Summary: In which Sherlock is bored, investigates strange noises, has his face stolen, shocks the hell out of his flatmate and strikes a bargain with a spirit.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters. If I did, they would most likely be rather unhappy at the weird stuff I put them through (when I have writer's block or if I get a plotbunny).
Warnings: Erm, there isn't any really. At the most you'll just be creeped out by clicking noises for a while as a side effect, but believe me when I say that I didn't mean for anything like that to happen. This isn't meant to be a horror fic (Oh, Lord knows how horrible a horror fic I have written will be) so no worries! :)
Author's Note: Okay, so this weird idea was inspired from a random Sherlock sketch I was drawing: I had yet to add in Sherlock's eyebrows, eyes, nose and mouth (so he was practically faceless) when my sister passed an offhanded comment which had us both giggling like maniacs in the library and then this fic was born! This is kinda a crackish crossover, so be warned. It started out as a short and sweet little one-shot to help stave off my writer's block but as all things often do, it kind of ran away from me and ended up to be of this length. Oh well. Hope you guys get some laughs from this. (Sorry about the lack of update for my other Sherlock fic 'Five Days Without John Watson' as I'll be working on another Sherlock/Avengers crossover but I'll try my best to update as soon as I can!)
Now, on with the story!
The Face-stealer and the Consulting Detective
Sherlock never panicked. He did not scream or shout when he wandered off examining some rather curious looking footprints and got lost when he was a child. Neither did he lose his cool when he was held at gunpoint (an occupational hazard, really, so he'd gotten rather used to it). So it was rather unsurprising that he remained relatively unfazed when his face was stolen.
Sherlock was lounging in his bed while occasionally yelling out "Bored!" as he checked his phone for texts from Lestrade (with, hopefully, news of an interesting case). He had tried playing chess with John but it had ended rather badly, what with him predicting every move John would make. In the end, John finally lost any ounce of patience or tolerance he had for playing chess with someone who rattled off every possible move he could make before he even picked up any of the chess pieces. Well, Sherlock mused, perhaps saying 'Checkmate in three' hadn't exactly helped matters.
So there he was, one of the most brilliant minds of the century, reduced to sitting around in utter boredom with his mind in a state of stagnation. He supposed he could call for John; after all, he was sure holding a conversation with a relatively above-average mind would be better than letting his mind rot in this wasteland. (Although he often called John an 'idiot' or blatantly insulted his level of intelligence, he knew John was actually one of the few people of the general populace who could even attempt to keep up with the spit-fire engine that was his mind.) However, judging by John's rather annoyed expression throughout the chess game and the utter frustration in his voice when he had said "What's the bloody point of playing if you already know my next move?" before limping off crossly, Sherlock was certain he wouldn't appreciate him interrupting whatever mundane activity he was doing right now. Probably watching some boring, over –dramatised television programme, from the muted sounds of the television Sherlock could hear from his bedroom.
Then, all of a sudden, there were faint sounds of clicking fingernails. Sherlock craned his neck as he looked for the source of the noise, not bothering to get up from his sprawled position on his bd. However, there was nothing he could see that could have produced such queer noises.
Odd. And what made matters even curioser was that the clickety-clack sounds not only persisted, but grew progressively louder.
A bird tapping its talons on the windowsill? Or were those sounds just figments of imagination that his idle mind churned up?
Sherlock hopped off his perch on the bed and lifted up the window pane, peering this way and that. No sign of anything out of the ordinary. So, no birds then. That should be off the list. Next, he dropped onto the ground on all fours and crawled to his bed, carefully investigating the contents under his bed. All his investigation yielded were a faceful of dust and a rather loud sneeze which he muffled with his (dust-covered, I might add) hands. Sherlock straightened up. Maybe the sounds weren't from his room, then.
However, before he could carry out his investigation elsewhere, there was a flash of white at the window just as the clicking stopped and he caught a glimpse of unblinking coal-like eyes and oh, were those actually red-painted lips? Sherlock filed all these information away for later perusal and lunged forward, expecting to grab a fistful of the intruder's garments. (Oddly, the intruder's clothings seemed to blend in with the dark and wasn't altogether there.) But all he got was a faceful of cool night air. He stumbled, confusion gracing his features as he groped for the window.
