Fic for hitlikehammers: The Loose Thread, 2/3

[holmesticemods]

Sherlock wakes to the unmistakable smell and texture of hospital sheets. There is a bleeping that Sherlock assumes is a heart monitor, and beneath that the quieter sound of someone breathing. Sherlock opens one eye, an exercise that confirms his suspicion that any exposure to light is likely to exacerbate the blinding headache radiating up from the base of his skull. He forgets about the headache however when he takes in the contents of the room – bed, heart monitor, CCTV camera (Mycroft: dull) and, in the corner of the room, a chair, in which a grey man is sitting with his head in his hands. Sherlock struggles to a sitting position, staring.


“It worked,” he says.


John looks up at him and for a moment they simply stare at each other. Sherlock marvels at the way the light falls on the supple grey texture of his skin, and catches in his hair, the dark gleam of his eyes.


“Are you serious?” John says. He springs to his feet, small body taut with tension. He paces a few steps across the room and then back again, before stopping to glare at Sherlock.


“You know that no one else does this, right? No one I know of, no one anywhere puts their Death through the crap you put me through. I mean look at me!”John gestures to his face. “I’m thirty years old and I look fucking fifty because of the stress you put me through. Fucking – drugs and experiments and psychics, Sherlock and now this? Devil’s foot, do you even know what it could have done to you? And you just inhaled it like it was fucking – candy floss.”


“You don’t inhale candy floss,” Sherlock points out.


“You – what?”


“You don’t inhale candy floss. That’s a terrible metaphor. You eat it.”


John stares at him for several beats, mouth sagging open, eyes looking glazed.


“Oh,” John says, eventually. “Oh, god. You really can see me, can’t you?”


“Of course. I thought that had been established.”


John’s knees seem abruptly to give way, and he slumps back against the wall and then staggers over to his chair to sit. “Shit,” he says. “Shit, shit, shit.”


“It’s funny,” Sherlock says. “Molly told me Deaths were quiet. Do you often shout at me like that?”


John looks up at him. “All the time,” he says, faintly.


“Seems like rather a waste of energy,” Sherlock comments. “If I can’t hear you, what is the point in berating me?”


“I guess… I always hoped it’d filter through somehow.” John says, slowly. “You can really see me? Properly see me? And… hear me?”


“Obviously.”


“Bloody hell,” says John, in a tone that is now a little awed. “You actually bloody did it.”


Sherlock preens a little.


“That’s not a compliment,” John snaps. “This isn’t supposed to happen.”


Sherlock scowls. “I don’t see why not.”


“Because,” John says. “This isn’t the way things are supposed to be.”


Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Dull.”


John sighs, “You know,” he says. “When I was little my Mum told me I’d have a difficult time with you. You’re a loose thread.”


“A loose thread?” Sherlock repeats.


“Yeah, you know. Fate is like a tapestry. Things are – not set in stone exactly but stitched in. The pattern can change sometimes, can be unpicked if someone makes an unexpected decision – but mostly, they stay the same. That’s why most Deaths know how close their human is. They know where to stand, they when to be ready. But you – it’s like fate didn’t know what to do with you, so it just left you dangling. Your destiny is…” John shrugs. “I used to think maybe it was because you were going to die young. Now maybe I think it was because of - this. Because this is the kind of thing you do. You’re the kind of mad bastard who’ll go and unpick the fabric of the Universe because you have to know how everything works.”


“This upsets you?”


“Of course it does,” says John. “Destiny is my job.”


“Then why are you smiling?”


It’s true. The corners of John’s mouth have been curling upwards for a while.


John reaches up a hand to cover his mouth, but the drops it when it’s clear the smile isn’t fading. He shakes his head. “Oh, it’s just – only you would do this, Sherlock.”


“So you said,” Sherlock says. “Apparently I’m so impossible I’ve prematurely aged you.” He can’t keep the slight edge of hurt out of his tone at this.


John gives him a searching, thoughtful look. “Yeah, well,” he says. “There is that. But I’m never bored.”


“I should hope not,” Sherlock says.


John looks at him, a fond smile spreading slowly across his face, the sort of smile that somehow manages to defeat Sherlock’s attempt at wounded dignity, and he finds himself grinning back.


“So, you can see me,” John says, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out in front of him. “This should be interesting.”




***




Mycroft arrives the next morning, face pale and pinched, hand clenched on the handle of his umbrella. Mycroft hates hospitals, which begs the question of why he is here now. Sherlock can only assume it is supposed to be some sort of declaration of power and strength before which Sherlock is supposed to cower and tremble.


“Well, Sherlock,” Mycroft says. “You really have outdone yourself this time.”


“It was a necessary experiment.”


“Your heart stopped for over a minute. Paramedics had difficulty restarting it. I suggest you think twice before attempting any similar scientific endeavours in the near future.”


Sherlock leans back in his bed and glares at him. John, who is standing pressed against the back wall, gave him a sharp look.


“He’s trying to protect you.”


Mycroft follows Sherlock’s gaze to look at the corner and then turns back to look at Sherlock, frowning.


“Devil’s foot is known to have ongoing effects. Hallucinations. Bouts of extreme terror. You wouldn’t happen to be experiencing any of that, would you?”


“Of course not,” Sherlock says.


