall of the tower of flats that was once home to Jasna Peaves and her soon-to-be murderous assistant. His eyes are open. There are no bruises on his face or head. One of Mycroft’s anonymous minions indicates the works on the ground next to him and obvious mark on his arm. Suicide. It doesn’t compute.
“Morphine,” Mycroft says.
“He looks old.” Sherlock feels stupid saying it. Possibly Pavel had always been old, and he hadn’t noticed.
“He was dying, Sherlock.” Mycroft hands a folder to John, who reads it, eyebrows furrowed.
“Aggressive T-cell lymphoma. He had forgone any further treatment as of one week ago and was only accepting palliative,” John says. “Does this mean --”
But Sherlock is already walking away, thinking. Tower Hamlets. Lewisham. Karina showing up at Jasna’s flat with a picture of Sherlock, acting as if she were looking for him, but she had another motive. What? No. She was looking for him. Wants to draw him out. Talked the most estimable Death into killing himself in order to do that. Tower Hamlets. Jasna’s body was found in Lewisham, but it was assumed she hadn’t been killed in the alley in which she had been found, but somewhere near. Somewhere – Sherlock looks to the third floor for the apartment he visited almost twelve years ago, hoping to fix what was wrong with him so a Strength would love him. Hoped she could undo what had been done, even though she knew he wasn’t ready. He had wanted to go back to the beginning so he could try to do it right this time -- “Oh!”
He rushes to the street, sees and cab and hails it. “Lewisham,” he tells the cabbie.
During the ride he thinks about beginnings. About himself at eight. About a pair of trainers, Carl Powers, Richard Brook. When placed at a crossroads and every possibility seems probable, the best route to take is to go back to the start. When he returned from the dead. When John let him return into his life, Sherlock threw them into the first case he could convince Lestrade to let him take on. Wanted to remind John of how it had started, and how it could be again. Helped John remember why he’d chosen this life in the first place.
John. He pulls out his phone.
Find out which flat at the Lewisham bodydump address had once been Jasna’s. Meet me there. SH
Dammit Sherlock don’t you dare go in there without me
One window has the traditional hanging, a flag with a white flower emblazoned on it. Sherlock climbs the stair to the fifth floor. He raises his eyebrows at the man sitting outside the door, who holds up five fingers. Sherlock slips fifty pounds into his hand and walks in the door.
She is sitting cross-legged on a settee against the far wall, the yellow glow from a dim lamp forcing him to step closer. He freezes when he sees the revolver in her right hand.
“I knew you’d find me. Bit later than I thought.” He can barely hear her with her head down, inky black hair covering her face.
“Karina Ovechkin.”
She tilts her head up towards him. The skull visage of her significant wavers in the light as it plays over the shadows of her face. He quickly surveys the area. No other furniture in the room, small kitchen to one side, toilet, door.
“In 2002, I contacted Pavel to ask for his help. I didn’t hear from him, but his assistant emailed to let me know Pavel had retired eight years before when his granddaughter disappeared.”
“I walked right in front of you.” She is looking to the left of him now, lost in the memory of that night, her voice flat, empty.
He remembers a young girl with ginger hair and freckles, Death mask, sliding glance in his direction as she walked through the door into her room, but he had been too intent on his task, on timing everything perfectly. “She kidnapped you, brought you to this very flat. Raised you. Then abandoned you when you were old enough to be on your own.”
“Raised me? She brainwashed me. She taught me to hate myself and everything about me, while at the same time she charged money to fools like you, how much did you pay?”
“Fifty at the door. Five hundred when she finished.”
“Five hundred fucking quid.” She snorts. “I got ten? fifteen, maybe? For washing her sheets and listening to her rave about how you lot hated all of us, about how the only thing you’re good for is your money.” She waves the revolver around. Sherlock fights the instinct to duck. “You probably thought she was so kind. You probably wanted to fuck her.”
“She really wasn’t my type.” He steps closer, now that she isn’t watching him. Wonders if he can dive for the weapon, then spots the syringe and kit on the cushion next to her. He breathes slowly. “Heroin?”
