Author's Note: If you've seen A Game of Shadows, then you'd notice the giant hole in the plot near the end of the movie. I wrote something to explain said hole. Personally, it doesn't feel entirely like Sherlock to me, but I'm not Arthur Conan Doyle, so that is it. I hope you enjoy it, even for the lampshading. Let me know what you think.
Above all other things, the thunderous roar of a river in freefall permeated Sherlock's senses. He closed his eyes, embracing the pull of gravity as he felt Moriarty's grip on his neck loosen. The static in his mind, normally a buzz of constant thought and perception, slowly condensed. He knew what had to be done. He knew what lay ahead. The grip of his opponent disappeared altogether, and they now continued down the falls separate, the professor's face frozen in a scream of rage and fury.
Sherlock reached for the device he had lightfingered from Mycroft's lodgings – the oxygen supply, his thoughts focused on the dive he had. He opened his eyes to the fall and suddenly –
Something fastened about his shoulders, gripping tight. The detective craned his head around, trying to see what it was. The pressure increased, and he flinched as the wound in his shoulder responded. But he felt himself slowing in speed. Somehow, this thing…he whipped his head about wildly, seeing a dark shadow overhead, half-silhouetted against the lights of the castle above. He turned his inquisitive hands to the sources of the pressure, curiously engaging with claws not unlike those of a great eagle. He blinked as a voice trickled into his mind, brushing across his perceptions like icy cold water.
Hold onto those, Sherlock. This will hurt.
As much as his modernity-focused mind wished to rebel against the instruction, he did so. The weightless feeling induced by the fall was lessening rapidly. He guessed that the owner of the great claws was trying to slow their descent as much as they could allow.
What is this beast? And this voice?
Sherlock's thoughts seemed to echo, their audible quality drowned out by the falls. He cried out as the weightlessness disappeared altogether, and half of his bodyweight now leant on the wound sustained in Germany. The pain turned white-hot, and abruptly ceased as the detective embraced unconsciousness.
When he came to, the noise of the waterfall had diminished greatly. New senses greeted him the first being the dripping of water. His ears quickly processed it; location: cave or overhang. Gauging by the sound of the waterfall, probably a few miles from the bottom of the falls. He opened his eyes slightly and allowed himself to feel the extent of his surrounds without moving.
Dim lighting, but natural. Definitely an overhang. Probably early morning. I've been unconscious for six hours? How am I still able to function? Currently lying on… Internally, Sherlock frowned. A thin mat. Feels like rushes or straw. Wound is still aching, but no longer suffering acute pain. I cannot hear anything from my rescuer… as quietly as he could, he inhaled through his nose. Cannot smell anything except damp, the rushes I am lying on and the faint aroma of fish from the river. I do not think they are here.
"You can sit up if you want, Sherlock."
All of Sherlock's senses went into hyperdrive at the sound of the voice, and his stomach knotted in a ball of pain and shock. He bolted upright, and suddenly recoiled as the blood rushed from his head, rendering him unable to see.
"I'm sorry about your arm. That would have hurt."
Sherlock blinked furiously. He knew that voice, that accent. He craned his head around to see…
Irene Adler smiled at him, and his heart ached. There she was, hands and smile and posture, as large as life. He blinked again as tears began to form, unable to believe…
He stopped.
"You're not Irene." he said, surveying the figure, whose expression changed, "what are you?"
The figure looked at him with a curious smile on her face, "Not even a 'who', Sherlock?" she asked in Irene's voice.
The sound made Sherlock's heart ache again, but he shook his head.
"Since I've awoken, I've been unable to sense even the minute change in temperature that another body in this environment would bring. I've yet to hear you breathe, or see you blink."
The figure inclined its head.
"And…you got her eyes wrong. They're the wrong shade of brown."
The figure exhaled, but it didn't seem a natural movement.
"Well done, Sherlock. I'm pleased to see you regain your senses so quickly. What do you want to ask me?"
Holmes frowned.
"Why do you look like Irene? Why do you speak like her? Are you another one of Moriarty's people?"
The figure shook its head.
"I took Irene's form because I didn't want you to panic. I have no alliance with the Professor."
"…Took her form? How could you do it without the experiments that Moriarty was conducting? Aside from the eyes, you have her face completely. And why her?" his heart still hurt from the shock of seeing the only woman he had ever cared for. She'd been dead, and now alive, but even that was false. "What are you?" he asked again.