“The nurses mentioned you’d been talking to yourself.”


“It’s customary to address yourself to the most intelligent person in the room - didn’t you tell me that once?”


John snorts. Sherlock, very carefully, does not look in his direction.


“J.R.R. Tolkien,” Mycroft mutters, then fixes Sherlock with a stern look. “I regret to inform you that you are out of home. Your landlord was most insistent – you are to leave by the end of the week.”


“I told you to be careful of the carpet.”


“I believe it was your willingness to gas yourself and potentially everyone else in the building that was the sticking point, rather than the carpet. This is your third eviction this year.”


“I’ll find something.”


“You better had. Otherwise – you know my doors are always open to you, brother.”


“I’d rather take my chances under a bridge,” Sherlock retorts.


“Yes,” Mycroft says. “I know you would. I hope for Mummy’s sake you won’t let it come to that, however. I haven’t told them about your current escapade. I hope you will not render it necessary for me to do so.”


“Is that a threat?”


Mycroft looks at him, and Sherlock sees bags under his eyes, a weariness in his eyes that’s unfamiliar. “It is a statement of fact, Sherlock. Don’t tie my hands.”


Mycroft moves to the door and pauses for a moment, looking at the corner where John is standing for a long moment then glances back at Sherlock, who struggles not to tense.


“If you find yourself in need of additional medical care please do not hesitate to inform me.”


“I won’t.”


Mycroft nods shortly, then leaves.


John sighs and steps forward.


“He’s got a point, you know.”


“Does he?”


“We don’t know exactly what that drug did to you. Obviously, you can see me now. Can you see anything else from the second realm?”


“The second…”


John waves a hand impatiently. “The stuff when we can see and you can’t. Do you see anything unusual apart from me?”


“No.”


“Nothing in the corner of that room, for example?” John points.


Sherlock turns to look at the empty corner and shakes his head.


“When your brother came into the room, you didn’t see a woman with him? Short, fair haired, looks a bit like me?”


“No. The woman is Mycroft’s Death?”


“Yeah. My sister, Harry. You’d like her. She can’t stand Mycroft either.”


“How do familial relationships between Deaths come about? You mentioned your mother earlier too.”


“Same way they do for you. My mum is your mum’s Death. My dad is your dad’s and when they get together…”


John leaves an expressive pause.


“I see. But surely that necessitates forming romantic bonds only in parallel with humans.”


“I guess it does, but I’ve never known anyone who thought it was a hardship. We feel what you feel a lot of the time.” John smiles. “Not like I’ve ever had to worry about that with you, anyway.”


“Certainly not. So. You feel my emotions.”


“Some of them,” John repeats. “I don’t get nearly as bored as you do, thank God. Nor do I get quite as annoyed by your brother.” John glances at him. “Have you noticed – when he’s here I can’t stand so close to you?”


“Meaning?”


“Meaning death isn’t as close to you when he’s around. Like I said. He’s a pain, but he’s your big brother. He’s protecting you.”


Sherlock glares at him. “Are you sure it isn’t just that life feels like it takes longer when he’s here bothering me?”


John laughs and goes over to the table where Sherlock’s gifts from well wishers sit. He picks up a grape and puts it in his mouth. “Maybe,” he says. “Still.” He raises his eyebrows at Sherlock ”So we need a place to stay.”


“Yes,” says Sherlock, thoughtfully. He likes the sound of the we in that sentence rather a lot. “Yes, we do.”


***


In the end Sherlock is able to call in a favour from an old client – Mrs Hudson, whose enduring gratitude to Sherlock for relieving her of her late husband has taken the form of various baked goods over the years and now materialises again in the form of subsidised rent on a flat in Baker Street.


Sherlock likes the flat immediately – it’s a little large for one man but he has no desire to take a flatmate – that would make communicating with John most difficult. He watches as John wanders around it, poking his nose in cabinets and shifting through the boxes Mycroft has had moved here.


“We’ll need to clear up a bit,” John says.


“You can if you like,” Sherlock pushes a box off the sofa and lounges on it. John shoots him a nasty look.


“And what are you doing?”


“Thinking.”


“About?”


Sherlock pauses and listens to the sound of a familiar car pulling up outside Baker Street. He smiles at John. “There’s been another murder.”


***


Living with a visible, audible John proves invaluable in many respects, not least of which is John’s help at crime scenes. John has few deductive skills (disappointingly – Sherlock would have thought a lifetime of following him around would have taught John something) but Sherlock finds his wits can be sharpened against the whetstone of John’s quiet interest. And John’s awareness of a world Sherlock cannot see proves most useful at times, not to mention his proximity makes a useful barometer for Sherlock to gauge just how dangerous the people around him might be.


“Are you an idiot?” John asks him, on the first night they are on a case together, the delightful mystery of a suicide-inducing taxi driver. “Both those pills are poisonous. Have you not noticed I’m breathing down your neck whenever you touch either one of them?”


Sherlock Holmes looks up into the mocking eyes of the taxi driver. “You’re cheating,” he says. “No dice. And the police will be here – oh, about now. Good luck managing your terminal illness in prison.”


After the case ends Sherlock and John return to the flat, still in fits of laughter over the cabbie’s flummoxed expression.


