A Perfect Duality

by SfumatoSoup

Sherlock and John work in Limbo. The Plague is rampant Upland, and they must find the perpetrator. All the while, John struggles to hide his infatuation with Sherlock, while Sherlock tries to pry it out of him.

A Perfect Duality

Author: Sfumatosoup

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Rating: PG. There's some seductive kissing maybe. Nothing a to make a 13 year old blush over.

Word Count: 17,000

Disclaimer: I own nil. They all belong to Sir ACD, and Misters Moffat and Gatiss among others. Not intending to make a profit from this in any way, shape or form.

Warning: Spoiler-ish for 'The Great Game'.

Summary: Sherlock and John work in Limbo. The Plague is rampant Upland, and they must find the perpetrator. All the while, John struggles to hide his infatuation with Sherlock, while Sherlock seems to want to pry it out of him. (Side Note: I really wanted to title this 'The Grim Adventures of Sherlock and John'…)

'…"Genius, John! I could kiss you! Where is the Wife!'…"

…

…

Chapter 1

Coming home to the flat at 221B Baker Street, Limbo, from an exhaustive day Healing in the Uplands, John was ready for a spot of tea and maybe a nap.

He little suspected when he walked in, to find Sherlock sitting across from his brother. The two seemed to always be at odds, and thus, it was surprising to see him in their flat.

"Mycroft has just informed me, he wants to retain my services," Sherlock yawned, utterly bored, "for 'Queen and Country'."

"It's a small matter, but we could use your assistance."

Curiosity piqued, John took a seat, "What is it?"

"We have an L15 Agent who has seemed to vanish into thin air. His whereabouts need to be ascertained as he is in possession of some rather volatile information."

"Of what kind?" the intrigued Healer queried, tossing off his hood and running a hand through his short ashy locks.

"As I've been informed thus far, the Agent worked in AIS (the Aboveland Intelligence Sector), and it seems he's absconded with a set of Plans which could prove quite detrimental in the wrong hands. He was reported missing early this morning by his Fiancé, and failed to report to L15 the day before that," Mycroft explained, "With the crisis in Upland, Management has had its hands quite full and it would appear negligent on their behalf if this were leaked to the wrong party. I'd look into it myself, but-

"-Yes, we all know how you are about foot-work," Sherlock drawled sarcastically.

"Actually, brother, it would draw too much attention if I were to become involved," the man explained, "We really would prefer if we could refrain from bringing this to the attention of the press."

"Makes sense," John nodded, considering the L15 vanguard's tired, blood-shot eyes.

"We'd like it if you'd make some inquiries into the situation, Sherlock. Will you do so?"

"Mm. Maybe. I'll see." The Harvester answered noncommittally.

…

Sherlock had been rather tenebrific of late, and John was not a small bit frustrated that the Harvester had taken little mind to accept his brother's request.

It was just like him to be obstinate where Mycroft was concerned.

But alas, not since the Uplandic Crusades had anything roused his interest.

Inside the cozy kitchen, John put the kettle on, and sat back in his chair, flipping through the newspaper.

As usual, more hysterics about the disaster in Upland stirring the Limbo economy.

John looked up as he heard the distant approach of beating hooves against earth.

What now, he wondered.

He glanced out and espied the mounted troupe advancing up the narrow, winding road.

Ah. So the Horsemen of the Apocolypse would be shortly joining him for tea.

(Of course, the notion of the "Horsemen' was a mEnglish - detected to Icelandic translatiThe hOf courisnomer of Uplander imagination. Humans could be quite inventive.)

He watched as the rain pattered down, speckling the barren ground below.

They picked a dreary day to come. In more ways than one, as John pictured Sherlock sullenly draped across the sofa in the other room.

The Healer sighed, reluctantly clinking down his cup on to the wobbly, old saucer.

It was obvious Limbo Yard Harvester Lestrade would be appealing to Sherlock for assistance with this little matter.

Well, really not so little.

The "Black Plague", as it was coming to be known, had been catastrophically sweeping across the Uplands for just over a year with no reprieve. The GA (L15 Gathering Agents) were exhausted and effectively rendered useless under the Management's regime in this latest of projects; for a new, poorly imagined system had been structured.

The intent was to recruit the latest Limbo Citizens (the Plague victims, of course,) and deploy them back to the Uplands to aide in the Clean-Up. Gatherers would not only be responsible for Soul assembly, but would now also be surveying as to which department the Souls would be sorted.

Unfortunately, following the instructed procedures for Relief categorization, as well as taking over training and directing of assignment, took manpower and time.

The plan simply defied efficiency, since far too many resources were being sapped, and the budget was strapped as funding grew tight. The burdening taxation was inciting Limbo Citizens to grumble with irritation, while meanwhile, in the Uplands, the body count was steadily rising and souls were stagnating.

Official Harvesters and Officers down at Limbo Yard were on the case 25/7 (yes, Limbo has an extra hour) attempting to seek the malefactor responsible for the atrocity.

All in all, Limbo Management's ineffectual attempts were proving enormously embarrassing. These days, dissention was becoming the way of it, and the Higher-Ups were growing quite wary of a coupe.

Of course, this meant the Press was having an absolute field day.

The headlines read: "Limbo Recession: is the Staggering Upland Death Toll to blame or Management?", "Resigned Asst. L15 Director, Victim or Villain?"

More outrageous yet, were the graffiti and the pamphlets: "Down with L15!", "L15 = Massive Cock-Ups!" and, "Change our Laws: Take back Your Rights!"

All of which was amusing to read about, particularly for Sherlock, as Mycroft was in essence, L15.

As always, the Elder Holmes maintained he held a 'minor position' in the Management, but it was obvious he was much more influential than he let on. The Psychopomp was vastly more than his self-described job description; an obvious Puppet Master behind State Figureheads.

Thus, for him, this would inevitably be ruinous if not staunchly reigned in. And soon.

All in all, everything was mucked up, and no one was happy about the way things were being run.

Even the Yard was tetchy these days, so John figured it was inevitable that Sherlock's services would be recruited as an Official Private Consulting Harvester once more. 'The only one in the world, topside or under,' Sherlock proudly decreed.

The unique station of Harvester, entailed the curtailing of the 'Marked'; removing the Soul from its bodily confinement and delivering it into the capable hands of Management's Gathering Agents. They would then assort the Souls into Limbo Civilian life (or rather now, automatic recruitment for USE (Upland Salvation Efforts).

Sherlock was specifically well inclined to perform the job with his masterful capacity for deduction. He would track the 'Marked', and hone in on their positioning. John would then assist if needed, by calming and disentangling Souls before Sherlock would Harvest.

In the beginning, John had once been a Healer in the active Limbo Military. When they allied with Aboveland against the invading troupes of Downland, he'd taken a glaive to the shoulder, effectively rendering him useless. Thus, he'd retired and was assigned to a position as an Upland Healer.

Though his pocketbook was tight for awhile and then he'd been introduced to Sherlock.

When John had first met the man, in a manner of seconds, the Harvester had awed him speechless; deducing and dissecting him piece by piece.

Instead of being put off by this he was ridiculously impressed, which endeared him to the eccentric man.

They'd agreed to become flat mates out of mutual necessity and grew to be instant, albeit hesitant friends and over the ages, the two found they worked symbiotically, and became quite close despite occasionally notable differences in opinion.

And…as time wore on, John repressed the burgeoning greed he felt for more.

More was a funny word, and one he was loathe to contemplate too deeply the meaning of, for Sherlock was a quintessential automaton, and John intrinsically knew he'd be hard pressed to expect this word to become a tangible reality.

So it fell, unarticulated, to the sidelines.

…

It had been nearly 300 (Upland) years, since their last case with the Crusades, and Sherlock was pining for activity. The heralding Lestrade was sure to be of some benefit.

Thing was, Sherlock loathed being used as cleanup for simple projects, and the plague was certainly a massive effort of that type.

John slapped a palm to his face and groaned.

Sherlock was sure to be a struggle for it.

If he wouldn't take Mycroft's case (which he was obviously denying out of fraternal prejudice); maybe he'd contemplate this one with a bit more gusto.

But then again… probably not.

Nevertheless, John donned his cloak, grabbed his Limbo Army issued L9A1 Scythe and entered into the dimly cast sitting room with a tentative smile.

Best to make the best of it, really.

Sherlock lay on his side, glaring at the wall.

John idly wondered what was so offensive about it.

The Yard Officials were waiting downstairs for the two of them, so John cleared his throat to gain the other man's attention.

To no effect, of course.

"Alright, Sherlock?"

His friend barely deigned to muster a reply, so John trod over and knelt down before him. Propping an elbow on the arm of the sofa for support, he smirked as he looked down at the sulking Harvester.

"Could I but rouse the weary?"

"I would not expend the energy were I you."

John wanted to reach out and tuck a few of those disobedient black curls back from his brow, but refrained.

Instead, he released a sigh, which gust across, lightly wisping back a few of the strands anyway, and Sherlock seemed to shiver in response.

John held his breath ruefully. He hadn't meant to lean in so close.

His friend glanced up, a small smile twitching his lips, briefly signifying his acknowledgment of John's presence. Then, with listless apathy he continued to stare just beyond to the wall.

Ah, yet another bout of melancholy.

Good then. This might actually work to pull him out of it.

"The Calvary cometh," Sherlock flatly deduced, sweeping a long, elegantly formed hand through his unkempt mane.

"It won't do to deny them. Besides, what else have you going on, at the moment, you know, since you basically refused to help Mycroft?"

Sherlock huffed irritably, turning away.

"Pah! Let him find someone else. Or better yet, let him figure it out on his own."

"Perhaps, but the Yarders are going to want you for Upland, then."

"Then let them in. Let them all in, and be done with it. Burn the village, and hang me from the nearest tree."

Sherlock caught John's cringe and smirked, "…and then let the cats eat my remains."

"Could you be any more dramatic?" The Healer complained, playfully whapping the man on his tussled head, drawing out an indignant, 'hey!'

"It's not as bad as all that."

"No, they only want to drag us out and up. And this one, I'd sit out of. It's boring."

"It's our job… your job."

Sherlock looked up at his friend petulantly, "I want a case. A crime. A puzzle. Something to stimulate my rotting brain."

"In the interim, this will get you out the door! And we could use the money."

"I don't want to go."

John smiled down at the Harvester. He was really such a child.

"It's only for a bit."

"You needn't hassle me. It's evident I'll have no choice in the matter. If I don't comply with the Yard, surely L15 will come round to pull me out into the fray. Or Mycroft will send out the dogs to beat me into submission about finding his idiotic missing Agent."