“None of it matters now. It’s over now.”
He clasps his hands behind his back. “You could’ve simply hired me, you know. To find out who you are.”
She lifts her chin. “I know who I am. I am a Death. And if my grandfather had raised me, I would have been proud of that my whole life, I wouldn’t have --”
“Murdered someone? Been responsible for the murders of three others?”
“How else was I supposed to...?” She glares at him. “I saw you in the papers. Some genius detective. I walked right in front of you.” Her head lolls against the back of the settee. Sherlock steps closer.
He dares another step closer. “How did you convince Pavel to suicide?”
“I didn’t. He wanted to. Said that now that he’s seen me, he can let go.” She looks at the gun, eyes welling. “Why?”
Sherlock hears a brief scuffle outside the door. He isn’t worried. John has his gun. As the front door bursts open with John’s yelled, “Sherlock!” he darts to the settee and pulls the gun from Karina’s hand. He kneels on the floor and grabs her arm, which he can now see is dotted with several needle marks. Blows out a breath just as John enters the room.
“It’s safe, John, but we’ll need an ambulance.” He turns. John’s furious expression clears as he moves forward and pushes Sherlock out of the way.
“Mycroft’s downstairs,” John says as he checks her pinpoint pupils and her pulse, which Sherlock has already determined to be weak and thready.
Sherlock texts his brother. Watches John.
“He left you a note.” Her eyes are closed, voice slurring. Slowing. She waves the arm not in John’s grip at the kitchen counter. “He said you were meant to be more. That you were his greatest regret. You...”
Sherlock can only stare. The sound of sirens filters through the open front door.
After the hospital, at which Karina is given IV fluids, a narcotic antagonist, and placed on a ventilator;
after hours explaining everything to Lestrade (“But why kill the other three if all she wanted was to find where she was from and punish Peaves?” “To get my attention, of course.” “Of course.”), helping him find the contract killer Karina had used, and giving reports;
after John walked up to Sherlock, stepped into his space, kissed him hard, called him the most thoughtless dick on the planet, stormed out of NSY and into a cab (most likely to his sister’s, but Sherlock hasn’t checked);
Baker Street is silent.
“You know, your friend was wrong about the Hermit. It’s not a significant of isolation or loneliness.”
Sherlock pauses before putting down the pipette he is holding and pulling off his goggles. He, of course, heard the door open and close, recognized John’s tread on the stair, waited in this very position for the fifteen seconds it took John to be right where he stands.
He nods, won’t stop looking intently at John. Sherlock can see the lines on John's face produced by back pain from sleeping on Harry's sofa. John looks tired, but not angry, sad, or even disappointed. “You’re not angry with me anymore?”
“Did you even understand why I was in the first place?”
“Well, no. There was no actual danger. And I did believe I could defend myself against a young woman --”
“Who was holding a loaded weapon, who may have had a contract killer with her, god, Sherlock.” John paces the kitchen. “I get it. I do. You have these... lightbulb moments and nothing can stop you, everything else becomes peripheral. Just.”
“You’d rather you weren’t peripheral.”
John stops, hands on his hips, nostrils flared. Sherlock loves him so intensely at that moment. Upset, and yet, still standing there.
“I did think to text you,” he offers.
“God, you are such a bastard sometimes, I don't even know what... ”
I see in you, Sherlock mentally finishes. “I don't either, if it helps.”
John exhales, looks up to the ceiling. “I know what it’s like to have to live without you. And the thing is? I can. I did, and I could again.” John rubs his hand over his face. Then, for some reason Sherlock can’t fathom, smiles. “But I don’t want to.”
Because John loves him. Always. There is always something he misses.
“I’ll try to remember to text you sooner?”
“That's the best I’m going to get right now, isn't it?”
Sherlock shrugs. John laughs. Then he isn’t, because Sherlock cannot wait another second to stand, push John against the counter, and kiss him.
“What do you see?”
“You can’t tell?”
“I don’t want to feel it right now, John, please.”