It isn’t only cases that are improved by John’s presence however. Sherlock, who has never been good at living at close quarters with anyone, is amazed by how much he enjoys looking up to see John pottering around on the other side of the flat, making tea in the kitchen, or flicking through a newspaper. There’s an ease of familiarity to their interaction which Sherlock supposes could be explained by the years they lived side by side but silently, but also an underlying sparkle of excitement like frost in the air, sharpening Sherlock’s senses and making even mundane activities seem almost exciting. Genius needs an audience, he tells himself, and John is perfect for the job.


Their days settle into a sort of pattern around one another. Most days John is, sometimes frustratingly, physically distant from Sherlock, keeping the length of the flat between them. Sherlock knows John likes the distant days, because he smiles over thirty per cent more frequently and hums to himself as he makes his tea. Privately Sherlock would be prepared to suffer a bit more mortal peril to avoid having to squint to read John’s expression or to conduct all his conversations by shouting across the length of the flat but he does not share that thought with John.


Then there are times when John seems pulled closer and closer, into Sherlock’s orbit. Sometimes the reasons are obvious –Sherlock is conducting experiments on a series of poisonous chemicals, Sherlock is hunting down a serial killer, Sherlock’s untended cold is building into pneumonia. Sometimes Sherlock wakes up to find John, for no reason he can discern, sitting at the foot of his bed, tight lipped and tense. It’s clear John hates the days they spend within arm’s reach of one another – he clams up, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes, turning his head away whenever Sherlock speaks.


“It isn’t my fault,” Sherlock points out once, to which John only glares at him.


“You could be more careful,” John snaps, and turns pointedly away from him.


Occasionally are days that are a perfect medium, where John is close enough to smile at, sitting in the chair opposite his own, days when John will smile back, the warmth that had made such an impression on Sherlock on that first day under the tree kindling in his eyes.


The issue of space comes to a head unexpectedly six months after they move into Baker Street. It’s been a close-quarters sort of day, to John’s obvious but unspoken irritation. Sherlock has been awake for two days on a case which has now finally concluded and feels his head growing heavy and stupid with the desire to sleep. John trails after him into his bedroom and wheels out the campbed from under Sherlock’s bed. Despite being a supernatural being John needs to sleep, as it turns out, as much if not more than Sherlock does. The nature of the always shifting distance between them means John’s bed must be as mobile as he is. Today, the campbed is pulled to the foot of Sherlock’s bed, and Sherlock sits up against the pillows, watching John settle under the blankets.


Despite Sherlock’s exhaustion, sleep doesn’t come easily for him. Instead Sherlock listens as John’s breathing slows and deepens, a bar of light from the corridor beyond illuminating his face. Sherlock finds himself watching the tiny shifts in expression as John moves through his REM cycle, the flutter of his lashes on his cheeks. His face is never so relaxed during the waking day and Sherlock rarely has a chance to observe him so closely.


Since he isn’t sleeping Sherlock decides there will be little harm in moving a little closer to John to look. He stands and walks over to John’s bed, looking down at him, watching his own shadow pass over John’s face.


That’s when John opens his eyes and smiles. He reaches a hand up to Sherlock to catch at his wrist, winding his fingers around it. Sherlock feels a shock at the sensation of his own pulse jumping under John’s fingers. Something in his brain telling him this is wrong, that it is not supposed to happen, but his knees bend despite themselves, and he sits on the edge of John’s bed. John’s eyes gleam in the darkness as he takes Sherlock’s hand again and raises it to his mouth, brushing his lips over Sherlock’s fingers before turning his hand over, to kiss the flat of his palm.


“John,” Sherlock says hoarsely, but John raises a finger to his lips, and then kneels up so their faces are level. One hand travels down the side of Sherlock’s face and rakes through his hair before John moves forward and presses their lips together, his mouth warm and sweet and moving under Sherlock’s. That’s when something in Sherlock seems to give, a heated wanting flooding through him and Sherlock finds himself pushing back greedily, laying John flat on the bed and scrambling on top of him, hands plucking and pulling at his pyjamas. John responds by wrapping his legs around Sherlock, pulling him in until everything is lost to the sound of their shared laboured breaths and the tug of friction between them. Eventually John arches up beneath him and cries out his name, quiet and clear and in that moment Sherlock finds himself coming with a cry of relief.


And then he opens his eyes. He’s in his own bed, sheets tangled and damp around him. John is still in his camp bed at the foot of his bed, but he’s sitting bolt upright now and staring at Sherlock.


“John,” Sherlock says. “I was… I was dreaming….”


“Yes,” John says, in clipped tones. “I know.”


Sherlock takes a few minutes of breathing to gather in the meaning of the situation, and then his cheeks start to burn.


“I take it we share dreams then too.”


“Sometimes,” John says. He struggles to his feet and walks with awkward halting steps that Sherlock can tell aren’t voluntary over to Sherlock’s bed to sit beside Sherlock’s knees. The expression on John’s face as he looks down at him is very cold. Sherlock feels as if he’d swallowed something sharp cornered and cruel and that it somehow had lodged itself somewhere in his gullet.


There is a silence. Sherlock wishes he could see John’s face but he’s turned his face away, casting it into shadow.