"Indeed, so best go with the Yard then?"

Sherlock harrumphed, and grudgingly rose.

…

Lestrade stood across from the Consulting Harvester, regarding him warily.

"I'll make this brief. Your Mastermind is at it again, and this time, its paramount he's detained."

The man frowned at Sherlock's impassivity.

It's getting out of hand, and we obviously need your help."

It was clear Lestrade was loathed to admit this, yet he'd done so, metaphorically offering his head up on a silver platter to the hungry lion.

"Obviously," Sherlock yawned, feigning disinterest.

John could tell however, that his interest had piqued at the mention of the 'Mastermind'. The Grim Reaper was an elusive mad-man, and the Harvester's personal nemesis.

"Aboveland has verified with Management that they are not responsible for the recent staggering workload in the Uplands, which clearly means, it could be no one else," the Yard Harvester exclaimed, "as if he hadn't had enough fun back in the Byzantine Campaigns."

"Why Plague!" Sherlock moaned, "That's so tedious. If he wanted to romp about and give us distraction you'd think he'd… I don't know… start a bit of trouble with a few rebellious peasants. Something intriguing. You know… challenging."

"The nature of this, is that it is challenging. We can't track him, because the Contagion he's manufactured is too wide spread. We've sent battalions out to various regions around the Uplands, with little success. With so many loose threads, it's been nearly impossible to find a reliable lead."

Lestrade sighed, rubbing his hands together fretfully.

"It's out of my jurisdiction, but it is within yours, since you're not constrained within regulations of the Public Sector. So what we need, is for you to do your damnedest to apprehend the rapacious Son of a Bitch."

"'Rapacious Son of a Bitch' he may be, but yet … you must accede he acts only in accordance with his nature," Sherlock leveled, playing devil's advocate with the poor man.

"He's gone rogue, Sherlock! He's practically a demagogue," the Yard Harvester spat out, like 'demagogue' was equivalent to something vile he'd found stuck on the bottom of his shoe.

"And dissent should be discouraged? Have we really devolved into such an Autocracy that challenging Management is likened to heresy?" Sherlock challenged.

"He's not doing this as a political statement! He does it for fun!" Lestrade shouted explosively, "For the stability of our economy here in Limbo, the Uplands cannot be kept from progress! It's hard pressed to expect a society to evolve when half the population is being ruthlessly massacred!"

"Philosophical disagreements aside here, ladies," John interjected, "can we get on with it?"

Lestrade sighed with exasperation, rubbing the ache from his temples.

"Of course there will be generous remuneration."

"As if that's ever been a lure for me," Sherlock sniped indignantly.

"What's the goal here?" John intercepted, with arbitrating cool.

"The goal here is,"Lestrade pressed on, gratefully taking the Healer's cue, "You, Sherlock, will take over as Lead Harvester, so you'll be in the singular position to scope out the trails."

"You have a very loose idea of what it is I actually do, don't you, Lestrade," Sherlock quipped, with concealed bemusement.

"Yes well. Fine. You do whatever it is you do that magics things right. Will you take the job or not."

"We will," John stated resolutely for them both. Sherlock glanced over at his friend with a pained expression.

"Very well, fellows…er…good luck, then." Lestrade nodded, shaking hands with the two.

"Unnecessary sentiment, as 'luck' has nothing to do with it," the Harvester stated, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, as Lestrade took his leave.

…

Chapter 2

"It's not like it's even war. At least that's interesting," Sherlock complained.

"Interesting! This is worse than Antonine!" John expostulated.

No plague before had ever leveled so many Uplanders.

"Be thankful you weren't there for Justinian, then."

"Why is it that you only want to do the wars?"

Sherlock grinned, "Because the outcome is less predictable."

The Healer grimaced.

"My dear," Sherlock pressed on, "'Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work'."

John shook his head; half-smiling, half-internally groaning.

"Besides, you as well miss the battlefields," He implied, slyly, "the Great Swarm."

"You devoured the Crusades with an unholy zeal," John replied, "it's little wonder the Yard thinks you're unbalanced."

Sherlock smirked, "You loved it every bit as I, my friend."

John wanted to say, 'as I, you.' But vehemently crushed the thought and instead replied:

"And for that, I'm equally off my rocker."

"Look ahead, John, see that?" The Harvester pointed to a cottage over the hill, "Mid-day, no smoke, no livestock. Let's take a look."

….

"The Lord taketh!" Sherlock crowed from atop the roof.

John shook his head at his companion. Sherlock was ever the one for aggrandizing pronouncements.

Beneath the Harvester's feet, within the dwelling, three lay dead, with festering boils and mottled sores.

It had been merciful, really. The souls had been trapped for days, darting about the small cottage, denying their bodies with a sense of disassociative repulsion.

It had taken a great deal of his skill as a Healer, to calm them enough for Harvesting.

John crossed his arms, and glared up at his companion.

"Show some respect."

"The dead need no longer want for it, my dear."

"Ever so, it's quite improper."

"Improper. Psh. Thanks, Mother."

"Please, Sherlock. As if I'd ever deign to take that particular role."

"I wonder what role you would deign to take."

John cringed at the intimation and Sherlock's expression transmuted into something keenly dangerous.

"Should I dignify that with an answer?" John challenged.

Sherlock leered at the other man, "Would you have it… were it proffered?"

John was puzzled by the subtle teasing in the other man's tone.

Not at all sure where this was headed, a prickling, discomfiting feeling stirred within the Healer, which he quickly thrust aside.

"If you mean, should I want for respect," John clarified with equanimity, "Then I would say so."

"If we were still speaking of that, then I wouldn't argue."

"What are you on about," the Healer asked, confused, "Would I have what then?"

"Ah," Sherlock mused, as if he'd been properly answered.

"You do realize I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're attempts to prevaricate have always been abhorrent, John, you really ought to try harder if you want to deceive me."

"I. Don't. Know. What. You. Are. Talking. About," John reiterated with increasing frustration.

Sherlock leveled John with an assessing gaze, razor blade eyes glittering queerly.

The Healer was uneasy at the turn in their conversation, very much disliking being under Sherlock's piercing, prescient scrutiny.

He tried for changing the subject:

"So… did you pick up on anything?"

H1 narrowed his eyes and smirked. W1 felt his stomach drop.

Right. Overly vague question could be conveniently misinterpreted.

He'd meant to say, 'back in the peasant's house, did you pick up on any clues?'

Of course, Sherlock would take advantage of the gaff.

John stared him down, a touch confrontationally, daring him to do so. There was a palpable moment of sheer silence, where it appeared they had squared off in some sort of mental duel which Sherlock would inevitably conquer.

"Possibly," the Harvester replied at last, with a cryptic edge.

John was unsure he could draw much from that, and steeled himself against his burgeoning anxiety.

The Upland sun shone brightly down as the two resumed up the path to their next assignment.

..

They had cleaned up the batch of houses along the river banks that evening, and John watched with little concealed wonder as his friend energetically bound about, like a child at play.

In such an exuberant state, Sherlock was utterly breathtaking and John was dazzled in spite of himself.

One of the Yard Officers approached John.

"The Freak gets off on it, I swear."

The Healer looked questioningly at Donovan, with a degree of irritation.

"Don't look at me like you don't know that," the Yarder drawled, "He's a nut job. And one of these days he's going to go off the deep end just like the Reaper. You know he's capable of it. He can Mark just like an Abovelander."

John crossed his arms over his chest, feeling oddly defensive of Sherlock, "That's a load of crap, Sally."

Once, in the days when John had just met Sherlock, Donovan had warned him: "You may think he's your friend, but he doesn't have friends. He's just using you. You should watch your back."

Her words stung now as they had before. Of course, her assessment had proven false on that regard. John trusted Sherlock implicitly, even if the man was a touch off the normative scheme. Though, despite his fondness for the brilliant Harvester, Donovan's prophetic assertion nagged at him when he considered Sherlock's obsessive investment in the Reaper, and his utter enthusiasm for the most grisly of crime scenes.

Yet, Sherlock had always defied convention; it was just that, in light of John's recurrent and troubling sentiments, there was a part of him that worried she could be right.

Lestrade came up behind John and set a hand on his cloaked shoulder, snapping the man out of his troubling thoughts. The silver-haired Yard Harvester gave him a knowing, penetrating look.

"I believe, John, despite what any of them say, that Sherlock is a good man, and one day if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a great one."

…

Rain misted down amongst them as they worked in tandem with the Yard and the GA.

Sherlock darted about with his typical, uninhibited glee, much to everyone's mutual consternation and especially to John.

Way to prove Donovan right, Sherlock.

Lestrade sighed, "He does nothing in halves does he."

In a moment of transcendental illumination, the Harvester had taken the north-western coast and mapped out the variable spread of the contagion. In the town they now resided, down the river from the last, were fresh Marks.

Sherlock was convinced that the Reaper was bound to be close, and here they would be able to snag a trail that would lead directly to him.

As Sherlock stood, carefully examining the faint remainder of a Marking Cloud, two Gatherers approached; one, pretty and bashful, and the other, looking far too eager.

The Agent cleared her throat, "Hi, Sherlock."

Distractedly, the Harvester quickly glanced over, "Ah, Molly."

"My boyfriend is a bit of an admirer of yours. Thought he could meet you, if that'd be alright."

The young woman had been a particular thorn in the Harvester's side for some time, but he put up with her. Even a Low-Tier L15 Gathering Agent was a useful ally against a Yard of Harvesting Officers chomping at the heel to drag him down a notch.

"You have a boyfriend?" John queried. It'd always been his impression the girl had harbored a bit of a crush on his friend.

"Yes, he's new! You know, just sorted into L15, because he's so bright!"

"Molly," the man whined with pained embarrassment, "Please."

"Don't be so modest!" She whapped his arm playfully and the hooded Agent grinned, hooking an arm around her waist.

He gave the girl an affectionate squeeze in which she squeaked delightedly before surreptitiously approaching the Harvester.

"Sherlock, this is Jim," She introduced with a note of pride, "Jim, Sherlock."

The two shook hands.

"It's an absolute pleasure," the Agent said kindly, eyes sparkling.

"Mm."

"You're a private Consultant, right?"

Sherlock peered at the hooded man with a wry expression, "If you want to schedule an appointment, you'll have to check in with my Secretary."

The confused looking Agent glanced over at John, and the Healer sighed with exasperation, "I'm not his 'Secretary'."

"Alright then," He turned back to Sherlock, "So, er... bit impressed with what I hear of you. You're really something else; tracking Marks other Harvesters barely even think to look for!"