Through the dizzying darkness that rapidly claimed him, he heard a low chuckle and a velvety voice say, "Oh, what a gorgeous face. What a catch, indeed!" before he tumbled to the ground in a mess of long pale limbs and tangled blue dressing gown.
Waking up after losing consciousness is really rather bothersome, Sherlock groused as he pushed against the tide that was desperately trying to pull him under again. When he finally came to, he found that his right cheek was plastered firmly against the cold wooden floor, his limbs splayed out by his sides and the rest of his body sprawled unceremoniously at the foot of the window.
The open window.
Ah, yes. The mysterious painted-faced intruder.
Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision but it remained as foggy as it was before, like a murky veil had been dropped over his head and showed no signs of lifting. His breaths were coming out in shallow pants and try as he might, he couldn't draw in a deeper breath. It was almost as if someone had covered his face with a cloth of some sort. However, when he ran a hand down his face, nothing felt out of place. Sherlock frowned. Most intriguing. He got to his feet somewhat shakily, deciding that the best course of action was to find a mirror and scrutinise his face for any visible changes.
What he saw in the bathroom mirror made him stumble back in shock.
Well, just slightly.
His face was intact but it was devoid of any features – his eyebrows, eyes, nose and mouth were gone, leaving an expanse of blank, pale skin with his mop of black curls and nothing more. His mind raced to find the reason for his current 'faceless' state, all the while marvelling at its implications and oh! The amount of research he could do to try and cure (or even replicate) such a state! It was all very exciting. Needless to say, not once did Sherlock mutter the word 'bored' again for at least the rest of the time he remained without his face.
He should have known better than to play chess with Sherlock. Really. He should have guessed that the insanely brilliant man would be absolutely insanely brilliant at chess as well, so much so that he could predict the different ways you could make your next move. Always a step ahead, thought John, or rather, several kilometres ahead. He sighed, flipping through the channels on the television yet again. But just what was he supposed to do with a bored-to-tears Sherlock? Chess seemed to be a rather good choice at the time as it was a reasonably intellectual game that seemed to genuinely interest his flat mate. (John shuddered at the memory of playing Cluedo with the world's only consulting detective. It had been absolutely nightmarish; never again!)
If the bored detective were left to his own devices, Lord knows what might happen. John was, frankly, running out of words to appease Mrs Hudson whenever Sherlock decided that refurnishing of the room's wallpaper was in order and did so rather merrily with his gun.
Speaking of which, what exactly was Sherlock up to now? He had been hearing a rather odd assortment of noises from Sherlock's bedroom – first, there were some strange clicking noises which ceased after a while, then several loud crashes and now, excited murmurs that sounded vaguely like Sherlock. That didn't bode well. John's eyebrows furrowed.
His musings were, however, cut short by a muffled yell of "Jaaawn! Where did my face go?" in which his name was dragged out far longer than any one syllable should and was it just him or was Sherlock actually whining?
John's eyebrows shot up almost all the way to his hairline. That was by far, the strangest thing or at least, one of the strangest things he had heard his flat mate utter. Jon was about to sacrifice the wonderful warmth and bliss of sitting in the couch without moving to check up on Sherlock when there was yet another muffled shout.
"John! You have to come and see this! This discovery, why, it could prove to be an absolutely useful disguise! No one would be able to discern my identity; oh just think of all the possibilities!"
John had, more or less, tuned out Sherlock's voice at the word 'discovery'. He had learnt from experience that Sherlock's 'discoveries' and 'research' were usually those of the grisly sort, almost certainly always involving corpses or body parts. (Or if he was lucky, explosive substances of the nastiest kind.)
"No, Sherlock! I'm not interested in seeing another of your experiments with dead body parts involved!" John called back somewhat irritably and when Sherlock replied with a snarky "Body parts are most certainly not alive when they are taken from the body after some time so the word 'dead' is rather redundant!" he turned up the volume of the television.