“I suppose it’s only natural,” John says, at last. “You were very young when you saw me first. That isn’t supposed to happen. And when you die, chemicals are released – endorphins, dopamine, causing sensations not unlike how you’d feel when you…. I can see how things could have become confused.”


“I’m not confused,” says Sherlock, as he says it he knows it’s true. Ever since he’s seen John there’s been a desire like a hook somewhere deep in his chest and even making him visible isn’t enough. “I’ve never wanted anyone John. But I want you.”


Something flashes over the still surface of John’s face, almost too quickly for Sherlock to interpret but when he does he feels a little warmer.


“And you want me,” Sherlock says. “It was your dream as much as mine, wasn’t it? You kissed me first.”


John is silent for a long moment. Eventually he turns, eyes gleaming in the dark. “Perhaps,” he says slowly. “I’m confused too.”


Sherlock struggles into a sitting position and John automatically leans back and away from him. Sherlock stares at him, at the ruffled grey hair, at the puffy sleep-bright eyes, the chest rising and falling under his open pyjama shirt. His hands twitch in his lap with the stifled desire to touch.


“I found a way to make you visible….”


“No,” John says.


“But….”


John gets to his feet, and gives a hobbled half step before stopping, clearly unable to get any further away from Sherlock. With a short grunt of frustration he turns and walks over to Sherlock’s bed table and, picking up his glass of water and throwing it against a wall. They both stare at the shattered pieces.


“I’m sorry.” John says, raising a hand to cover his face. “It’s just - listen to me. If a Death touches a human, that human dies. That’s the rule.”


“Ah yes, your fondness for the rules,” Sherlock sneers. A muscle twitches at the corner of John’s jaw, his face hardening


“I am fond of obeying rules that keep you from dying, Sherlock, yeah. And you know what? If you even think about trying to break this one, about running any more of your experiments, on us I’ll…”


“What?” says Sherlock. “What can you do, other than shouting me, at which you are performing admirably at already, by the way.”


John clenches his fists and leans forward, fury-dilated eyes boring into Sherlock’s


“I’ll walk away from you, Sherlock. I’ll get up and leave. Whether you are alive or dead, I’ll make sure you won’t see me again.”


There’s a silence in which Sherlock absorbs the sheer fury in John’s expression.


“I thought Deaths couldn’t do that,” he says.


“Oh, we can. It would be incredibly painful for both of us. It would probably be easier for me to lop off a limb, or scoop out one of my internal organs and hand it to you. But I will do it, Sherlock, if you do anything to experiment on us again.”


Sherlock stares at him for a long moment, at his pale taut face and then nods.


“Understood.”


John lets out a breath and gets up, stepping away from him and sitting at the far end of Sherlock’s bed.


“You have to know, Sherlock, it’s….” John begins, and looks away. “I know you are who you are. I know dying doesn’t scare you. But it scares me. The thought of being the one to take you away from this world, from your work... You don’t see the good you do with that ridiculous, amazing brain of yours, the impact you have on the world around you. But I can. And to see you throw that away - ”


John’s breath hitches for a moment and he looks away. “Both me and Harry, we were always so proud of you and Mycroft. No one else had humans like you.”


“Stressful and detestable.”


“And brilliant and exciting and mad.” John smiles at him. “We always used to fight over whose human was better.”


Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “I hope you’re going to tell me that you were the victor.”


“Well,” John says. “I certainly like to think so.”


They smile at one another, and Sherlock enjoys steady warmth in John’s gaze. Perhaps, he thinks, it will be enough, the quiet presence of John beside him and sleep warm conversations. Then John yawns and ruffles his soft looking hair and Sherlock thinks you will never touch him, not until the day you die.


“I suppose we should try to sleep,” John says. Sherlock nods, awkwardly and looks away.


“Before we do…” John says, he leans forward just slightly, spreading his hands open on the coverlet in front of him. “Like I said, I know our life will always be dangerous, but I’d like you to – take some more care. For me, if not for yourself.”


Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, and then nods. “I will endeavour to avoid dying,” he says. “To the best of my ability.”


“Good,” John says. “Thank you.”


With a last surprisingly soft-edged smile John gets up and returns to bed. Sherlock stares at the line of his Death’s body under the blankets for a long time before he finds himself able to lie down again and sleep.


***


It’s three months after John makes his ultimatum and Sherlock makes his promise when Sherlock gets a text message from an unknown number.


Hi Sherlock, it’s Molly Hooper. I’ve come across something rather odd and I wasn’t sure who else to ask about it and, well, I remembered you were a detective. Any chance you could stop by Barts?


As it happens, Sherlock has some samples from his most recent case that would benefit from examination under the superior lab equipment at St. Barts, so Sherlock decides to kill two birds with one stone and take them with him. Molly meets them in the lab, looking pale and harassed.


“Thank you for coming,” Molly says.


“Not a problem,” Sherlock says. “Where is the crime?”


“Crime?”


“I assume that’s why you asked me here.”


“Oh! No – not exactly. It’s just there’s… someone I’d like you to take a look at. I’d like to know what you think of him. I can’t… I’m not sure if anything’s wrong at all, but it might be. He should be arriving in half an hour or so, if you’ll just…”


Sherlock raises his eyebrows at this uncharacteristically vague pronouncement but he can see it would be fruitless to pursue the matter.