"Mm," Sherlock responded disinterestedly.

Jim seemed apprehensive, and looked up at Molly.

"Well, anyway, I have to get going. My department is waiting for me across town, so I suppose… I'll… see you later," he bade, gazing at the Harvester with fawning admiration.

John scowled at Sherlock as the Agent departed.

"You might've been a little more congenial."

"Not my type."

John and Molly shared a look at the implicating statement. The pretty Agent's face crushed with anger and she turned to flee.

"That was cruel, Sherlock" John remarked.

"Was it," he drawled, "It'll save her the embarrassment later, so I'd consider it an act of kindness."

"What exactly led you to believe he was… soliciting you."

Sherlock raised a brow at the word choice, "Obvious."

"No, it was not obvious," John defended, heat flooding his face. He frowned, deeply disconcerted. If Sherlock could read Jim so quickly, barely sparing him a glance…

"It was made so by the Signature glyph he ever so slyly Summoned into my palm as we shook hands," Sherlock open his fist and the Healer observed the glowing runes.

"Is that not the conventional method of propositioning these days?" Sherlock teased with an air of bemusement, "Though I suppose you've been rather a homebody of late."

"The pickings are slim in Limbo Taverns. What with everyone deployed up here."

"Feeble attempts to justify are indicative of dissimulation, John, honestly you can do better that that."

"Rubbish!" John bit out, incensed, "To what end would I lie about not being able to get a date? What purpose what that serve?"

Sherlock ceased his examination and narrowed his eyes at the Healer, "You know very well you no longer bother to seek other companionship since you've developed this propensity to spend every waking moment in my company these last few centuries. Not that I'm complaining. I'm just pointing it out."

W1's gut twisted with anxiety, "Don't flatter yourself. I'm not a devoted lackey, I certainly have other interests and other friends. Which is more than you can say."

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"You're really quite trying!"

…

Sherlock glanced over at the dour expression on John's face.

"I saw you chatting with D1 the day before," He sighed, "What disparaging thing could she have said to press you to such belaboured rumination?"

John glowered.

"Or… are you still mad at me for making fun of you earlier?"

"For all your massive intellect you're really rather stupid."

"Don't you think your being a touch sensitive?" Sherlock pouted.

"You're a tactless, pompous, vainglorious twit."

"I take offense to the word twit. I don't even know what that is," Sherlock defended, "And besides, pompous and vainglorious? That's a bit redundant."

"You act like everyone around you is immaterial."

"You're not immaterial, John," Sherlock sighed.

"You bloody run about like you own the Uplands."

"I'm doing my job."

"I mean, you are remarkably resilient," John mused acerbically, "one was hard pressed to raise you from the comforts of your den just a few days ago, yet here you are prancing about like some sort of freshly released Bottle-Imp."

"I do not prance."

"You're far more enthusiastic than one ought to be, is my point."

Sherlock, momentarily caught off, frowned at the Healer.

"Well, the Reaper is bating me, after all, that does increase the interest," He capitulated, an earnest grin stretching across his face, "and it's fun because you're here with me, old chap, even if you are in a bit of a tizzy at the moment."

"Is it all about the Game with you? You never regret what the careless actions of that utter asshole compel us to clean up?" John gestured about, as if to imply 'look at this mess!'

H1 regarded his companion with a sagacious air.

"The curtains close and cascade downward before the might of the great finale. We must as we always have, and they shall rise and fall as they ever do."

"That's trite. Have you no sense of decency? No sense of compassion?"

"How long have we known each other!" Sherlock glared querulously at John, "Besides, you've never complained before of my methods."

"You're utterly heartless," John shot out.

For a fleeting second, Sherlock almost seemed stung.

"Right, I didn't mean it like that."

The Harvester paused, and regarded John's grimace.

"How did you mean it."

"It's the way you go about with callous disregard, Sherlock. They have lives, and purposes, they think, reason and feel. And we aide in herding them like sheep to the slaughter."

"To be fair, they're already technically marked for slaughter, or they're already severed from the flesh when we find them. And I've always imagined that we provide a service, my dear. We don't kill, we take. It's going to happen, anyway. Mortals will die, and you and I will aide them in doing so. It's no use fighting against the inevitable."

"Yes, Death is inevitable, but the Reaper is committing genocide in Upland against the common laws of Aboveland and Limbo, and you sound like you're practically defending him."

"I'm not. But in order to capture him, we must press on. We can't stop and cry at the bedside of every victim."

"Well I know you don't care about ending this for the sake of Limbo's reputation, the money reward, or to cease the death toll- because humans mean less than dirt to you, so why? Why do you want this to end? For the satisfaction? The glory of victory?" John bit out, angrily.

"If the end justifies the means, then what does it matter?"

The Healer shrugged and shook his head with a downward cast, ceding with fatigue.

"I've convinced you," Sherlock's eyes widened with astonishment, then furrowed as he assessed his friend's expression, "Wait. Have I convinced you?"

"There is worth to what you say."

"But you're mad at me," Sherlock sighed, with measurable disappointment.

"I'd like to think you'd understand what I'm getting at… you know, as my friend."

"You call me such with little regard to the meaning."

"What?" John queried, incredulously.

"Am I your friend? You regard me with great disapproval of late."

John looked at his friend, who also, for all his steely stoicism, seemed just as miserable as he felt in that moment.

"I only wish you were a bit more-"

"-human?"

"What we are now, Sherlock, or may not be… or even what once we were and are no longer… maintaining the irrelevance thereof, is not…well…the point."

"That was a mouthful, but I see."

"Do you."

"You wish I was more feeling, despite the fact that we are in essence but a cog in the machine; the Sentient Personification of Death as opposed to the quite tangible, indisputably corporeal mess of excretion and flesh that parasitically roam the Uplands?"

"We can be capable of compassion. They are people, Sherlock. Not just jobs to do."

The Harvester eyed the Healer critically, "They are jobs, John. We pluck souls from putrefying shells of meat slipped from the mortal coil, slap a label on their metaphysical heads, and say, 'Well done, you! Now on your merry way'. That's a job. It's our job. We're not human, we're a function. A purposeful function." Sherlock took a deep breath, "Tell me this. Would caring about them help save them?"

"No."

"Then I will continue to not make that mistake."

...

Later that day, an L15 lackey came calling about Mycroft's case.

"I'm working. I don't have time to solve his little quandary."

The Agent stood steadfast, determined to reach some sort of agreement, "The 'little quandary' in question, Mr. Holmes can assure you is not so 'little'. He insists that you take a moment to look into it."

John sighed, "Maybe you could, for just a moment, Sherlock?"

The Harvester stopped, seeming to consider something briefly, before setting his gaze on his companion.

"Well John, what do you say, you've watched me for some years, surely you could apply my techniques and be of some assistance?"

The Healer squirmed uncomfortably beneath the scrutiny of the L15 Agent, then relented.

"Fine. I'll do it."

…

John parted ways from Sherlock, leaving his friend to continue in Upland, while he journeyed back to Limbo to meet with Mycroft.

He dusted off his robes, and looked around the spartan, yet comfortable Management office, feeling resolute that he could do this.

Upon entering, the Psychopomp looked John down with scrutinizing appraisal.

"Ah, so my dear brother couldn't be bothered to spare a precious minute. Very well, Healer Watson, you're suitable."

"Thanks," John replied, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back, "What do you want me to do?"

"As I detailed a few days ago: locate the missing Agent, and retrieve the Aboveland Plans. This is an internal matter, as I've said before, so it'd be best to remain discreet. What I need from you is to do a few interviews, go over the reports, sift through the details. I have the AIS files for you here."

…

Chapter 3

John rejoined his the Harvester, continuing to investigate the trail, with the Yard close behind. The towns they swept, were crawling with Recently Displaced Souls and there was a lingering stench that pervaded the air, foul and thick. Evidently, the GA and USE had not yet arrived to begin any clean-up.

The Harvester preferred his crime scenes fresh and unsullied, so he was positively chipper as he took a look around.

John, on the other hand, found the sight rather depressing.

Some houses had been set ablaze, acrid smoke cascading upwards, into the bleak, ochre sky. Others stood abandoned, quarantined. The ailing, the survivors, the starving and the wretched, listlessly negotiated their way about the littered streets strewn with animal carcasses and excrement.

Priests shouted, 'Rapture' amidst the fray, as heavily cloaked figures wearing peculiar beak-shaped masks dragged away corpses on rickety carts. The wheels whined against the axels, mingling with the keening sounds of weeping. The bereaved clung together, knowing that soon, they too would join the lost.

A sense of agonizing desolation pressed round, weighing the climate with despair, and really, it did seem like the End of Times.

John and Sherlock worked on, Healing and Harvesting, and later in the day were joined up by the GA and USE. Fortunately, most of the more significant data had been collected.

Upon passing, John would nod Greetings to the Gatherers fleeting about. Most, were barely responsive, as they urgently flit about absorbing the flooding numbers. For awhile, John took a break watching the GA sort and categorize the Harvested Souls. Soon they'd be sent back to Limbo for training, and come enlisted back out to Upland.

John wondered, since they were so fresh, if they ever remembered their own fate.

He failed to remember his own. Once in Limbo, one ceased to be human. One became one with the System instead.

Limbo Yard skipped over the town, bowing out to head off down the valley instead, to scope out the heart of the next target of Marked Uplanders.

It was approaching twilight, and John knew they'd be pressed to follow suit.

The Harvester shared a knowing look with the Healer, and they continued to expediently scour the remains, reaping the clingers and the steadfast; pushing them on to oblivion.

…

The two men head off to a nearby settlement, ahead of the GA and USE as they finished off in the last town.

Here, fared little better than the last, but at least, the village had yet to be completely ravaged.

At the very least, the folks were not yet being piled into the burial pits. However, in the wake of the disaster from up the valley, clung a sense of languishing fear.

It was evident to the Healer, that many were already exhibiting signs of the illness, but they kept on, going about their day, nevertheless.

Marked, but not yet dead.

A theatre troupe had gathered just beyond the cusp of the village, beneath the shade of a gnarled, old elm, performing a Passion play for a small crowd of townsfolk.

John watched, intrigued, as an actor clad as Jesus of Nazareth in draped, soiled linen, dragged along a heavy, wooden cross. He stumbled, buckling dramatically beneath its implied weight as a fierce looking 'Roman' thrashed him with a leather strap. The man cried out with every lash.

Again, and again it was brought down with a resounding 'crack'.