Irene's face closed its eyes, and slowly opened them again. This time, they were an odd shade of blue, too bright to be natural. The figure inhaled and exhaled, and the rest of the spectre melded and morphed from Irene's figure into something else. The dark curls glowed and lengthened to long, copper-coloured hair, and the sienna breeches Irene had been wearing lengthened and flowed outwards into a long grey dress with tattered edges.
"I am Deus Ex Machina." Said the spectre.
Holmes appeared to consider for a moment.
"That's not your real name, is it? 'god from the machine'? Far too pretentious."
"I didn't say it was my name," said the girl, "it is what I am. You may call me Machina, if you wish."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, trying to see where the levers where in the woman's transformation. It had to be some kind of a trick. There was always a kind of trick to these…
There is no trick, Sherlock.
The voice whispered into the detective's mind again, and he gasped, suddenly matching the voice to that of the woman who had spoken.
The figure smiled, its mouth shut.
Sherlock sat back, trying to collect his thoughts, ordering the static in his mind that analysed everything in the overhang into some kind of order, order which he could use to…
"Don't ask why I saved you, Sherlock. I saved you because I needed to."
Holmes frowned. "Will you answer every question I have before I can think it?"
Machina's smile broke into a grin. "Only if they are pointless."
"No question is pointless," replied Holmes.
"Nevertheless, you still doubt my words. What is it you wish to know?" asked the figure again.
"I had my own method of surviving the fall," began Sherlock, "there was no need for you to save me."
The figure shook her head, "You had concealed on your person a device for breathing oxygen. It would have assisted you had you already been in the water, Sherlock. However, the fall from the balcony would have sufficiently killed you. Drowning was not your problem, unless you had something to glide down on."
The detective sat back, simultaneously wondering how the girl had known about Mycroft's device and realising that if she could read his thoughts, then the question would have already been made redundant.
Machina nodded, as though recognising the realisation.
Sherlock cleared his throat.
"Three questions, then." he said, "Who sent you? How did you save me? Do you know what became of Moriarty?"
Machina cocked her head and seemed to ponder, as though wondering which question to answer first.
"Mister Doyle sent me," she said carefully.
Sherlock's mind was immediately thrown into frenzy as he scanned the list of names of everyone he'd ever met. Nowhere was there a Doyle.
He opened his mouth, but Machina waved a finger.
"Don't be asking me who Mister Doyle is, Sherlock. I came at the beck of Doyle and the Mulroneys. You need never trouble yourself about who they may be. Now."
Machina stood, and Sherlock immediately began to gauge everything he could about her.
Short to medium in height. Slight frame. She's not strong enough to have lifted me. And those claws…suddenly Sherlock remembered the great talons which had clamped about his torso and frowned.
Machina walked past where Sherlock sat, and walked out into the grey dawn that filtered into the overhang.
"You are well enough to stand, Sherlock. I cannot show you how I saved you in there. There isn't enough room."
The detective frowned. It was unusual for someone to use his first name so frequently. He wasn't sure he liked it. And what was with her demeanour? Telling him to never investigate these people who had sent her. Oh, he'd find who they were. Nobody ever did anything without reason. What was it these people wanted with him?
If you prefer for me to call you Mister Holmes, you need only say so. And if you want the reason, then relax. Some people do prefer humans in a live state, contrary to the mindsets of your opponents.
Holmes shivered and scowled at Machina.
"Have you no sense of privacy?" he grumbled to her, "I'll ask my own questions, thank you."
"Come," said the figure, ignoring the jibe. "I do not have much time left here, Mister Holmes."
Slowly, Sherlock bullied his muscles into a standing position, surprised at how he was not in pain. He made his way to the edge of the overhang and inhaled again, catching the scent of pine forests, river and…his nose wrinkled as he caught the metallic scent of something he was all too familiar with.
"Watch." Said Machina, "I will show you Moriarty soon. Although I think you have already guessed his whereabouts."
The girl seemed to inhale again, and Sherlock felt his jaw drop as she shifted again. This was different to when she had dropped the façade of Irene. It was…
Feathers emerged from the folds of the grey dress the girl wore, and Sherlock saw the form ripple into two great eagle wings that protruded from her back, like a stained-glass angel. She turned, suddenly hobbling. The ungainly manner of movement drew Holmes' eye to the talons that emerged from the bottom of the grey dress, replacing the decidedly more human feet he'd seen a moment before.