There wasn't anything of particular interest on the television but John didn't really think he wanted to see another of his flat mate's bizarre experiments. He had had enough of severed heads in the refrigerator, frozen fingers in the cupboards and human livers in the sink, thank you very much.
The moment of silence didn't last long, though. There was a loud call of "John!" and then a series of thumping that indicated that Sherlock was (unfortunately for John) making his way to the living room, most likely with whatever body part he had been experimenting with in hand. John groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face wearily. He turned around in his seat, ready to tell Sherlock off and show just how disinterested he was in those grisly experiments his flat mate was so fond of conducting. (Oh, sometimes he swore Sherlock left body parts lying around just to annoy him but Sherlock always denied such 'baseless accusations' and said, rather huffily, that those experiments were 'for the sake of science!")
"No, Sherlock, how many times do I have to tell you, I am not interested in—"
The sight that greeted him almost had him tumbling out of the couch and getting a faceful of the carpeted floor.
"The bloody hell, Sherlock! What the hell did you do to your bloody face?" John spluttered out once he regained the ability to form coherent words.
"Last time I checked, there was no blood on my face," Sherlock informed him rather calmly.
"No, no, hold on, have you SEEN your face in, I don't know, a damn mirror? Oh God, is this some kind of sick joke?" John asked with no small amount of exasperation and disbelief.
"The bathroom mirror, I believe. It's all quite intriguing but no, I assure you, this is a rather serious matter and definitely not a joke."
John spent approximately twenty seconds spluttering in disbelief and shock while Sherlock looked on, impatiently tapping his foot as he leaned in the doorway. After said twenty seconds had passed, John took a deep breath and really studied Sherlock's face. The pale skin was flawless and almost porcelain-like as usual, the difference being that it now occupied Sherlock's entire face, leaving no room for eyebrows, eyes, nose, or even a mouth.
"How… How are you even talking? Or seeing things? You can see, right? And… Oh sod it! How can you even breathe? You don't have a nose!" John finally broke the silence with a rapid slew of questions and exclamations.
Sherlock, looking vaguely amused at his apparent shock, replied with a hint of sarcasm, "I can still speak, but as you can tell for yourself, it's rather muffled. Yes, I can still see but my vision is a little blurry and of course I can breathe, I just need to take more breaths than usual; why else would I be speaking to you and not suffocating already?"
John pushed the heel of his palms hard against his closed eyes, as if it would somehow push out the shocking image of a faceless Sherlock out of his mind.
"Okay, okay… So what happened to you that made you…" John gestured in the vague direction of Sherlock's face, or lack thereof, "And if you say it was an experiment, so help me but I swear I will punch you."
At this, Sherlock's mood seemed to sour as he huffed irritably, "I've yet to figure out how exactly the intruder did it but I'm sure it'll come to me in good time."
Then, in a more animated voice, "Can't you see, John? This is a most unique opportunity! Imagine the possibilities, both science-wise and in relation to the Work! I could –"
"Wait, wait, back up, what intruder?" John demanded with narrowed eyes.
If Sherlock's eyes were still visible on his face, John was certain he would have rolled his eyes. With a dramatic sigh, Sherlock flopped onto the armchair opposite him and lay there, draped over his favourite seat like a discarded ragdoll, albeit a faceless one.
"The painted-faced intruder, John! Do try to keep up," Sherlock replied in the 'it's-so-obvious-why-can't-you-keep-up?' voice he normally used when solving cases.
John gaped at him.
"What? You're saying that a painted-faced intruder somehow barged into our flat and… and took your face?"
"He CLIMBED through the window, John, and I was thinking more along the lines of 'stole my face'," Sherlock corrected him, waving a hand dismissively.
John gaped at him some more.
Clearing his throat, he asked cautiously, "And just what did this painted-faced intruder look like, exactly?"
Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh.
"I told you, didn't I? The intruder had a painted face, obviously. White face with black eyes and red lips. I couldn't really see what he was wearing; the rest of his body seemed to blend into the darkness."
John was inclined to point out that no, he didn't elaborate about the intruder's face features and dressing earlier on and he couldn't possibly have known since he hadn't been there, had he? But he was too busy processing the information and arriving at a rather horrific conclusion to bother to bicker with his flat mate.