And with every utterance, every cry, there was an exultant shout from the gathering. W1 felt a prickling sensation of horror wash over him, as the scene unfolded.

It was real. All real, as there were deep bloody gashes, and raised welts along the man's back.

The burly, vicious man playing the Roman Soldier raised his whip once more, and W1 could see a shadow fall over the crowd. A dark, whispering, cloying shadow that bespoke of contagion: festering, bruised rings, and swollen boils.

The man, fell to his knees, pleading.

Above them, the cloud began to crackle, invisible to the denizens below.

John could see it taking form, and he sensed the Harvester, bracing himself behind it.

He watched, awed, as Sherlock unleashed a Cast. The augural cloud, imminent and dense, rippled upward, wrapping round and permeating through his companion.

He raised his scythe, wielding it above his head, directing it to condense into a black, crackling, electrical force above.

Completed, he tossed back his head and arched, stretching his arms before him, fingers splayed. His eyes gleaming silver.

He looked dangerous, and violent and positively beautiful.

John shivered.

The cloud released, cascading outward, curtaining over the village and all its occupants.

The Healer shivered as he watched the display. Sherlock's uncanny ability to Cast Marks, was positively terrifying.

What machinations had compelled him to Cast such a dispersal?

Though capable, it was rare that his friend would do so, as this was a job typically reserved for Aboveland Specialists. These were the Agents whose responsibility it was to Mark and Cast death over the assigned Uplanders.

The Grim Reaper himself, was an Aboveland Agent gone off in the head…gone 'rogue' so to speak, Marking and Casting the Clouds at will, without compunction, defying Aboveland Agenda.

Surely, the Harvester had not sunk to his level.

It disturbed John greatly.

As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock grinned broadly at his friend.

"I can draw him out if I can decipher his brand of meddling."

John leveled a stiff glance at the Harvester.

"Are you telling me the Reaper Marked all of these people? Since when do you take liberties with assigning fate?"

Sherlock frowned, and shifted uncomfortably.

"What? I don't deal out the death cards. It was already prescribed, the Cloud had already been Cast; I just enabled it… a touch. Besides, they weren't very nice people, and again, the end will justify!" the Harvester defended.

"You make a valid argument, but still, Sherlock, you shouldn't have done so," John reprimanded, "You could get in serious trouble. Thank Above that neither the GA nor the Yarders weren't here to witness."

"What does that matter. Don't you see, John? I need to tap into his trail! Besides, finishing off the town means we can investigate the whole thing in one go, instead of having to piecemeal it out and trek back later for the rest of the evidence," He added enthusiastically.

The two stood there considering each other, before John broke the tension by granting his friend with a tentative smile.

"Time to Harvest, eh?" He said, at last.

"Should only be a bit 'til they drop like flies."

"Predictably callous and effective, as always," John quipped sardonically.

The Harvester visibly relaxed at the half-hearted jab, and set a conciliatory hand on his friend's back.

The tenuous compromise was as close as they were going to get, so the two turned back to work on the village.

…

Once upon a time, John had puzzled over Aboveland's careless acts of annihilation among the Uplanders. For these Agents alone, were responsible for prearranging Death. Why claim Limbo as an Ally, if they were just going to wreck havoc?

The ensuing catastrophe's never failed to create a literal fiscal nightmare for Limbo, and really, it was an abuse on those employed to clean Upland.

He'd been dispelled of this notion quickly, however, while in the Service. Abovelanders maintained protection for Limbo. They sought balance above all things; thus chaos was precisely monitored.

There was no such thing in this World as happenstance. Everything was carefully designed and predestined: Science, Human Nature, Geographical Disaster…

Aboveland did everything within reason, and with ultimate purpose.

This was different.

So, was it some spiteful, antagonistic deity with a Vendetta, poisoning the waters and the minds of man into killing one other?

It had taken Eons before Sherlock had sighted the perpetrator at work.

And when he had, he was exultant, and just nearly unbearable.

The Harvester likened The Grim Reaper to a spider in the center of its web, but the web had a thousand radiations, and he alone, knew well every quiver of each of them.

John thought him a malignant blight, worthy of a Downlander, and he watched despairingly as Sherlock literally trembled with unbridled fascination over his newest quarry.

Their delight was mutual, for talent instantly recognizes genius; and thus began the great game of cat and mouse.

Aboveland and Limbo alike, sought to capture the villain, but Sherlock craved doing so like a drug.

John wondered what would happen, if one day, one of the Reaper's pursuants succeeded.

It really would be for the best of Limbo and the Uplands, but would it be for Sherlock?

In the interim, it kept them steadily employed, and yet, John needed it to end. Maybe he harboured selfish motives for wishing so, but it would be really for the best of all concerned.

He would be more than capable of dealing with Sherlock's resulting ennui, for he'd considered a multitude of ways to circumvent it.

And, there was that other factor that could prove an amenable distraction, if H1 would be receptive.

But no.

He wouldn't think of it.

If he didn't think it, it would go away.

He wouldn't pine for impossibilities.

…

Chapter 4

They followed their next lead to the coast where the Plague was rampant, once again, a step ahead of GA, USE and the Yarders. The two worked seamlessly together, expediently cleansing the city and following the trail.

It seemed, yet, no matter how close Sherlock perceived they were; the Reaper being just a hair's breadthe away, was just beyond reach every time.

Interruption came in the form of Lestrade hailing from Limbo to report that they'd come across a body eaten by a Drainer earlier that morning. They'd discovered the poor sod was an L15 Agent.

John frowned. In all the excitement, he'd nearly forgotten about his own mission for Mycroft.

Flustered, he worried that the Yard may have discovered the Agent's involvement with AIS.

W1 cringed.

It wouldn't do to get on the wrong side of the Psychopomp. He imagined he'd be quite the force to be reckoned with.

"I'd better go see to it before your brother throttles me."

"Yes, we wouldn't want that," the Harvester ironically grinned, "I suppose I could head back with you for a bit to help out."

John faltered, "That's… generous of you. What's the catch?"

"No catch, I enjoy your company is all," Sherlock defended.

John smiled warmly at his friend, "Sometimes, I think I like you."

The Harvester smirked, but seemed to light up at the praise, "Glad to hear you say so."

…

They arrived back in Limbo to interrogate the bereaved fiancé, and discovered that her brother was also missing. What more, he was a GA working in the Uplands. Since her fiancé- worked for AIS with L15, she figured he'd have the best chance at finding him. Thus, she'd begged him to locate the AWOL Agent.

To investigate further, the two made a stop at her brother's flat near the Banks of Styx (which over the past millennia had become common upscale property for Management and other self-important Higher-Ups.) It appeared he'd not returned home in some time, yet there was little incriminating evidence that anything unsavory had occurred.

Stashed away were a few saved articles clipped out of the paper debasing Limbo Management, which clearly bespoke that the Agent was among the many dissatisfied with their leadership.

However, there was no clear sign that he'd been involved in any sort of rebellion, nothing to say he'd deserted his post.

John could read that Sherlock was suspicious. So the Healer laid out the reports. Pulling from details in the AIS files, they discovered L15 had deployed their Agent last in an Upland Moor, partitioned off by craggy cliffs just east of the Ocean. It was unfortunately too vague geographically speaking, as he really could have gone just about anywhere since then. This meant they had little to go on; for Mycroft had reported L15 had not been aware that their Agent had taken a detour to chase after any known AWOL GA.

It was all rather puzzling.

…

The following day, hailing from Management, came Mycroft, much to the Harvester's chagrin.

As the cloaked figure of the Psychopomp approached, John observed he was trailed by his elegant assistant. Her disdain was evident as she regarded Sherlock.

The two eyed each other warningly.

Despite his friend's absurd antagonism, John had always detachedly fancied the alluring assistant.

As she stood beside Mycroft, he admired her sybaritic, flickering beauty, pondering her distinctive ability to be infinitely transmutable by both name and function as if she'd been imbued with some sort of infinite symbol.

They were quite the pair. The Psychopomp and the Nephilim.

"Ah, Brother. Good of you to come by," Sherlock facetiously greeted, "And you brought your sidekick. What do you call yourself today? Let me guess, Tisiphone?"

"You're very funny," the assistantresponded with tempered derision, "It's 'Calypso', today."

"Ah. 'She who conceals'. Clever. Fitting."

"Come, come. Let's not be so juvenile, Sherlock," Mycroft chastised.

John watched, entranced, as the Nephilim casually whipped back her shining hair, before being startled out of his reverie by the Harvester, forcefully clutching his arm.

"Stop it," Sherlock hissed.

John registered a degree of jealousy fleetingly cross his companion's face and grinned.

Sherlock hated when John paid more attention to anyone other than himself.

"I bring tidings," Mycroft announced.

Calypsodisinterestedly ignored them, plugging away at some peculiar communication device.

"From Aboveland or Downland?" Sherlock asked with insinuating derision.

"Don't be impertinent. This is news from Management, as you well know," Mycroft drawled.

Sherlock shared a look with John, as they regarded the dignified and ever-stoic Psychopomp standing before them.

"I see you've been at the cake, again, all this stress eating isn't healthy," Sherlock artfully quipped.

Mycroft raised a brow and pursed his lips, though opted to ignore the taunt.

"Management has been informed of your continued successes of late, and would like to extend Congratulations in the form of an offer. The post with Limbo L15 as Official Gatherer Tier-One status would be yours, if you'd be inclined."

"Brother Mine! You flatter me. But alas," the Harvester replied dramatically, flapping the back of his hand to his brow, "I must decline."

"I had little expected otherwise. But if you'll humour me, for the sake of my curiosity, whatever were you doing creating that little spectacle back in that Village the other day?" the Psychopomp crossed his arms across his chest, "I haven't the time to persist covering for your irresponsible choices. You continue to overstep your bounds, and Management will not be able to keep turning a blind eye."

"I thought you were Management, Mycroft."

The Official narrowed his eyes at his brother.

"What. Were. You. Doing."

"I was working within the capacity of my profession."

"You're becoming reckless."

"Hardly."

"The Reaper will not be caught by breaking the law."

"Stretching is not breaking, and you've been known to do both," Sherlock defended.

"Either way, as you are not in any Official Capacity, that makes you a Civilian. And as such, you heed the laws of Limbo, or you suffer the consequences. My protection is not limitless," Mycroft spat out.

"If you want me to quash the threat to your ever so stable system, brother, then I will do as I must."

The two stood at a stalemate.

"Ever so, you know I worry about you. I will, of course," Mycroft sighed, "proceed to shield you, as always."

The Harvester smirked, sensing his win.