“Would you mind if I take a look at these samples in the meantime?”


“Of course…”


Molly sits on the lab stool beside him and pulls out a report, and Sherlock begins unpacking his samples.


“Sherlock,” John says in warning tones, as he takes a step closer to him. “Gloves.”


Sherlock glances down at the corrosive substance he’d been handling and sighs, going over to the glove dispenser.


Molly watches them both with an expression of dawning surprise on her face. “You can hear him now?”


“And see him. Devil’s Foot,” says Sherlock, winks at her. “Psychoactive compound. It was all rather thrilling.”


“Oh, wow, well,” she says, still sounding a bit nonplussed. “I’m glad it - worked out?”


John makes a cynical noise in the back of his throat at that, but Sherlock only smiles at him widely.


It’s at this moment that the door bangs open, and a young man sticks his head around it. “Molly.. oh, sorry I didn’t realise you had company. I brought that tech manual you asked for.”


“Oh, it’s quite all right, Jim, come in.” Molly says, in rather too high pitched a tone. Sherlock raises his eyebrows at her. Clearly this is the person Molly was hoping Sherlock would examine.


Sherlock scans him quickly. There is nothing exceptional about him that Sherlock can see – he clearly works in IT, has a mild addiction to pain medication, probably the result of a chronic condition, is gay and, judging by the shuffle of nervous enthusiasm he greets Sherlock with, single. Overall intensely unthreatening and more than usually dull.


Then Sherlock glances sideways and notices that beside him John has gone rigid, staring at the man in a kind of mute horror.


“…heard so much about you,” Jim finishes saying, hand held out to Sherlock. Sherlock merely stares at him, and Molly gives a nervous giggle.


“Oh, Sherlock has been touching all sorts of nasty substances, you don’t want to….”


“Oh, no of course not, excuse me. I’ll get out of your hair.” Jim says, dropping the hand and backs away, knocking over a petri dish as he goes. Sherlock catches the flash of a card sliding under the dish as Jim puts it back.


“Well. Be seeing you, Molly,”


“Oh – yes.” Molly says, still looking flustered and sees him to the door. The three of them wait in silence until the door has snapped shut decisively behind Jim.


“Well?” Molly looks questioningly at Sherlock, but Sherlock is too busy looking at John, who is hunched forward taking deep shuddering breaths, as if afraid he might throw up.


“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks, and John looks up at him, a distinctly queasy expression on his face.


“He doesn’t have a Death,” he says.


Sherlock looks back at the closed door. “That man? Jim?”


John nods, and shivers.


“That’s… unusual?”


“It’s- you wouldn’t understand. It’s like seeing someone without a head.” John blinks and then seems to remember who he is talking to. “It’s like how a normal human would feel seeing someone without a head.”


“Toby was the same,” Molly says. “The first time we met him I thought Toby was going to throw up. You didn’t notice anything off about him, then?”


Sherlock shakes his head slowly. “Nothing that seemed of any significance,” he says. “Certainly no signs of criminal intent if that is what you are asking about.”


Molly sighs, and perches on a lab stool. “He’s been really nice to me these past couple of months, made a real effort to be friends. He’s always asking after me, bringing me coffees, presents for my cat. I’ve no reason to think there’s anything wrong other than… other than that.”


John shakes his head jerkily. “Don’t trust him. Stay away.”


“That’s what Toby says. But what can I say? No, he can’t buy me coffee or chat about the latest episode of Glee because he doesn’t have a supernatural being that only I can see following him around?”


“Why would a person not have a Death?” Sherlock asks. “Could he have been born without one?”


“He’d be immortal,” says John. “Ever heard of that happening?”


“Perhaps his Death left him,” Sherlock says. John glances up at him, and then away.


“Maybe. That’s – rare,” he says. “Molly, I don’t know what we can tell you except be really careful around him.”


“We could investigate him.” Sherlock points out. John glares at him.


“You’re a detective,” he says. “Not a paranormal investigator. No one has committed any crimes here.”


“As far as we know,” Sherlock mutters.


“Isn’t there anyone else you could ask for advice, Molly?”


Molly bites her lip. “Well, that’s just it. I tried to contact my old necromancy teacher….”


Sherlock’s head snaps up. “You were taught necromancy?”


“Yes – well, sort of. As I said, when I first started seeing things I was terrified out of my mind. Then I met Alfredo and he could see some of the same things, and he – well, he knew stuff. He’d travelled all the way around the world when he was younf, learning what he could about the Second Realm. He helped explain a lot of things to me, helped me adjust. When I have questions I usually ask him. But he hasn’t been picking up his calls recently, and there’s no answer at his flat.”


Sherlock sits up at this. “Seems like rather a coincidence.”


“Well, not really. Alfredo travels a lot. Last year he disappeared for six months – turned out he’d got the urge to go hiking over the Andes for six months and didn’t think to let anyone know about it.”


“Hmm,” Sherlock looks up at John. “Nevertheless. Perhaps John and I can look into tracing Alfredo, just as a precautionary measure. I have plenty of contacts in backpacking communities.”


John frowns, but eventually nods. “I suppose there’s no harm in that.”


Molly looks relieved. “I’ll get you his address.”


