Notes at the end of the chapter. Please check out Part One of the immortal series, Sherlock Holmes and the Immortal.

CHAPTER 1

Flames licked around Sherlock's toes like golden tongues. Sighing, he slid deeper into his grey leather armchair. His best blue silk robe rose up around his neck, contrasting with his tailored black slacks and white dress shirt. He worried for a moment that his trousers would catch fire, so he tugged them up to his knees. A deep moan rattled out from his chest as the fire wrapped around his ankles.

John pounded up the entry stairs, shopping bags rustling in his arms. Sherlock closed his eyes and counted John's steps and heart-rate, both loud in his ears.

Pulse a bit fast, he thought, John needs more cardio.

"I couldn't find everything on your list," John said, puffing a little. "And I didn't fancy going to the medical supply—"

John broke off. Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced over.

Pointing one finger, bag dangling from his hand, John said, "Feet are on fire."

"Yes."

"Ah. Okay then."

Sherlock grinned and wiggled his toes.

"Bother you?" he asked.

"It's a bit disconcerting. Feel good?"

Sherlock sighed in contentment and slithered deeper into his chair. "Wonderful," he moaned.

John nodded and walked to the kitchen. "Is there anything else you discovered while I was doing the shopping?"

"Nope. Got a bit distracted with this."

John mumbled something about wishing Sherlock would get distracted with dusting.

So far, immortality was being a bit of a letdown. It had been one month after his rather spectacular display in the caverns under Buckingham. The only half-way interesting discovery had been how delicious fire felt on his flawless white skin. He deduced that intense emotion was the trigger of his previous stunts. God knew there was enough to keep him keyed up, but the heat soaking into his skin made a supernatural apocalypse seem like a minor issue.

"Any trouble at the shops?" Sherlock asked.

"No, it's still quiet out there. I keep expecting riots in the streets."

Flopping into his old burgundy armchair, John shook out the day's newspaper. He always checked the obituaries first. A habit he had started since living with the world's only consulting detective. His military short sandy blonde hair was a little ruffled, his plaid shirt collar uneven around his neck.

"Windy outside," Sherlock stated.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. You know. London."

Sherlock nodded and drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair.

"Any exciting deaths?"

"No more than usual."

"That's disappointing."

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, his denim blue eyes more than a little judgmental.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," John said.

"Oh come on," Sherlock said, "You're bored too. I was expecting excitement. All those terrible beasts unleashed on the world. Yet here we are. My feet in the fire and no one has had the decency to get torn limb from limb. Boring."

John tried to fight a smile. "You're awful."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Tell me something I don't know."

On the mantle, Sherlock's phone buzzed. Sherlock didn't move a muscle.

Paper rustled as John turned the page. "That could be something," he said.

"It's Mycroft. He's still too angry to call so he's taken up texting me."

John sat aside the paper and got up to check the phone. He laughed and Sherlock opened one eye.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"He says, 'John, tell my idiot brother that there are matters of a sensitive nature we need to discuss. If he continues to ignore me I will take action.'"

Sherlock huffed and said, "What a twat. What's he going to do, send the rozzers here and…" He trailed off and held out his hand. "Give me the phone."

Chuckling, John tossed him the phone and settled back down.

"You did say you wanted some excitement," John said.

"Don't rub it in, John. I'll have him come here. I don't want to get up."

Sherlock typed, "YOU KNOW WHERE I'M AT- SH," and slumped back into his chair, his full bottom lip pouting.

"You should probably take your feet out of the hearth. Mycroft may not understand," John said.

"Oh, who cares what he thinks," Sherlock replied, but he did as John suggested. His heels hit the red woven rug and smoke curled up around them.

"Mrs. Hudson is going to kill you," John said, waving away the smoke.

"If ever there was a thing to not fear, it's that."

When Mycroft arrived an hour later, the smell of singed wool lingered in the air.

Mycroft wrinkled his long nose. "How did you ignite the rug?" he asked.

"What do you want?" Sherlock replied, even more rude than usual.

"John," Mycroft said, "how are you?"

"Fine. I-"

"Are you really going to make me sit through this?" Sherlock interrupted.

John frowned over at Sherlock and offered his chair to Mycroft. There were days where John wondered how Sherlock had gotten to his age without being strangled. Probably because he was a fast runner.