The urbane Psychopomp turned to face John.

"As to that other matter that I asked you to look into, have you, Healer Watson?"

"I've sort of," John rubbed the back of his neck, cringing, "Er, we uh… talked to the Fiancé… and um… we sort of got sidetracked with following the lead on the Reaper. But I'm working on it."

"See to it, that you do. I need this taken care of promptly, since it has now become evident that the Yard is involved. If they discover that the motives behind the assassination were due to our Agent's possession of the Plans, one can only imagine it would be a matter of time before the truth is exposed to the Public. The havoc that will ensue if Aboveland catches wind could be… catastrophic. I've warned you of this before."

"Yes, we wouldn't want to jeopardize the infrastructure of our sacred Management."

"You may think this is all very amusing, Sherlock, but I can assure you, this is a no laughing matter. If Aboveland even suspects that Management has been corrupted, we could all lose more than our jobs."

"You're painfully melodramatic, Mycroft."

"And you are being an utter fool," the Psychopomp spat out caustically.

"You win more flies with honey, brother."

Mycroft sneered, looking for all the world like the single thing he yearned to do most was to wrap his hands around his brother's neck and strangle him.

"Do it," he bit out.

Sherlock granted John a sly smile.

"Consider it done," the Healer assured.

Mycroft sighed, the mask of nonchalance slipping back, as he regarded the two.

"Yes. What he said," Sherlock smirked.

The Psychopomp smoothed his hands down the front of his robes as if brushing off some particularly unsavory dust.

"Very well, do take care," Mycroft glanced over at John with leveling command, "and you, try to keep my brother in line."

Without a parting glance at either, the two Higher-Ups turned around and vanished out of sight.

"Keep me in line!" Sherlock muttered indignantly.

…

John's jaw dropped open as he regarded his companion.

"That would have been a major promotion!"

"Boring."

"He covered you for your stunt back in the village, and L15 was willing to offer you an excellent job. And you don't accept it because of some childish feud with your brother?"

Sherlock glanced over at John with a firm look.

"'Childish Feud'? Hah.Sibling rivalry is beneath me," He retorted.

The Healer snorted in disbelief.

"I like being a private Consultant. I like being in control of whether or not I accept an assignment, not forced to do bureaucratic detail-work, picking up after lazy Management lackeys all day," his gaze softened as he regarded his friend.

"Besides," Sherlock confessed, "He didn't extend the offer to you, dear fellow, and I shouldn't dream of stirring out without you."

john grinned, sanguinely, "Would you not?"

"You know I am lost without you, my dear," Sherlock cheerily replied, draping his long arm round his friend's shoulders, "Now come, I found a trail from our last village I want to look into!"

"But what about locating the Plans?"

"In good time. This first!"

John sighed.

…

Chapter 5

The next town that lay within the hillside had seemed promising enough, but held little substance. Relentlessly they pressed on, with nothing to show for it.

All in all, things were beginning to look rather grim.

Yet Grim himself, remained ever elusive.

John attempted to impress upon his companion the importance of looking into their other mission, yet Sherlock maintained that scoping out the trails was of greater precedence.

Thus, they spent nearly half the morning, working side by side, piecing out the dead, attempting to decode Marks for some telling signature, when it happened.

A dark haze descended upon the little village, ominously cascading around them, and John reflexively brandished his Scythe.

"He's here," Sherlock hissed, glancing about wildly.

A figure stepped out from the shadows.

"If by He you mean Me," corrected the spectre.

It loomed before them with a malicious grin, black eyes glittering with vicious glee.

"It's very nice to meet you gents," the figure bowed, "I'll get right to the point: I've come to eat you."

"Eat us?" H1 drawled sardonically, "Ah, I see. Very good. Clever even. He sent a Drainer!"

"Nicely spotted, my Employer was right about you. You're very observant," the Drainer chuckled.

Drainers were not nice. Typically, they were held as Punishment for Limbo Law offenders and were the only thing that could essentially 'kill' Limbo Folk. Of course, Limbolander's could also be maimed by a various array of Otherland Weaponry, but to truly be 'killed' could only be achieved by being eaten. A Drainer would 'eat', by essentially collapsing its victim's energy back in on itself on an astrophysical level.

Death by implosion.

Well it wasn't death. It was really the Ceasing of Existence. At any rate, John was admittedly terrified.

Before either could act, with ravenous gleam, the Drainer sprung at them.

Sherlock thrust John out of his path and the Healer tumbled gracelessly to the ground, his scythe clattering away from him.

Seizing the Harvester by his neck, with preternatural strength, the Drainer raised him into the air.

Momentarily paralyzed, John watched in horror, as his companion struggled against the creature's strong grip.

Baring his sharpened teeth, the Drainer broadly grinned.

"You're rather slow, for being so skinny."

"John! If you don't mind-" Sherlock hissed, snapping the Healer out from his stupor.

He clambered up. He had to do something.

So, he did the thing he was naturally best at.

Which, caught the other two quite by surprise.

Just before the Drainer opened its mouth wide enough to consume its prey like some kind of snake, W1 launched for his scythe, swung it out, and cleaved the Drainer's head clean off.

Sherlock dropped unceremoniously to the floor with a 'thud', the severed head and body tumbling after.

The Harvester leveled John with a wild, wide-eyed expression.

"That was…" he mused wonderingly, "spectacular."

John flushed.

The Drainer evaporated into nothingness, leaving behind an evocation rune.

"Ah, it was indeed, very nice to meet you, too" Sherlock grinned, observing the glowing rune.

After a minute, he frowned.

"It's not the Reaper's. This was summoned by someone else," the Harvester mused, "Interesting."

Either way, they had a fresh lead to something, and they jumped on the opportunity to follow it.

…

This new lead ran them back up valley to farmland territory. It was past midday, and the sun hung low in the sky, so John voted to take some time to regroup, so that they could mutually sort out the evidence of their various cases before hopping back on the trail.

And really, he desperately needed to unwind.

Between slaying Drainers, Harvesting up Souls and running about solving cases of missing Agents… well, they hadn't really had a moment to just sit.

John was adamant, so Sherlock resignedly assented.

…

The Harvester sprawled out in the grass, as John took a sweeping look around, taken aback by the sheer vastness of the rolling terrain.

The short, chalky grassland was mostly void of any settlement for miles around, and aside from a few grazing sheep far off across the valley- seemed relatively uninhabited.

As the sun peaked lazily just above the horizon, the evening dim set across the sky. A gust of sweet, earthy wind whipped around, and John took in a deep breath, swelling with a feeling of tranquility.

Beneath the peaceful façade lay a land riddled with famine and disease, he knew. Chaos was a mortal ailment, yet the Healer felt alive amidst it. In spite of it.

"You like the Uplands," Sherlock keenly observed, casually crossing his arms behind his head, "You'd remain if you could."

John expelled a capitulating sigh.

"It's exciting, dramatic even. Sometimes it's dangerous; there is always the thrill of the chase, the job to do. And here, you're never bored, which is in many ways a relief to us both."

John cracked a teasing smile in the direction of his friend.

"You're very moody at times."

"Changeable. Mercurial," Sherlock corrected, pouting.

"A handful."

The Harvester raised an eyebrow and rubbed his jaw as if attempting to reign back a grin.

"Its all very exhilarating," John continued, "yet…there is a sort of quaint peace to be had."

Sherlock listened attentively, while idly plucking at blades of grass near his head.

"There is a sense of sublime that's intrinsic to nowhere else. It's a perfect duality."

"You're a very poetic sort," Sherlock laughed, "A hopeless romantic through and through."

"You're making fun of me."

"Not in the least," the Harvester said kindly, with a serious edge to his tone, "It's for the very same reasons you list that makes the two of us…make sense. You know…the bit about the 'perfect duality'."

John's breath caught in his throat, as he looked quizzically over at his companion.

"You know, you're right, John, the Uplands are splendid this time of the year."

The Healer relaxed with the apparent change of subject.

"Mm," John agreed, "I needed this respite from running about. I do feel my age at times, so to speak."

Sherlock laughed, a deep and velvety, sensual sound that washed through John, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake.

"Age is a human condition. Not one we're subject to."

"I'm not a machine like you," the Healer defended.

"I'm not a machine. I appreciate the calm."

"Right. As if you even understand the definition. Calm to you is chasing around after criminals."

"I do thrive when given an interesting challenge," Sherlock conceded.

"There have been interesting features to this one… not that you would admit to it."

"I would so," Sherlock defended, sitting up, "the Reaper has provided some rather fine entertainment."

The Harvester eyed John's speculative look.

"In spite of the fact that disease is so passé he's made a rather a lark of it. Yes, there is certainly a level of tedium to cleaning up the countryside sniffing about for trails," Sherlock mused, "Still, it was rather intriguing watching those peculiarly voyeuristic Passion plays."

John furrowed his brow, "Intriguing? I thought they were rather vile."

"Hah, and you always defend Uplanders!" The Harvester laughed, "But yes. 'Vile' is an accurate way of putting it. They almost tend toward the fetishistic. I mean really that crowd was far too pleased watching that man get the pulp beat out of him. They were practically…lustful."

The way his friend said 'lustful,' sent chills surging through the Healer.

"Really, as if watching a reenactment of suffering would cleanse them of the Plague! Humans are an unusual sort," Sherlock exclaimed, "We've seen quite a few religions born, perish or transition over the course of time, yet there's something very unwholesome about a religion where deluded, self-flagellating plebeians, abused, suppressed and extorted by the Papacy, congregate to sycophantically worship some insentient carved idol of a beaten and barely clad man nailed to a cross."

"A long-winded criticism if I ever heard one," John laughed with a touch of exasperation, "But I'm sure there's more to it than that."

"Maybe so, yet it must be said… between the wrathful priests, and the chirurgeon's in their funny beaky masks, it's…interesting. Not quite war, granted, but interesting."

"Beaky masks, indeed. Those plague doctors do tend to resemble a strange species of bird. And really, you and war. Seriously," John grinned, "At any rate, we both know that any Game the Reaper makes for you, you're quick to jump for. It could've been a simple drowning, and if it had his Mark on it- you'd be out the door in a flash."

"Really it's more than all of that, John," Sherlock sighed, his tone softening, "It's all a great deal more interesting with you beside me. I miss you."

John frowned.

"How can you miss me. I'm right here."

"Well, I missed you, Past Tense."

"We live together."

Sherlock shook his head.