***


Alfredo D’Onofrio is dead. Sherlock is quite certain of the fact. After a week of discrete enquiries and careful digging it becomes no trace of Alfredo can be found. People don’t disappear so completely that Sherlock can’t find a trace, not unless someone has put a great deal of thought into it. It’s not just Alfredo either. Several members of Alfredo’s network of past travelling companions seem to have mysteriously succumbed to the same vanishing force, all about two months ago which, coincidentally, is the same period of time when ‘Jim Zucco’ began working as an IT consultant at Barts.


Sherlock takes the business card with Jim’s name and number on it out of his pocket, tracing the edges, and glances over at John. He’s sitting on the sofa, nodding off over the print out of Alfredo’s bank records that Sherlock had asked him to read. John would not approve of approaching Jim directly. But the case is at a dead end, and what other move is left for Sherlock to make?


He pulls out his phone and composes his text.


You seem to have left a business card under my petri dish.SH


The answer is almost immediate.


Yes, I was hoping you might call


I prefer to text. SH


It’s a shame, with a voice like yours a call would get anyone’s attention.


It doesn’t seem like your attention is difficult to acquire. SH


Not for you, honey, no.


Sherlock looks at the word on the screen and suddenly feels a sense of utter certainty that the man he’s talking to is much cleverer and much more dangerous than he’d realised.


Where is Alfredo D’Onofio?


Oh, Sherlock, that’s quite the story. Why don’t you invite me to tea tomorrow afternoon and I’ll tell you all about it?


***




John fidgets with the tea towel in the kitchen, watching with wide eyes as Sherlock sets out the tea and biscuits in their coffee table.


“You could always go into my bedroom if you don’t want to see him.” Sherlock says.


“I couldn’t,” says John flatly and Sherlock glances up at him. If they position themselves strategically the distance between them is quite far enough for John to reach the other room.


“It’s not that,” John says. “I don’t want to leave you alone with him.”




Sherlock opens his mouth unsure how to reply to that, when the doorbell rings. He goes to the window to see Jim grin up at him briefly at him from the street before Mrs Hudson opens the door.




The Jim that enters Sherlock’s living room is a different person from the shuffling IT consultant from the hospital. It’s only seeing him in his Westwood suit and sharply polished shoes that makes Sherlock realise how much he’d underestimated the skill of his deception. Sherlock shows him to his seat and pours him a cup of tea.


“So,” he says, settling himself into his seat.


“So,” Jim mimicks his tone, and then picks up his tea cup, inhaling. “Oh, that’s a lovely cuppa, I can just tell. So many people think you can just shake a tea bag over water and it will make a proper brew. It’s nice to see someone do things the traditional way.” He takes a sip and makes an appreciative noise. “Oh, yes, that’s just right.”


“Alfredo D’Onofio,” Sherlock reminds him.


“Hmmm? Oh, he’s dead, Sherlock. You knew that.”


“You murdered him.”


“Murder-? Oh, no. I’d never get my hands dirty with something like that. The silly man went rock climbing in the Alps and, well, it seems someone somewhere along the line didn’t sell him quite the right sort of rope. They’ll find him eventually, I expect, at the bottom of some nice rocky gorge.”


Jim sighs and takes another slurp of tea, and a bite of one of Mrs Hudson’s shortbread biscuits. He looks up at John, who is watching them both from behind the kitchen counter, eyes narrowed.


“It’s a shame you aren’t having tea, Johnny boy, this is quite delicious.”


John ignores him, looking at Sherlock. “Ask him about the others.”


“Oh, I’m getting the silent treatment, am I? Yes, Sherlock, tell your Death to tell you to tell me exactly how much he hates the sight of me.”


“Why have you been killing necromancers?”


“Well- you know what they say about magicians, Sherlock. It never does to reveal your tricks. And no one keeps secrets better than dead men.” Jim leans forward. “As it stands I have quite the monopoly on knowledge about those particular arts right now. No one alive understands the Second Realm better than I do Besides. I didn’t want little Molly Hooper to have anyone else to turn to when she started to get worried.”


“And yet you’ve not harmed Molly. What significance does she have to you?”


“No significance at all, except I knew that she’d introduce me to you. I’ve been watching you for a very long time, Sherlock.”


“Have you? I’m flattered.”


“Yes, we’ve been playing one another for a while now, not that you’ve noticed. You remember Jefferson Hope? He was one of mine.”


“You were the sponsor.”


“Among other things, yes. And then there was the case of the Jade Pin, well, I let you have that one. Those smugglers were too stupid not to let go. I’ve had my hand in so many of your little puzzles these past few years Sherlock. I’m a little disappointed that you didn’t notice my input but I suppose you’ve been…” Jim glances up at John. “Preoccupied.”


“What are you?” says Sherlock, leaning forward.


“Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal.” Jim smiles at him and gives him a mocking little wave. “Hi.”


Sherlock stares at the man opposite, with a growing half-revolted fascination.


“What do you want with Sherlock?” says John. He’s moved a little closer now, and is standing in the entrance to his kitchen, arms folded and glaring at Moriarty. “You said all of this is to get to him, so. What is it you want?”


Moriarty’s smile shows teeth. “Oh, he’s very direct, isn’t he? Very courageous. I can see why you like him, Sherlock, really, I do. Well, to answer your question, I like to think of myself as a Good Samaritan. You’re in a terrible mess, Sherlock, and you simply can’t see it.”