They lie in his bed, naked, sweaty. It is not unpleasant. Sherlock thinks perhaps his heart will never stop racing, though empirically he knows that to be untrue. John lifts up on one elbow and runs a hand down Sherlock’s chest, gaze following.
“Knight of Swords, as you usually are after a case is solved. Seven of Cups, not sure what that one means, honestly, but it doesn’t seem bad. And...”
Oh, no. “There’s more?”
“Faintish Wands. Six? Hard to tell.”
Sherlock covers his face with his hands. “They’re all coming out now. At this rate, I’ll be balancing our accounts by the end of the week.”
“Be a nice change,” John says archly.
“You lied to me,” he says. It comes out muffled still behind his hands.
“What? When?”
“They do define us, don’t they?”
John lies down next to him. Talks to the ceiling. “I was born Wands. So whenever I ran around, as kids do, my mum always wrote it off to the suit. She never tried to reign me in, or tell me not to throw myself into the scrum. When Harry would get low and wobbly, nobody taught her how to cope with that. They would just shrug it off and think, ‘Typical Cup.’”
“This is a chicken versus egg argument. Tiresome.”
“But still true. Pavel chose your suit, but your parents probably would've chosen the same, because they were Swords and figured that would create the best outcome. But you were already bright and curious, and talking everyone’s right ear off. So.” John’s head tentatively rests on his shoulder. Sherlock wraps his arm around John's shoulders to secure him in place and feels John relax against him. His hand rests on Sherlock's chest. Better.
“Pavel's letter explained that he thought children like I was are actually born a Major no one can see. Something we need to be trained to become.”
“What do you think?”
“I think,” he stops. Allows himself to sense the pressure of a burgeoning brightness inside his chest. Breathes through the panic of the unfamiliar. Focuses instead on the scent of John’s skin and the tangle of their intertwined fingers, the slowing of his heart. “I think I will sleep on it.”
Future: The Tower
Sudden change, breaking illusions, revelation. Requires another card for a proper outcome to the reading...
Sherlock will wake.
There will be no reason for an internal check. He will feel the weight of the robe, the faint infinity glimmering like a distant star above his head. He won’t know how to feel about this, but will know he has no choice anymore. Significants may not be chosen, but evidently they will not be ignored.
John will still sleep, curled on his side, his back to Sherlock, inviting Sherlock’s hands to brush against his hip, thigh, stomach. Soon, Sherlock will curl his front against John’s back, tangle their legs together, slide his hand to John’s erection, bite John’s neck. swallow John’s moans. Something heated, glowing, unfamiliar, will unfurl in Sherlock’s belly at John’s climax. He will imagine it is the closest to happiness he has ever felt.
When John can finally turn to see him, Sherlock will suffer the scrutiny of his surprise-widened eyes. It will not itch, or feel intrusive, because John knows him. Because it won’t matter to John what Sherlock is. The Major he carries this morning, and for the rest of his days, won’t change a thing. John will always know him.
Then John will make a joke. Something like, that was magical or I always knew you had the hands of a magician, or something equally barmy, but John will laugh and laugh. It will be terrible, and Sherlock will love it.
END
Author Endnotes: There are many interpretations and beliefs regarding use of the Tarot as a divination tool. Though I have read about Tarot for years, I am by no means an expert. I have used my knowledge to create this world, but intended for this to be my interpretation only.
For reference, I have used the traditional Rider Deck.
Common Personality Traits of the Suits of the Minor Arcana
Wands: Active, adventurous, passionate, forthright, goal-oriented, defiant, spoiling for a fight, aggressive
Cups: Reflective, emotional, spiritual, romantic, sentimental, melancholic, passive-aggressive, lethargic
Swords: Curious, exacting, intellectual, talkative, energetic, argumentative, sharp-tongued, sarcastic
Pentacles: Stable, reliable, practical, hard-working, thorough, controlling, over-indulging, patient
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Date: 2013-01-05 04:19 pm (UTC)I'm so glad my method of worldbuilding worked for you, for it's the only way I can think of writing an AU. I'm pleased that it worked for you.