"I know. That's not what I mean. I've missed us doing this," He gestured supplicatingly, "You and I having a purpose. I've missed you being happy with me, like we are right now. Just… content," the Harvester rolled over onto his side and gazed thoughtfully over at John, "You must admit, you've been rather terse with me lately, and…it's depressing because your opinions are the only that matter."

"I'm glad to imagine you think so," John retorted dryly.

"I do think so," He pressed, "I… I have the highest regard for you in many ways, my dear, and I'm not referring to the fact that you've bravely, albeit stupidly taken responsibility for a case I've little inclination to accept," Sherlock grinned.

"Well, someone had to pacify your brother."

He continued, as if uninterrupted, "There is also the fact that you never cease to humble me with your insightful knack for understanding what I can't… When I'm stumped over the minutiae… you have this way of sweeping in to save the day, with some kind of uncanny ability to funnel it all back to me; and the solution becomes undiluted, whole, completely within grasp," Sherlock smiled a genuine, almost ethereal smile as he gazed dreamily up at the cascading darkness of the sky overhead.

And then he smirked.

"Bringing me back to the concept of duality; you're like an emblem of it. With your capacity to Heal and nurture and empathize… yet you can surprisingly bandy about that Scythe like you're some kind of Epic Warrior."

"It's really disconcerting that you continue to underestimate my fighting ability."

"I do not!" the Harvester countered, "I've seen you in action! You're an ace among men. As I've said before, I wouldn't dare half of what I do without trusting I had by my side, a truly reliable and steadfast colleague."

Colleague. The word hung heavily in the air between them, imprecise.

Sherlock seemed to catch the err.

"Friend," He corrected, gently, "the worthiest of any."

John flushed and looked suspiciously at the Harvester.

"I'm… flattered. But… you're not really much of one for praise. Why now?"

"What's wrong with now?" Sherlock frowned with irritation, "I mean every word of it."

"I know, it's just," John cringed, "It's a bit heavy, is all."

Sherlock's frown deepened, and John sighed.

"I mean, waxing sentimental is hardly your style, Sherlock," he supplied warily, "But, I do as well, as you know… appreciate some of your… er, more positive traits."

His companion's eyes glittered warmly in response.

The Healer swallowed the lump forming in his throat, and muttered, "Though, I hardly need to say it."

"No, but it's nice to hear it verbalized, nonetheless. You're tediously repressed sometimes, John. I mean to say, I respect your conventionality, but you're the better of the two of us when it comes to matters of the heart."

John stiffened with unease.

This was edging far too close for comfort.

"But I suppose, your 'appreciating me for my more positive traits' will have to suffice, I wouldn't want you to overexert your quota of verbiage on my expense," he drawled acerbically.

The Healer tensed.

Was he pushing to extract some kind of confession?

"It's not easy to put it into words as you've done, Sherlock," John pleaded.

The Harvester sat up and peered at his companion, "For one so typically loquacious, it's obvious you're stifling yourself."

"Are you fishing for compliments or something?" John choked out angrily.

"Why are you being so stubbornly obtuse?" Sherlock retorted.

"What are you getting at?"

"Are you really this dense, or is it just something you play at?" the Harvester snapped.

John frowned unhappily, "Well you're just being lovely, aren't you."

There was an palpable silence for half a beat, before Sherlock sighed defeatedly, and collapsed back down.

"I'm sorry."

"You never apologize," The Healer accused suspiciously.

"I just thought that if I- never mind. It's not important what I thought."

John stood up with burgeoning irritation, and glowered down at his companion, splayed out in the grass.

"This is ridiculous."

Sherlock quirked a lopsided grin, "Is it?"

"As you well know," John declared, "There is no one I more greatly value than yourself."

The Harvester smirked as he observed his friend's face flush with embarrassment with dawning revelation at the sheer sentiment behind the words he'd spoken.

Tossing off his hood, he rose to stand beside the slighter man and gently, cupped the back of his neck.

"And you, my dear, are invaluable to me," Sherlock whispered, with a sultry edge, gazing at John with utter fondness, "You are the one fixed point in a changing age."

The Healer peered sideways at his friend with a speculative look.

"A fixed point? I don't see what you-"

Sherlock leaned close, pressing his warm lips against his companion's ear.

"On the contrary, my dear, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing inferences."

John could barely contain a gasp.

It was just so shy of being 'more', it could've practically been so.

Sherlock granted John a rare, almost tender smile, and withdrew, reseating himself within the tall grass.

The absence of the hand was cold on the back of his neck, and John swallowed, pressing shut his eyes, aching.

If he'd a beating heart, it would've been fluttering madly.

…

Chapter 6

"Cannibals."

John's head whipped up to stare at his friend, "…What?"

"But, there may just be one," Sherlock mused, prodding at a dangling corpse, hanging from the rafters like butchered cattle.

The Harvester swatted away the surrounding flies and pointed at the grizzled, rancid tissue, "They've been skinned, flanks missing, limbs removed of flesh. Use your eyes, John. They've been cut for meat. There is no evidence of contagion, so they would've been a select choice for providing sustenance to a starving family. "

"Why…?" The Healer began incredulously, cringing with horror.

Sherlock had an odd look of wry amusement written across his face.

"Obvious. With the Plague crossing the countryside, there's been a staggering loss of farming productivity… thus, starving will lead to desperation."

John frowned as the Harvester continued his inspection.

"But the corpses, Sherlock, no signature Marks. No Clouds. Nothing to suggest this was the work of the Reaper, nothing pulled from the dossier of his typical modus operandi…" the Healer argued.

"Yes, keen observation, John, no Marks."

He flushed with the praise.

"At least not from the Reaper," Sherlock continued, "It could for all appearances be just another Aboveland Domino-style cause and effect Marking."

"Then why do you look so self-satisfied?" John countered.

"It's apparent that they've been hanging for only a little over a week according to the levels of putrefaction, proving we may yet have living perpetrators, and there's something amiss. Something we're not seeing. Not yet."

"What makes you think so?"

"It's all wrong. It goes against Aboveland method, because when they Mark, they notify Limbo beforehand, and the Yard diligently follows suit with clean-up, yet there are no traces that either have done so. Which means the Souls have been displaced and have yet to be Harvested."

His fluid line of reasoning, as usual, was precise, but too abstruse for the Healer.

"Fine. Where are the Souls, then, where's this Cannibal of yours?" John queried, brows furrowed.

"We shall see. Follow me."

"Shouldn't we notify the Yard of where we're heading? We're expected back down in the next Village in-"

"No time!" Sherlock snapped excitedly, "This has precedence, Lestrade will have to wait!"

…

They made their way back up to a Manor set above the jutting hillside.

It didn't seem vacant, as there were obvious signs that occupants had been tending work about the place recently.

"Why here? There are no tell-tale disturbances."

"It's a blatant façade. A decoy. Too normal," John followed his gaze up to the house, "What gives it all away is there is no livestock, no servants, no guards."

"True," the Healer conceded.

"I want to check inside."

John sighed, and followed his friend.

As they entered, he noted the quiet. Too quiet. Neither a Soul nor Human in sight.

They entered into a kitchen with a basin and prep table. A fire roared in the hearth as if it'd been recently stoked, with a kettle simmering above the flames.

A basket of blood-sotted rags, and a cleaver sat in front of a narrow door. Sherlock kicked it aside, and opened the pantry where within, were a child and hound, strung up and gutted; entrails cleanly collected in a bin below.

Unlike the peasants from before, the child had obviously died of infection, a victim of Plague, grotesquely spotted with rings and boils.

"Ah, so the family became infected, anyway," He observed, verbalizing the Healer's thoughts.

"And he ate his dead son?"

"Didn't matter anymore, he had already gone mad."

"And so he ate his dead son," John repeated, trying to impress the horror of this fact upon the Harvester.

"Yes, which leads to believe if he's not already dead that he's also infected."

As if they'd triggered some sort of violent flood, the air was suddenly rife with souls flitting about, impatient, doggedly swimming around them.

They made short work of of it, yet some seemed to be tangled due to stagnation. The Healer had to apply quite a bit of acumen determining how to best sort them out for Harvesting.

The Souls demonstrated strange reluctance to comply, as if there was something yet to be established about their fate, which Sherlock logically deduced meant there was some sort of connecting Mark, somewhere still inside the house.

There was something else, however, that nagged at the Healer, and suddenly he grasped at what it was.

"Sherlock! As you were Harvesting, did you by any chance see the Wife? I mean, we have the rest of the household, but where is the Wife?"

"The Wife, what Wife," the Harvester responded, preoccupied.

And then it clicked.

He jumped into the air as if he'd been electrocuted, spun around pivoting on one heel, and grabbed the stunned Healer by his shoulders.

"Genius, John! I could kiss you! Where is the Wife!"

Sherlock grinned broadly at his friend with a look that bespoke of pride, "You never cease to amaze, my dear! We may have no trail, just yet, but I think, if we can find her, we'll find our quarry!"

The Harvester sprinted down a long corridor and up a stairway with John close behind.

And there it was, clear as daylight.

The Mark inhabiting a man before them, glowing mockingly in the dim cast.

The sole survivor, deranged, blood dripping from his chin, cut into a dead woman that lay before him.

As the man savagely tore into the abdomen, John grimaced. He continued to pull the entrails out from the cavity and shoved them into his mouth, with a sort of vacant gleam.

Surrounding her corpse were unevenly scrawled and illegible markings carved into the floorboards.

The Soul of the woman—the Wife, huddled in the corner of the room gaping silently at the ghastly scene. John felt a twinge of pity.

She was going to be a difficult one to Harvest.

The butcher's robes were soiled with the gore of his victims, and evident was his sallow skin, covered in boils, cheekbones sharp with the signs of encroaching death.

Sherlock smiled in a nearly alarming way that disturbed the Healer.

"This one is fresh," Sherlock remarked coolly, glancing upward.

John looked up as well, but saw nothing.

The Harvester raised his Scythe and evoked the Mark, deciphering it with acuity and the Healer watched as his friend intricately wove it to reveal the dark Cloud festering above them. It read of Plague and Insanity; yet nowhere to be found was the signature of the Reaper.

The Butcher seemed to sense the changing atmosphere, and his eyes, sunken into his skull, narrowed suspiciously and darted about, attempting to locate whatever plague induced delirium his rotting brain had manufactured.

It was quite alarming when his gaze clearly settled on the two of them, as to human's they were supposed to be invisible.

The Butcher's mouldering skin crumpled away, flesh dropping in sickly clumps around him, revealing a spectre of Downlander origin.

The creature rose up, massive, and terrible.

It had been a trap!