"Wait, and were there any clicking noises, like those of fingernails tapping away on a window, before the intruder barge – climbed through the window?"
Sherlock hummed a 'Yes' as he slouched in his armchair.
At John's sharp intake of breath, Sherlock turned to face him, raising an eyebrow but quickly remembering that he didn't really possess a face at the moment, cleared his throat to catch the doctor's attention.
"John? Care to share you evidently enlightened thoughts?"
John seemed to come out of his momentary stupor at the sound of Sherlock's voice.
"Oh, uh, right. Well, there is this story my grandmother used to tell me as a child. It had been passed own from an ancestor centuries ago, someone from a region in Asia who resided in a city with impenetrable walls, it was said. She was, well, not exactly all quite there but – "
"Get to the point, John."
"Well, if you'd shut up and let me speak, maybe I will!"
"You have Asian ancestry?"
A pointed glare tossed at Sherlock told him that if he didn't shut up, John would have to take drastic measures to ensure his silence.
"…"
"Thank you. Anyway, she used to tell me that there was an ancient spirit of great power called 'Koh' who had been shunned by all the humans and creatures a long, long time ago. It was greatly feared for what it could do. It was said that if you were to show any emotion – anything at all – in its presence, it could and would steal the person's face."
"John, you do know that I don't believe in things of superstition like this, and certainly not old wives' tales," Sherlock's voice dripped with disdain and if the features on his face were still intact, he would have wrinkled his nose in disgust (something John found endlessly endearing but of course, would never admit).
"Yes, but you have to admit that it all adds up, doesn't it? How else would you explain the … face-stealing?"
Sherlock opened his mouth but upon finding no way he could explain his stolen face, chose to flop onto his back and turn away from John with a huff.
At this, John quirked a small smile. That action always reminded him of a petulant child whose parents had just refused to get him ice-cream or in Sherlock's case, probably body parts to experiment on.
"Look, we still have to figure out how to get your face back, so cooperate with me here, Sherlock."
Silence. Then, "I don't have to do anything."
John let out a loud exhale of frustration. Keep calm, you've lived with him for almost half a year, no reason to punch him for being obstinate now, he chanted to himself mentally.
"Do you want to get your face back or not?"
Much to John's chagrin, there was no response from the Sherlock-shaped lump curled on the armchair.
Sherlock probably wanted to remain in his faceless state so he could conduct whatever research or experiment but he didn't see the severity of it all. He didn't have a mouth, for God's sake! How would he eat? He couldn't possibly be fed through intravenous tubing all the time! If Sherlock dared to say his body was merely transport again and food just slowed down his thinking, John swore he would really punch the man in the face.
And there was the problem of his blurry vision and not-up-to-full-capacity breathing too. With his normal physical state, Sherlock was already constantly getting shot at, beaten, grabbed from behind and strangled, blown up and various other dangerous, possibly fatal things. In his current state, there just needs to be one lucky thug or a stray bullet and the world's only consulting detective might just become the world's only late consulting detective. Sherlock might not care much about getting himself killed because of the Work, but John sure as hell wasn't going to let him.
In a low voice edged with steel, John growled, "I don't know if you had thought about just how dangerous it could be for you to go out in a state as weakened as this, but I have. And I say we find a way to get your damn face back or you won't have to think about getting out of this flat for any cases at all for as long as you live."
Sherlock had turned back to face him at some point during his rant and seemed to be contemplating his words, his head cocked slightly to one side. With his face features gone, it was impossible for John to really tell what was going through that brilliant (but sometimes completely oblivious and idiotic) brain of his.
After some time, Sherlock spoke, "I don't suppose your grandmother had any idea of how to get back a stolen face? Well, not that listening to senile, old ladies is exactly the best idea but short of Googling 'face-stealer', I can't really think of a better idea. As of yet, that is."
John shot Sherlock a reproachful look for calling his grandmother a senile old lady but Sherlock seemed not to notice it.
"Well, she did say that she had heard – " he stopped mid-sentence.
"John?"
"Did you hear that? That clicking noise?"
"What noise – Oh. He's back then," stated Sherlock, as if it were perfectly normal for an ancient face-stealing spirit to drop by twice in one night.