"A harpie?" mused Holmes, "inventive."
"It was needed for me to fly and carry you at the same time." Replied Machina, "Do you wish to see Moriarty?"
The detective nodded, determined to see closure to the situation, however unbelievable it might be.
"Stand facing down the river," said Machina, "I'll come about and pick you up. He is quite a way downstream."
Sherlock frowned, sulking that he should be the one to follow obscure instruction, but as soon as he heard the sound of feathers striking downwards, he understood.
Suddenly anticipating what would come, he braced himself against the pain that would emanate from his shoulder, calculating the movements of the spectre behind him.
She means to take off into the breeze and come about. Never mind the physical impossibilities of six limbs, judging by the wingspan, she would need a significant amount of speed to keep us airborne. Judging by the sound alone, she is now fifty….forty…
Sherlock, please begin a light jog downstream, interrupted Machina's voice, It will make picking you up easier on me, and be less stressful on your muscles.
Understanding the laws of physics that they would have to actuate, Sherlock began to run, still calculating the distance away that Machina would be.
Twenty…speed will appear decreased in comparison to my own…ten…five…
The talons latched around Sherlock's arms, and the man felt his feet begin to lose grip against the pine needles on the forest floor. His arm twinged, but did not hurt anything near what it had when Machina had caught him earlier.
He whipped his head about as he and the spectre flew forward and upwards. He felt gravity protesting against his rebellion, and tried to gain perspective on what was happening and where they were.
Ground speed, probably twenty miles, maybe more. There is something defying physics in the way she is able to carry us in spite of our size. There has to be some kind of line we are travelling on…maybe some kind of suspension or guiding wire…
Above him, Sherlock heard a laugh. He frowned, realising that the woman was peering in on his thoughts again. It really was unsettling.
Imagine how John feels when you do it to him. Came Machina's voice.
"Could you stop that?" he yelled, "It is unbelievably-"
I know. And I'm sorry. Said the girl, from now I'll answer only what you are directly asking me.
There was silence for a moment. Only the sounds of pine and the early morning breeze distracted Holmes from what the girl had just brought up. Watson…what condition would he be in now? What condition would any of the folks he knew be in? Had word escaped that Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, had fallen over the falls at the peace negotiations in the Swiss Alps? And what of Moriarty? How soon would it be before this riverside was filled with people searching for what could only be bodies? He frowned again, for the first time unsure of what to do.
Sherlock. Came the thoughts of Machina again, look below. You could smell the blood only because of how far he'd travelled.
Holmes looked down, his feet dangling over the treetops, to see a figure floating downstream.
Too broken to be immediately recognisable, the airborne man noticed a torso, head and arm floating with the current. The river curved, and Sherlock watched with disgust and interest as the remains of James Moriarty floated on.
"Where's the rest of him?" he called up to his carrier.
That's the biggest bit. Replied Machina, The rest is scattered across half a mile of river. Most of it is still traveling fairly fast.
"They'll never find it," said Sherlock, half to himself.
No, they won't.
There was a ponderous silence for a while longer.
"What are you doing with me?" asked Sherlock finally,
I'm under instruction to take you back to London. Said the girl above.
"We're in Switzerland!" yelled Sherlock, "Are you going to carry me to London like this?"
Machina's odd laugh echoed through Sherlock's thoughts.
Hardly. She said. I'll carry you, but not like this. Please don't panic. Close your eyes and breathe in.
"What?"
Do it now, Sherlock Holmes.
Machina's voice had rapidly gained depth and force, and her command seemed to carry all the weight needed to persuade the man. Some part of Sherlock's mind still roared at the submission to another's instruction, but the rest of it told that part to stop when it looked below and saw the treetops whistling past. Sherlock looked forward, surveying the curves of the hills and wondered not for the first time how it was that he was not cold. Then he shook his head and closed his eyes.
There was a buzzing sound, and suddenly the silence and cold of Switzerland snapped into the bustle and smoke of London. Sherlock's eyes snapped open as he coughed and spluttered on the smog above the city.
He tried to find his voice, but only coughed harder on the coal smoke.
I can read your thoughts, Sherlock. Think the question. You don't need to speak.