Brandishing their Scythes, the Healer and the Harvester prepared themselves for battle. The giant attacked first, savagely knocking John's weapon out of his hands. Sherlock swung out, lodging his scythe deep between the beast's shoulders, to no effect. It whipped around and threw him across the room, where he hit the wall.

Before John could re obtain his own weapon, he too, was thrown across the room to the other side, smacking harshly against the floor.

Then, faster than lightening, the giant launched itself back toward Sherlock, who was feebly attempting to upright himself. It snagged him by the front of his robes preparing to thrash him back to the ground, when John, from behind, leapt onto its back, one arm wrapped around his neck, the other grabbing the lodged Scythe.

The beast spun around to throw him off, dropping Sherlock in the process, just as a swarm of Yard Officials invaded the room.

Before they could seize it, however, the creature vanished, as if sucked through the floor boards. Sherlock's Scythe clamored to the ground, as the Officers teemed about.

The Harvester, still splayed across the floor where he'd been dropped, uttered a disconsolate cry of frustration.

John clambered up, stunned and a bit sore, and grabbed his friend's hand, tugging him up beside him.

The Harvester gawked in horror at the empty space where the Butcher had been not a second before.

With unbridled rage, he whipped around and stalked over to Lestrade.

"You blundering idiot! We lost him!" Sherlock snarled furiously, glaring at the man.

"We tracked the runes drawn for a Downlander back to the West of here, and we followed it," The Yard Harvester defended, "He could've summoned a Drainer! Would you have rather been eaten? You should have informed us of your position in the first place, Sherlock, we're recall we're working together, you arrogant swat!"

Sherlock backed down, irate and defeated.

After being debriefed, they stood back and watched silently as the GA flooded into the Manor to clean-up the lassoed souls, navigating through the carnage left in the wake of the Downland Butcher.

"If we only could've taken him down, we could've revealed identity of the Summoner which would've undoubtedly led us to our rogue GA," Sherlock exhaled with great frustration.

"I'm actually sort of grateful not to have come out the other end of this maimed more than I already am, thank you."

John walked over and knelt beside the frightened Wife. The Soul shivered less so with his proximity, and seemed to visibly relax.

A glow began to emanate from her, as he Healed.

John leaned back, curiously examining it as it took shape. It looked to the Healer, like some kind of unyielding rope that twisted from between her breasts, disappearing through the floor beneath.

"Erm… Sherlock, I think you should come over here and take a look at this."

As he turned, the Harvester's eyes widened incredulously.

"Clumsy of him," He muttered wonderingly.

"What was?"

"Of course the floor!" Sherlock expostulated, "Runes! They're bound! The Signature! He's gone- but it's fine!"

The Healer raised his eyebrows and frowned, taken aback by the sudden incoherent outburst.

"Um-"

"The Downlander! The Butcher! He was summoning a Drainer," He explained frantically, "And it was supposed to possess through the Wife's Soul! I should've seen it! Yet again, John! You are stunningly brilliant!"

Lestrade glanced over at John with a bemused expression, and the Healer shrugged.

"He wasn't done, it was only half of the way! She's half bound here and halfway bound Downland still attached to the Butcher- and he's written with the Signature! It's all here!" H1 cried exultantly, "Traceable because it's incomplete- Look! You can see the identity of the Original Summoner! You can see his Trail!" He jumped up, hands in the air with triumph, "This is Perfect! Just perfect!"

"Come, John!" Sherlock clutched his friend by his shoulders, trembling with excitement, "The Game is On!"

He dashed out of the Manor, with the Healer in hot pursuit.

…

It was fairly simple after that to follow the trail and apprehend the perpetrator, as Sherlock had a keen sense for these things, even if they were transparent to all others.

There he was: the AWOL GA, the missing brother of the L15 Agent's fiancé. The two cornered him behind an abandoned tavern in the coastal village.

Panicked, he sprang out at them, brandishing a cutlass, just managing to catch John before he could step back, grazing his chin. Reflexively, the Healer lunged forward bringing his Scythe down into the man's shoulder. Momentarily stunned with pain, Sherlock took advantage and wrestled him to the ground, pinning him. Rendering the him effectively useless, John lowered his Scythe to the Agent's throat, warningly.

The Harvester climbed off, to rejoin his companion, thinking the GA properly retained. Yet, once more, with desperation, the Agent attempted to grab for his cutlass. Sherlock spun back around and ceased this by stomping his sharp heel into his wounded shoulder, restraining him.

Yelping his surrender, the Agent dropped back his head moaning, "Stop, please! Stop!"

"You set up a trap for us," John accused, keeping his Scythe leveled beneath the man's jaw.

"Look, I've been struggling, alright? Management drastically cut our funding and funneled it to sponsor USE. I…I haven't received a proper paycheque in ages!' he grit out, "I needed the money!"

"So the Reaper bribed you."

"Yes, yes!" The Agent confessed, as Sherlock ruthlessly dug his heel further into him.

"You knew your future brother-in-law was working for L15 and had access to AIS. So you sent a Drainer after him."

"Yes, yes. But I didn't mean to kill him, I thought he would just hand the Plans over to the Drainer. But he wouldn't-the fool! And I couldn't stop it- if I had, he would have known I was behind it all and reported me!"

"The Yard found the body, and you heard we were on the case, so you sent it after us! Then, when you learned we took care of the first Drainer, you set about designing a more intricate trap."

"Yes!" the Gatherer whined, twisting in agony, "You were hunting me! I didn't have a choice! If I'm caught I'll be sentenced with treason."

The Healer glanced over at his companion, and Sherlock pressed down relentlessly once more. The Agent cried out.

"I don't want to be eaten!" He sobbed pitifully, "Please, I still have the Plans! He never set a time to collect!"

"He knew we were tracking you, thus he couldn't commit to a rendezvous lest you get captured. He gave you up," H1 grinned with a glint of malice.

"Please, please!" The Agent begged, "Take the plans then, I don't want them! Please don't turn me in."

Sherlock leaned down and snatched the scroll out of the Agent's hands. Then suddenly, he leaned forward and paused, narrowing his eyes.

"Well," the Harvester smirked, "looks like you won't have to be worrying about us doing so. Did you know he inscribed you with Summoning Runes?"

…

The Agent's shriek pierced the cold night, as he was consumed by the Drainer. The two companions watched from a safe distance as the spectre finished its feast and vanished back inward.

…

Behind the weathered old tannery where they hid, the Harvester turned from the scene, leveling the Healer with a grim expression.

"Are you alright, John?" Sherlock asked, gently gripping the Healer's chin to examine the cut.

"Its superficial, doesn't hurt much. Probably will vanish completely in an hour or less, I'd imagine."

The Harvester fretted, "Are you sure?"

Irritated, John fanned away his friend's fingers from his face, "Stop fussing. I already told you, I'm fine."

A dark, wrathful look crossed the Harvester's face.

"If he'd seriously hurt you, John, there would have been little left of him for the Drainer."

Hovering over the slighter man, he leaned in close, his eyes alit with an undecipherable, vacillating emotion.

With the utter proximity, John couldn't catch himself in time before his eyes briefly flickered down to the man's full, sensual lips.

A electric intensity sparked between the two and Sherlock, infinitesimally tilted his head, seeming to draw subtly closer, his heavy lidded gaze glittering darkly, dangerously.

If John hadn't known better, the look could have been one of invitation and it was utterly tempting. A heat jettisoned through his body, and it responded, against his will, with arousal.

He wanted so much to lean into the man before him, swell within the permeating heat, just surrender.

No.

Don't mess this is up.

It's not worth it.

Not an entire friendship forsaken for one short moment of sheer bliss where their lips would connect, and it would be magic and all crackling fire and the perfect duality. But it'd only be a fraction of a moment and he'd pull away.

And he'd know.

And he'd leave.

The Healer tensed and shrank back, unable to trust his ability to refrain, in this singular moment, from revealing that one and only thing he most desperately sought to hide.

And Sherlock was infinitely more observant than most, which meant he had to cease now, before it was too obvious to conceal.

That was, if it wasn't already too late.

John tore away his gaze, and it was agony. He watched from his periphery, as the Harvester's expression tempered and slipped back into a reserved, steely mask.

As the man looked away, he also stepped away.

"We should head back," he stated, and did so, all but fleeing.

John pinched his eyes shut and sank back against the steadying wall behind him, catching his breath.

It'd been far, far too close.

….

Chapter 7

Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet as they returned back to Limbo, and John desperately clung to the hope that it had nothing to do with before, that he didn't know.

That he wasn't furious, or disgusted.

He watched him carefully, noting the man's black, curled locks falling devil-may-care in front of distant, pondering gray eyes, providing a sharp contrast against the pale and nearly ashen face. He almost seemed subdued, withdrawn.

The man had a sort of fragile, alien beauty just then, and John ached to reach out to him, to comfort him.

Why did he look so decimated?

A nagging sense that he was to blame struck John cold with fear and he stuffed his sweaty palms into the pockets of his robe.

That's when he noticed the Harvester watching him curiously out of the corner of his eye, and startled, John glanced away, training his gaze steadfastly on the path before them.

"We have the Plans now, so I doubt Mycroft will throttle you," Sherlock grinned.

John grinned back, awash with relief.

Maybe it was all fine, after all.

"When do you plan on telling him?"

"Oh, I don't know," the Harvester mused, "Maybe we'll make him stew for the rest of the evening. I could use a spot of that tea you're so adept at making."

…

Back at the flat, Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa, while John made his way to the kitchen, busying himself with preparing the tea, methodically cleaning the cups, and readying some biscuits. Anything to keep his mind from drifting back to replay that thing he really didn't want to think about at the moment.

Or ever again, really.

Before he went to fetch the water, he realized they were out of milk. Which was of course, no good at all, because Sherlock absolutely refused his tea without it.

He'd have to run out to fetch some, though really, after all the drama, he just wanted to lay back and close his eyes and forget everything for awhile.

John sighed, "Sherlock, I have to head out quickly. I'll be right back."

"Ah. We're out of milk," He deduced, distractedly engaged in a peculiar weighty tome, "Well hurry back, then."

"Planning on it," the Healer smirked.

As soon as John was out the door, Sherlock scratched out a quick missive and Summoned it to the Press Bulletin for instant release. A vague one-liner that read:

'Found. The AIS Plans. Please collect. The Acropolis. One hour.'

The Harvester donned his cloak, and set off.

…

Sherlock stepped into the old crumbling Acropolis upstream Styx. Once, long ago it had been a fortification for the Abovelanders when they'd fought alongside Limbo against the invading Downland Army. Now it was just a decrepit national monument. An abandoned reminder of yester year maintained as a sort of beacon by Management.