Sherlock rushed over to the window, flinging it wide open in his excitement.
"Sherlock, are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Of course, how else would he come in?"
"What?! You can't let the face-stealer in! Close the damn window, Sherlock!"
"Why?"
"You… We don't even know a bloody thing about what we're up against!"
"Well, from the information kindly provided by you from your grandmother, we do."
"Oh, and you're suddenly so inclined to believe 'senile, old ladies' and 'old wives' tales' now?"
But Sherlock wasn't listening to him and had stuck his head out of the window.
"Any time now," came a muffled mutter from Sherlock who had practically his entire upper body hanging out of the window in his excitement to watch the face-stealer's approach.
Displaying a complete disregard for his own safety, as usual.
"Sherlock, step away from the window. Sherlock! Oh… Sod it!"
John wrapped his arms around his flat mate's thin torso and forcefully reeled Sherlock in from the open window, much like a fisherman would a captured fish.
"But Jaaaaawn…!"
He all but bodily lifted Sherlock and plopped him back onto the armchair when the insistent, almost frantic clicking noises came to an abrupt halt. John gave Sherlock a firm push back into his armchair when it seemed like he would leap up and rush off to the open window again. Then, carefully and silently, John reached for the gun on the table, though a bullet probably wouldn't do any damage to an ancient, all-powerful spirit.
"There really is no point in reaching for a weapon, Doctor."
John stiffened at the low hiss that came from the window. He turned around slowly to find himself face-to-face with a white painted face with red lips and coal-black eyes circled with grey. He struggled to keep his face impassive as the face-stealer's lips curled into an unpleasant smile.
"Now, let me make this clear, shall I? When I see a face that I like, as long as I see one flicker of emotion, maybe just a twitch of your lips, you face will be mine for the taking."
The face-stealer moved – no, slithered into the room as he spoke, revealing a body like that of a centipede with spindly black limbs that ended in sharp points and clicked as they made contact with the ground. John made a slight choking noise at the face-stealer's true, gruesome form. The face-stealer immediately whipped his head around from his slightly curled position around Sherlock's armchair.
"Is this fear I taste, Doctor?" The face-stealer moved closer to John, so much so that they were only a hair's breadth away.
Then without warning, the eyelid closed over the face-stealer's single 'eye' and flickered open to reveal a blue-nosed monkey's face. John recoiled slightly at the monkey's screeches of terror but maintained his level stare at the face-stealer.
The rather horrific moment was broken when Sherlock yawned and proceeded to let out a 'what-a-pathetic-and-slow-creature-this-is' sigh he usually reserved for Anderson.
"I never saw the point of theatrics, really. They do get rather boring after a while. Besides, you're obviously here with an ulterior motive other than stealing my flat mate's face. This is evident because for your face-stealing to commence, you need to strike fear or shock into your victims which would decrease in its level of efficiency if you struck at the same place twice in one night. Furthermore, by revealing you rather unsavoury form, the element of fear and uncertainty would have dissipated into disgust, eventually, and it wouldn't be all that terrifying if we knew you were simply a centipede hybrid of some sort. Furthermore, I would advise you not to try scaring my flat mate for the simple reason that he has nerves of steel and you would achieve nothing with that mindless face-changing tactic. So what exactly is your purpose of coming back? I would say that it could be to return my face but I'm sure that an old creature like you would be far too prideful and merciless to do so. Perhaps you're here for a trade? Maybe you found something wrong with my face; you couldn't get me to display the level of terror necessary for you to terrify another victim into showing emotion so you came back, thinking of intimidating me into agreeing to whatever terms you have in mind but I assure you, I don't go easily without a fight. So now I ask you, what exactly do you want in return for my face?"
The face-stealer blinked once. Twice.
If John didn't know any better, he would have thought that the spirit was stunned into silence. Well, perhaps he was, considering that it was among the three reactions people had in the aftermath of Sherlock's deductions, the first two being an exclamation of awe or the customary "Piss off!".