Wheezing against the sudden change in environment, Holmes blinked and squinted.
How did you do that? He asked as he scanned the world below, trying to figure out what part of London they were over currently.
The same way I can fly, and imitate people. I am Deus Ex Machina, Sherlock, and I only do what I must.
The detective, still in his ballroom garb, frowned and shook his head. So much of what happened refused to make sense in the way that any other method could only be sense. Deus Ex Machina. Ludicrous, and yet…
Holmes' thoughts turned to the lights and smoke and noise below, in stark contrast to the stillness of the alps before.
Where are you taking me? He finally managed.
Where I must, Mister Holmes. Don't you recognise this part of town?
Suddenly, in an odd way, the detective recognised the streets below. He saw the people moving about as he and his odd companion began to descend into the open area nearby.
Regent's Park…thought Sherlock quietly. He knew this part of town. Baker Street was just around the corner.
The ground rose up below, and Holmes turned his head when Machina's voice spoke up inside his head again.
You will need to run when we touch the ground.
It was all that she said, but it was all that she needed to say. The grass beneath his feet felt spongy and odd in comparison to the absence of anything. He began to run in spite of his protesting muscles as they touched down, and regardless of his attempt, soon balled up and fell.
He heard a slight rustle, and saw in front of him Machina land and fold her wings away. Her feet had already changed. His brow furrowed, as he still pursued the question. Why?
Deus Ex Machina, that's why. He realised, and the girl in front of him laughed again as he slowly picked himself up.
Sherlock looked about, astonished at the lack of traffic through the park. Off to the side, he noticed a beggar, but the man had yet to show any signs of noticing either himself or the girl who had just shifted form. He looked back at the woman, still trying to pinpoint something; anything of use to him about her.
Machina smiled, and Sherlock shook his head, realising that she was reading his thoughts again.
He strode up to where she stood, still confused.
"You've told me things that don't make sense. Shown me things that likewise defy all imagination or sense. And somehow, I am still alive in spite of the fall and my own plans. And you place this all on what it is you claim to be, Deus Ex Machina. But all of these things could only be false. Tell me why these paradoxes exist."
Machina leaned in, and Holmes was immediately aware of how close she was. Not human, by any standing. Why was she so close?
"A falsity, Mister Holmes?" she asked quietly, "I am anything but fiction."
She held up a hand and reached for Sherlock's wounded shoulder. He tried not to flinch, and then tried not to gape as her hand passed through his shoulder. Wait. He thought, observing as the girl withdrew her hand until he realised that it was his shoulder that appeared incorporeal.
"If anything, Sherlock, I am more real." Her voice was barely a whisper, and yet it echoed through Holmes' mind.
Bewildered, Sherlock pulled back from where the girl stood. She was shorter than he, but her eyes seemed to draw him in regardless.
"I've brought you here." She said quietly, "and you are alive. I have healed most of your shoulder as well; and enough so that you will not suffer later in life from it."
Holmes' attention was briefly diverted to the now almost complete absence of pain from the shoulder. Incredible.
"For now, everyone fears you dead." Said Machina quietly, "But what you do next is up to you."
Sherlock blinked and nodded as he assessed the situation. His world surrounded him, and he knew where and when he was now. This was his place, and he could –
He looked back to where Machina had been, but was greeted only with the empty park in the early morning. He frowned.
You're still there, aren't you? He thought.
For a moment, Sherlock was certain that he'd heard the laughter of the strange creature. Only a moment, though. He sighed and shook his head.
He had places to be. Things to do. He suddenly thought of his colleague and was filled with remorse at the pain he would cause by being dead. Well, for a while, at least. He brushed his coat, removing a few sullen leaves that he had picked up from his ungainly landing and shoved his gloved hands into his pockets, huffing against the chill caused by a lack of coat.
Look to your left.
He was certain the thought wasn't his. But he still looked. Lying crumpled, a grey coat sat at the base of a nearby maple. Sherlock was too cold to hesitate. He picked it up and pulled it on, marvelling at how well it fit and how warm it was in spite of its ground-based origins. The odds of finding such a coat…
…of course.
Thank you, Machina. He thought silently. He turned to where the spectre had stood and nodded before heading out.
He didn't look back, but the small, slightly worn smile he wore was all he needed to keep his memory of the spectre girl.