“Am I?”


“Well, yes.” Moriarty gives a pointed glance at John. “Sherlock, I understand a Death makes a very nice little pet. I was fond enough of my Sebastian, until I realised how much he was holding me back.” Moriarty leans forward, face suddenly serious. “But he was. It’s all very well for ordinary people to get old and sick and die, we aren’t ordinary Sherlock You are brilliant – almost as brilliant as I am. You would do so much better without that millstone around your neck. He’ll chip away at you, Sherlock, at your abilities, at your strength. It’s happening already. You would have noticed me so much sooner if he hadn’t been fogging your brain.”


“So, you want me to get rid of John.” Sherlock states.


“I like the game we’ve been playing, Sherlock. I arrange crimes and you solve them, I start a waltz and you step in and change the steps. I can tell you honestly, it’s the most fun I’ve had in years. But in a few short decades you’ll start to get decrepit and gooey minded and then you’ll die. Why would you want that, when we could be playmates forever?”


“You sent your own Death away,” Sherlock says.


“It’s actually very easy,” Moriarty says. “Two words, and he’s banished. Would you like me to tell you what they are?”


John makes a soft sound, from the kitchen. He’s staring at them both with a look of horror Sherlock glances at him and then at Moriarty.


“I understand separating from your Death is rather a painful endeavour.”


Moriarty shrugs. “What’s a little pain, when you have eternity to gain for yourself? Infinite youth, infinite pleasure. The pain just sharpens the sensation.”


He’s lying, Sherlock thinks. Underneath that well tailored suit, every muscle of James Moriarty’s body is straining, veins standing out on his neck and at his temple with the effort of holding himself still, with not screaming.


Sherlock leans forward, looking Moriarty straight in the eyes. “I have no interest in separating myself from John.” he says.


Moriarty’s eyes flash, lip curling up for a second. Then he forces a sickly smile.


“I had a feeling that might be your answer. I’m afraid I’ll simply have to persuade you.” Abruptly, Moriarty stands. “But that can wait. I’m afraid I have other business to attend to.”


“Please don’t hurry back.”


Moriarty bares gives Sherlock a bared tooth grin and then turns to walk toward the kitchen, stopping short in front of John, who stares back at him defiantly.


“You think you have him perfectly under your thumb, don’t you? It won’t last, you know. He’s much too good for you.”


“Get out,” John says.


“Oh, I will,” Moriarty say. “Ta for now, you two.”


He leaves the room and John lets out a long breath.


“Are you all right?” Sherlock asks him. John nods. Sherlock goes to the window to watch Moriarty getting into a black car. He feels John come over to stand behind his shoulder.


“Well, he’s not going to leave you alone. What are we going to do?”


Sherlock watches as the car slides away. “I don’t know.”


***


Moriarty’s net closes in quickly. It starts with small things. Sherlock’s mother calls him in distress to tell him there has been a fire in his family home – all her books and papers have been destroyed along with his father’s pianoforte. A card arrives with a dozen red roses for Sherlock the next day ‘Lucky no one was in the house this time, wasn’t it? – M x’. Mrs Hudson suffers an unexpected fall after a patch of ice appears mysteriously right outside their door, and the Doctors hum and hah about whether she should perhaps move into a care home. Lestrade calls Sherlock to tell him he can’t take him on cases anymore (‘Just for a bit Sherlock, my bosses are putting me under a lot of pressure about you… to be honest I think there have been some rumours going around…’). Cases from the website dry up.


It’s a power play, Sherlock realises. Moriarty is letting him know that he can systematically strip Sherlock of everything that makes his life bearable, and Sherlock has no doubt that this is only the beginning. He glances at John where he is sitting hunched in his chair by the fireplace, staring at Sherlock’s laptop. There are no prizes for guessing where Moriarty will strike last.


Moriarty clearly plans to leave Sherlock with two choices, and if not for his promise to John Sherlock might be very tempted to take the latter. Sherlock needs to gain an advantage somehow, but how? Moriarty has no vulnerabilities. Even the British Government can threaten little against a man who cannot die and to whom any pain one can inflict will matter little compared to the agony he has already inflicted upon himself.


Unless. Perhaps Moriarty is right. Perhaps buried deep in this mess is a small glimmer of opportunity.


Sherlock glances at the still preoccupied John and then takes out his mobile thumbing a text surreptitiously under the table. Molly – come to Baker Street tonight at 12pm. I need to talk to you, and I need to do it while John is asleep..


***


“What are we going to do?” John pants as together they duck into a doorway. Behind them a police siren wails and Sherlock hears the screeching of brakes kicked into gear. Sherlock’s near-arrest and pending tabloid disgrace undoubtedly signals the commencement of Moriarty’s end game. It’s time to act.


“We need to give Moriarty what he wants,” Sherlock says. He glances at John, taut, worried, watching him. “St Barts. Let’s go.”


***


Moriarty is waiting for them in the lab, sitting cross legged on the counter top.


“Well, Sherlock. Things are going well, aren’t they? Have you thought anymore about my offer?”


Sherlock takes off his coat and throws it over a chair. Then he pulls the gun out of his pocket slowly and levels it at Moriarty, who pouts.