Then, seemingly having recovered from the initial shock of being spoken to in such a way by a mortal (one with his face stolen, no less), the face-stealer turned to face the impudent mortal (A.K.A one Sherlock Holmes) and drew himself up such that he towered over the detective.
"Silence, mortal! You will speak when I speak to you!"
"I believe the phrase you are obviously struggling to find is 'You will speak when spoken too'. What a cliché, overused phrase, yet you are still unable to grasp the right words," Sherlock corrected in an irritated, disdainful voice, ignoring John's desperate gesture to get him to just shut up already!
There was a dangerous moment of silence before the face-stealer leaned in close towards Sherlock, eyelid flickering and faces changing as he spoke.
"Listen, and listen well, mortal. You should be glad—"
"Male, approximately sixty years of age, recently retired with two children," came a barely audible mutter from Sherlock.
"… that I am willing to strike a bargain, of sorts, with you tonight. I have lived so long by taking what I want from who I want and leaving them to slowly go mad from their—" the face-stealer continued, not hearing Sherlock's running commentary on the faces he was currently showing.
"Female, approximately thirty years of age, unattached, has two tabby cats at home," here, John shot Sherlock a warning look but was wholeheartedly ignored as Sherlock merrily rattled on.
"…lack of a visible identity. I am not known for my mercy or pity for pathetic creatures like you. I will be the one making the demands and asking the questions and you, little mortal, shall listen well and weigh your options. You are in no position—"
"Female, approximately thirty-eight years of age, blond hair not her natural hair colour, likely a brunette, recently divorced from her husband," a little louder this time, but still went unheard by the face-stealer who was too absorbed in delivering his monologue.
"…for such disregard, though I must say, I applaud your bravado, annoying as it may be."
"Male, somewhere in his mid-forties, construction worker who doesn't earn very much, happily married with three children though he has no idea –" by then, the face-stealer had more or less ended his monologue, so Sherlock's muttered deductions were loud enough to be heard.
"Mortal, are you clear with your current situation and of who is in the position of control?" the face-stealer thundered.
"…that his wife is cheating on him with a manager of a small electronics company," Sherlock finished, unperturbed, as though the face-stealer had not just spoken. Then, he continued, in answer to the irate face-stealer, "Yes, as a matter of fact, I think I was clear about my situation long before your lengthy and frankly alarmingly boring monologue. Now, as my friend Dr. Watson here should be familiar with, I am not in the habit of repeating myself but for your sake I shall ask again: What, exactly, do you want in return for my face, Koh?"
Sherlock rested his chin on his steepled fingers in his signature 'I-am-thinking-so-everyone-in-a-twenty-metre-radius-should-shut-up' pose while John was trying very hard not to laugh at the absurdity of the whole situation. Here was an ancient spirit who had stolen Sherlock's face in all his intimidating, face-stealing glory and all his flat mate did was fire off his deductions and annoy the hell out of him. (Oh, and address that spirit by his first name while he was at it. Brilliant.) John didn't know whether to be in awe of his flat mate or to simply punch him in the face to shut him up so they could just hurry up and get his damn face back. But then again, maybe Sherlock's way was faster, considering the face-stealer's tendency for tirades and monologues.
The face-stealer ceased his face-changing, choosing to display a face of a beautiful young lady with brown locks. It was a bit disconcerting to see such pretty features contorted into a mask of absolute rage and frustration.
"What I want, mortal, is a face worthy to be in my collection! A face that can be molded to my will, to show absolute fear or anger, to be capable of the most extreme of emotions."
"Uh, and what's wrong with his face?" John could not resist asking, unconsciously jumping to his friend's defense.
The pretty woman's face twisted into an ugly grimace.
"His face? Why, at first glance it was such a brilliant catch; a finely sculpted face with delicious features, and mine for the taking! But what I did not predict was its inability to serve my purpose. The moment his face came on, words spill out of its mouth rapidly and I have absolutely no control over it. Most of his words are pieces of information, far-fetched deductions made from tiny details and insults, even! It makes no sense at all, this confounding mortal face!"
At this point of time, Koh was practically in an all-out rant, raging at how Sherlock's face was incapable of terrifying his victims sufficiently. For a split second, John actually felt the tiniest twinge of pity—no, sympathy even—for this spirit who had unwittingly stolen the face of the world's only consulting detective (see, sharp-tongued smartarse).