"Brother mine," Mycroft started as he sat down, his mouth twisted in snobbish disdain as he looked around their somewhat ratty flat, "I'd have thought your newfound gifts would've sweetened your disposition. Anyone else in your situation would be at least somewhat pleased."

"Do I look like anyone else to you?"

Mycroft raised his chin and looked down his long, thin nose. "No, I suppose not. Not anymore, at any rate."

Mycroft was right. John looked over to Sherlock and, despite his churlish posture and rumpled dressing gown, he looked like a god come to earth. He'd been a good-looking man in life; tall, slender with almond shaped eyes and dark brown curls. Now his skin was porcelain perfection, his eyes glowed in shifting shades of turquoise and gold, and his hair a shining ebony that seemed to pick up every stray shimmer of light. Even John found himself staring sometimes, much to Sherlock's annoyance. Captivating, beautiful, and inhuman. Of course, he wasn't human any longer. Not after what she had done to him. Vara.

John cringed at the thought and drew up a chair between the brothers. He'd never seen them get physical with one another, but if Sherlock decided to blow something up, a doctor would be handy.

Clearing his throat, Mycroft pulled a manila folder from his briefcase and handed it to Sherlock. Unable to resist the temptation, Sherlock started leafing through a neat stack of photographs and reports. John couldn't tell what he was seeing, but it made Sherlock sit straight in his chair.

"What am I seeing?" Sherlock asked, his voice hushed.

"You're seeing the remains of seven victims of an attack we cannot explain," Mycroft said.

"Obviously, or you wouldn't be here."

"It's more than that," Mycroft said, his voice getting testy. "We suspect the attacker was one of the creatures you released from Master Rihat's hoard. You set them loose. It's your responsibility to clean up the mess you've made."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Or maybe," he said, "If you hadn't allowed your government to have been held hostage by a maniac these people and God knows how many others would still be alive."

"Alright boys," John said as he stood and gently pried the file from Sherlock's hands. "Why didn't you come to Sherlock sooner, Mycroft?"

Mycroft glared at his little brother for a moment longer and said, "There have been problems with the bodies. They were found-"

"In water," Sherlock interrupted. "Ruined."

Frowning, John flipped through the pictures and sat heavily. He'd been through several wars and seen injuries in his career as a doctor that would make strong men pale. What he saw now turned his stomach.

The remains were human. There was a human femur. Exposed bone shown through skin so thin and tight, there was no mistaking their origin. There a white shoulder socket. The lower half of a skull, a few teeth pushed crooked against a broken jawbone. But only pieces remained. None of the bodies looked complete. Bite marks, both large and small covered the remains. Great holes had been rent in the abdomen and skulls, entire faces gnawed away. It was as though something had burrowed into the bodies and sucked every ounce of moisture from them. There was no blood. There wasn't even any muscle or fat. Just a few scraps of skin and bone held by water softened tendons.

John swallowed back his gorge and handed the folder to Sherlock. "What's different?" he asked.

"We have a complete body. Not only that, we have a crime scene."

"Is it preserved?" Sherlock asked.

"It is," Mycroft said. He stood and straightened his jacket. "I'll let you deal with the people. The address is in the file. And do something about," Mycroft waved his hand at Sherlock's face, "that. You stand out."

Sherlock ran his hand over his face and nodded. "Yeah," he said, "I've been working on it. Don't worry, I won't embarrass my darling brother with my inhumanity."

"Hmm. Very amusing. John," Mycroft said, nodding his goodbye.

Sherlock stood and watched from their first floor window as his brother was driven away.

John had a sick feeling that things were about to get exciting.

I began this fic shortly after the conclusion of Series 3 in mid-January. As with a lot of Sherlock fic writers, the third season threw me for a massive loop and returning to writing came slowly. Not that I didn't love the new series, because I did. But drastic character changes and arc upheavals, from what I had imagined anyway, are bound to affect your own characters and arcs. That, and His Last Vow left me deeply unsettled, which I'm sure was the point. Thankfully, there are some amazing, intelligent, and dedicated fans of Sherlock who, through their meta, helped pull me out of my funk. So, to those who are far smarter than I will ever be, I dedicate this story. Your vision, your dedication, and perseverance in the face of near constant wank is an inspiration.

But, seriously, the flicking really freaked me out. WTF.