“Now, now, I thought you were smarter than that. I’m immortal. You can’t kill me.”


“I know,” says Sherlock. “It isn’t for you.”


Beside him, Sherlock feels John tense. “Sherlock-“


Moriarty’s face darkens. “You’re really going to choose suicide? You’d prefer that to spending eternity with me?”



“This is choice you’ve given me, isn’t it?” Sherlock points out. “Either I banish my Death, or I kill myself to prevent you destroying everything that matters to me – killing my family and friends, destroying my work.”


“Well, yes, but I thought you’d make the sensible decision.”


Sherlock pauses, staring at Moriarty. “I still might.” He opens the gun chamber and shakes the bullets out into his hand.


“You said you like playing games. Let’s make this into a game.” Sherlock places a single bullet back spins the chamber. He pulls over a labstool and sits in front of Moriarty. “Russian roulette. The bullet falls on my turn and I’ll be dead, just as you planned. The bullet falls on yours and I’ll do as you say. Banish John. We can start another life together.”


“Heads I win, tails you lose,” Moriarty says. “I like it. But it doesn’t sound like it would much fun for you.”


Sherlock shrugs. “One way or another, I’ve lost. May as well do it in style.”


“All right.” Jim picks up the gun, and polishes it lovingly for a moment. With an indulgent smile at Sherlock, he raises the gun to his head and pulls the trigger. There is a quiet click, followed by silence.


“One down.” Moriarty winks as he hands the gun back to Sherlock.
“Sherlock, please,” John says, stepping closer as Sherlock raises the gun to his own temple. “There must be another way to….”


Sherlock pulls the trigger. Again the same quiet click.


Moriarty takes the gun back, gives it a measuring shake.


“Oh, I think this one might be the lucky one!” he says. “You know what that means, Johnny boy.”


John shifts, looking squeamish.


Moriarty raises the gun and fires. This crack of the bullet resonates in the darkened room, ringing in Sherlock’s ears and temporarily deafening him. Moriarty slumps forwards, blood pouring out of his head wound… and then, hands tightening on the desk in front of him, he pulls himself back up. He pulls a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabs at the gushing head wound.


“Well, that was unpleasant,” he says. “Still I suppose it’s decided now.”


“I suppose it is,” Sherlock says calmly.


“The words for banishment are Maveth Nadach. Well, go ahead, I’m waiting.”


“I will,” Sherlock says. “But first,” he beckons to Moriarty, who leans forward, blood dripping from his head and onto the shoulder of Sherlock’s shirt. “Did it ever occur to you?” Sherlock whispers in Moriarty’s half blasted ear. “That for a person to die they need a Death? There’s no rule that Death has to be their own.”


There’s a silence as Moriarty blinks, absorbing what Sherlock has said, and then Sherlock stands over the desk, pulling Moriarty up onto his feet by the lapels of his suit.


“Sherlock, what-“ John says, and gasps as Sherlock bodily shoves Moriarty towards John, both of them colliding and falling to the floor. Moriarty’s body goes instantly limp, eyes open and staring. Sherlock steps to one side, to look at them both.


John blinks up at him, eyes wide with confusion.


“Sherlock-“


“Maveth Nadach,” Sherlock says flatly.


John’s breath hitches. “Sherlock,” He gasps and Sherlock turns away, unable to bear dawning look of betrayal in John’s eyes.


“You didn’t want me to die,” Sherlock says. “Now, I won’t.”


He can feel the pain spreading slowly outwards from the centre of his chest, a dark shivering bleakness that only sharpen as he hears John get to his feet and walk with dragging feet to the door.


It’s only once the door has slammed shut that Sherlock feels the full weight of what he has done slam into him, agony making him double over, stomach roiling. He retches twice. He can hear an odd swooping sound in his ears and when he opens his eyes he almost screams.


A huge figure has appeared in the centre of the room, a giant mothlike being with a slavering twisted face glaring down at him as it sweeps it’s tattered wings through the air, advancing towards him. Sherlock does cry out then, out of sheer terror and pain, covering his eyes and curling into himself.


He’s not sure how long he’s on the floor, shivering and aching as the creature above him hisses and swoops above him, but eventually Sherlock becomes aware of a change in the room around him, the sound of footsteps and then the warm weight of an arm on his shoulder, a soft hand touching his cheek.


“It can’t hurt you,” Molly says. “It’s in that realm, not this one.”


Sherlock looks up. Molly is kneeling in from of him. Behind her the creature has backed off and has taken to beating it’s wings against the window at the far side of the room. So this is what it is like to be able to see into the Second Realm, Sherlock thinks. He doesn’t envy Molly or John their abilities at all.


“You did it then?” Molly says.


Sherlock nods. “It hurts, Molly.”


“It will,” Molly says. “But if you want our plan to work, you’re going to have to pull yourself together. Can you stand?”


Sherlock nods and slowly gets to his feet, Molly supporting him. He becomes aware of a man, round faced and worried looking, standing by the door.


“Toby, I presume.” Sherlock says, and the Death cringes away from him.


“It’s all right, Toby,” Molly says. “Sherlock did what he had to do. Now,” she sits Sherlock down and brings him a glass of water. “You have a long journey ahead of you. Do you remember everything I said?”