"So you want a face in exchange for his?" John asked cautiously, seeing as Sherlock made no move to interrupt the face-stealer's tirade.
"Yes. Indeed, mortal," was Koh's reply at the exact same time that Sherlock snorted, "Obviously."
Either Koh hadn't heard Sherlock or was so exasperated that he chose to ignore it, the face-stealer seemed to overlook Sherlock's snide reply.
"A face for a face; a fair trade, is it not?"
Koh turned towards John, malevolence glittering in the brown-haired woman's eyes.
"Hmm… In fact, your face would do nicely. Not as tantalizing as your friend's, but a nice specimen all the same."
Nice to know that my face is worth stealing too, John thought wryly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
Sherlock huffed, replying in a warning tone laced with poison (was that protectiveness in his voice, John wondered?), "No. As I've told you before, that is not up for discussion. You will not, attempt, in any way, to steal his face." Then, continuing in a more even tone of voice, "I have a much better proposition for you. You will return me my face and in return, I will set up a meeting for you with someone possessing a rather… Expressive face. You shall get what you want but you shall never again set foot in this flat."
Koh cocked his head to one side, contemplating Sherlock's offer.
"How do I know this is not a trick, mortal?"
Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh.
"Please, do you really think I'd be stupid enough to trick you when you can come back and do as you wish once you've realised you've been tricked?"
Koh inclined his head slightly in acquiescence.
Taking that as a confirmation of their agreement, Sherlock picked up his phone, composed a quick text and clicked the 'send' button with a final flourish.
"There. Go to this address and you'll have your man," Sherlock instructed, poorly veiling a command as a word of advice as he pointed at what he had typed out in the text on his phone.
"Very well, mortal. But do know that if this is some sort of treachery, I will be back and your friend's face will be mine for the taking."
With those chilling last words, Koh the face-stealer unwound himself from his position around Sherlock's armchair, flexed and stretched his body a little and crawled out the window, leaving a wake of fast-fading clicking noises in his wake.
To say that John was relieved to see Sherlock's features back on his face again was an understatement. It was rather unnerving to live with a faceless flat mate after all and John was starting to miss Sherlock's various expressions, however minute they might be.
"Now that that's settled…" Sherlock let his phone clatter to the table beside him, a look of utter boredom gracing his features once more.
Apparently, no matter how bizarre or tense a situation his flat mate had been in, once it was over, with nothing to occupy his mind, Sherlock would be back to being a petulant, pouting, bored five-year-old with an enormous intellect. John chuckled slightly. Then, a horrific thought struck him.
"Sherlock. Who did you just send the face-stealer to meet?"
Sherlock continued grumbling and muttering about how his mind 'rebelled at stagnation', 'is there nothing in this world remotely stimulating for his mind to be engaged in', so on and so forth, taking no notice of John's growing horror.
"Sherlock. Sherlock! Answer my question, Sherlock!"
"Oh, if it bother you so, just look at the text yourself," Sherlock snapped, tossing his phone to John rather carelessly.
Catching the phone with his two hands, John fumbled with it for a moment before managing to find the power button. With a growing sense of dread, John navigated to where the sent messages were, opening the most recently sent text.
What greeted him on the glowing screen of the phone was this:
9.35 PM
To: Jim Moriarty
Roof of St. Barts Hospital. Come and play.
-SH
"Dear God, please tell me you didn't…"
Yep, that's the end of 'The Face-stealer and the Consulting Detective' though I might decide to add an epilogue (Moriarty's meeting with Koh the face-stealer) when I have the time (and the plotbunny). I've beta-ed this myself rather quickly so I apologise for any typing errors you guys might spot but I'd get someone to help beta it again (I hope). Hope you guys enjoyed it (though there may be a few inaccuracies about the state the face-stealer's victim is in after getting his face stolen). Don't forget to review! (Hopefully I'll be able to churn up the first chapter of the Sherlock/Avengers crossover and the third chapter of 'Five Days Without John Watson' soon.) Till then!
Cheers,
Rainflower