Really, it ought to have been torn down, as it was rather an eyesore.

Developers had long since built up the banks with upscale properties, yet here it was, ever the same, and out of a sense of irony, Sherlock decided to make this the rendezvous point.

The vast interior was dark, and the ceiling high and vaulted. In the center was black pool, which the Harvester was loathe to go too near.

Disrupting the echoing silence, he cleared his throat.

"I've brought it. Your Plans," He held the scroll above his head, glancing around in the dark, "This was what you wanted, right? The Plague, the mess in the Uplands…all a charade, all to distract me from this."

From out of the shadows stepped a figure.

H1 gaped in horror as the figure was revealed to be none other than John.

There was a sickening moment where he stopped being able to think. Or breathe.

"Evening," the Healer spoke, "You're surprised, aren't you, Sherlock."

The Harvester pressed his lips tight.

"One wouldn't have suspected you to be so, what, with all your greatly lauded skills of observation."

John opened his robes to reveal Summoning Runes glowing, scribed across his chest. His eyes flickered with reticence as he was compelled to speak once more, "I wonder what you would have your darling say next?"

The Reaper was communicating through the Runes, possessing the Healer to verbalize in his stead. Sherlock eyed the scrawling warily. All it would take for any of them to let loose a horde of Drainers, would be to Incant the Evocation.

"Nice touch this. The Acropolis, the old stronghold of my former Association. Where many were slaughtered, and many more will be soon again," the Healer swallowed anxiously as he spoke, "John Watson could be the first to start it off, don't you think it'd be fitting?"

Sherlock was clearly shaken by this, but held himself rigid, even so.

"Show yourself."

"I gave you my glyph," whined a mocking voice, "thought you might Summon me."

A man stepped out from the shadows and pulled back his hood.

Sherlock brandished his Scythe.

"The name's Jim," he tilted his head, "You know, Jim the GA, Jim from L15, Molly's boyfriend," He smirked, "Did I really make such a fleeting impression? Though I suppose that was rather the point."

"Jim the Grim," Sherlock muttered, leveling the Scythe, readying it to Cast.

"Now, now. You're surrounded by Glyphs. If you Cast, I'll Evoke."

He smiled, "I've given you a glimpse Sherlock, just a hint of what I'm capable of. The Uplands are quite literally at my mercy, I can take them down. All down. With one incantation. And your world too, will crumble with it."

He cocked his head, peering at the Harvester with a malevolent gleam.

"Borne from Above as I am, my breed is quite exceptionally limitless. I can Cast at will and no one will stand in my way if I turn the Clouds and string them just so. No one can get me," he grinned, "And no one ever will."

"I did."

"You've come the closest, and now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did."

"Alright, I did," the Reaper shrugged, "I've shown you my cards, Sherlock, Marked nearly a quarter of Upland, just to get you to come out and play. But," he paused consideringly, "my dear, I was quite impressed with that charming little stunt you pulled in that village, I thought it was rather lovely that you'd assist."

"Not very imaginative though, the Plague."

"Ah, you would've preferred something more straightforward, more exciting? You didn't like my little puzzle? Oh well, everyone's a critic."

"I will stop you."

"No you won't."

The Reaper sneered, "I've had quite enough of your meddling."

The Harvester glowered, tightly clutching the Scythe.

"Though, I do have to say, I've really rather enjoyed our little Game. Playing Jim from GA, playing your lustful sycophant…really made your little sidekick rather green with envy."

John bit through his lip.

"People have died," Sherlock asserted.

"It's prescribed," the Reaper drawled.

'We must as we always have, and they shall rise and fall as they ever do.'

He sauntered forward, leaning near John, "You can speak if you wish…"

"I have the AIS Plans. Take them."

Sherlock thrust the scroll outward.

"Ah…the Aboveland Defense Stratagem…" the Reaper reached out and took the Scroll, then grinned up at the Harvester, "…boring. I could've got them anywhere."

He tossed it over into the dark pool.

John lunged forward seizing the man around his neck, "Sherlock, run!"

"Oh, well done, well done, indeed!" He laughed, as Sherlock remained steadfast, raising the Scythe.

"You Cast, and we'll both be done for," John warned, "Go!"

"He's sweet, I can see why you keep him around. But then, people get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal."

A pained expression crossed the Harvester's features, and he lowered his Scythe.

John reluctantly relinquished his hold, and the Reaper took a step away, dusting himself off.

"Do you understand what will happen, to you Sherlock, if you don't leave me alone?"

"I imagine you'd send a Drainer or two my way."

"Oh, no. That's Obvious, I'll have you eaten someday,one of these days, I don't want to rush it, of course. I'm saving it up for something special. No, if you don't stop tracking me…Sherlock…"

His face contorted viciously, "I'll burn you. I'll burn the Heart. Out of you". Sherlock's flickered a fleeting glance over at John, and fell ashen.

"I've been informed I haven't one."

John cringed.

'You're utterly heartless.'

"We both know that's not quite true," the Reaper retorted, "Well not a beating one anyway. That's a mortal ailment."

He sighed, "Well anyway, Sherlock, it was an absolute pleasure. Yet, time wags on, you know. People to Mark, Worlds to Conquer… you know the idiom," he nodded and turned to leave, "Take care."

The Reaper departed, the old weathered door creaking behind him, and Sherlock sheathed the scythe back into his cloak, and rushed to John, frantically tearing open his robes.

"Alright?"

He pressed his hands to his companion's chest and began decanting off the glowing runes, thrusting them aside, by the dark pool.

"Are you alright!"

Shredding the still radiating glyph-sodden cloak from the man, John yelped, "Sherlock! Stop. I'm alright."

Breathing heavily with relief, he sunk to the floor, watching his friend manically pace back and forth.

"Are you alright?"

'I'm fine," the Harvester responded tersely.

He paused, and turned back to face John, "That…bit back there, where you grabbed him…told me to run… that was…"

"Noble?" John supplied.

Sherlock grinned despite the tense situation, "You do that too often."

'I wouldn't dare half of what I do without trusting I had by my side, a truly reliable and steadfast colleague.'

'Friend.'

'The worthiest of any.'

"It's what I'm here for. The 'saving the day' thing. You're like a target for trouble," he smirked, "Anyway, I'm glad no one saw that."

Sherlock paused, furrowing his brow, "Saw what?"

"You, ripping my robes off in a dark, abandoned National Monument. People might talk."

"People do little else."

They shared a grin.

Suddenly the doors creaked open one more, and the Reaper strode in.

"Deepest apologies gents, hate to crash the touching reunion, but I had a little change of heart," He announced, "I really can't let you continue. You'll never cease chasing me, and I would try to persuade you…"

He chuckled, "But alas… everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

The Harvester slowly turned, leveling his scythe before him, "Then I have to say has already crossed yours."

Simultaneously they invoked.

A roar thundered around them invading the space with a dense, acrid fog.

Blinded, John could barely see the Drainers and Downlanders taking form around them, let alone the Harvester and Reaper.

"Sherlock!" John shouted frantically.

The Harvester raised the Scythe above his head and Caste, aiming for the black pool.

With a deafening cacophony, the fog swirled and transmuted into a Cloud, suctioning the beasts inward.

He spun the scythe into the air, and the Cloud, twisting violently overhead, funneled downward, swallowed by the water.

Coughing in the still dense air, John darted about seeking his companion.

They nearly collided into one another in the thick of it, Sherlock crying, "John!"

They clutched each other close, desperately, as Sherlock spun them, seeking the threat in the dark, but he'd vanished.

…

John wasn't sure what was worse, the chastisement from Mycroft, or that of Lestrade. Sherlock's 'priorities' had been listed off to him, and he'd definitely been 'sorted out'.

Either way, John was utterly wrung out. And that wasn't even close to being accurate.

Days of chasing, heated arguments, ridiculous tension, being abducted, the confrontation, then to be surrounded by Drainers…

There was no way to describe it.

In the aftermath, the Yard had swept in followed close behind by L15 and the GA. Even USE had shown up in the battalions.

Too little too late, he'd thought.

But then Sherlock had opened the palm of his hand, and gaped with gleeful astonishment where the Glyph glowed tauntingly.

Apparently the Reaper had forgotten to rid him of that little memento.

He smirked as he Summoned.

Aboveland Militia had swarmed down, and the Reaper was now in their custody.

It was a pleasant feeling. Having won.

The greatest thing was, the Harvester hadn't seemed the least bit sorry to see the Game end.

…

"Your lip."

John looked up confused from where he sat, across from the man draped over the lounge.

"You bit through it. Before at the pool."

"Yes, well it's fine."

"And you. Are you fine?"

The Healer frowned, "Of course."

Sherlock clutched his hands together and pressed them against his eyes, exhaling.

"John, what he said. The Reaper. About… burning my 'heart' out…"

John furrowed his brow, assessing his companion's shaken and tense demeanor.

"When you told me to run, I wouldn't have. I wouldn't let anything happen to you. I won't. Ever."

Two and two came together.

Oh.

"Sherlock, I-" John stammered.

"No. Just… stop."

John licked his lips nervously, as Sherlock crossed the room, taking a seat close beside him.

The man seemed uncharacteristically nervous, hesitant, and looked downward as he rubbed his hands against his sharp, angular knees.

"You're the only thing he could've meant. Surely you could not have missed that."

John sucked in a breath.

So this is what that word 'more' felt like. It rushed through him filling him with warmth. And it didn't ache. It felt…

Amazing.

Mustering his courage, he reached out and took the taller man's chin in his hands and turned his face so they were looking right into each other.

It'd been so long waiting for this moment. This one single point where the masks were stripped, and no words had to be spoken, because John realized, dear lord, Sherlock had known all along, and he was just waiting.

Waiting for John.

He traced a finger along the man's sharp jawline, up to the top of his ear, idling before he gave in and combed his hand through those black, silken, magnificently lustrous curls. Sherlock emit the tiniest of gasps, closing his eyes, and tilt back his head; his long, pale neck, exposed and just so inviting.

His companion's hands grasped John's head as he leaned down and pressed his lips, softly at first, against the man's proffered throat.

Beneath his mouth he felt the subtle vibration as Sherlock sucked in a gasp.

And then his lips were upon his own and it was like magic and crackling fire and the perfect duality.

..end.

A/N: Yes, I liberally borrowed, ravaged and otherwise soiled content and quotes from Sherlock BBC and Sir ACD's Canon, as well as countless others I can't be arsed to cite. I also refused to comply with history, and had my naughty way with mythology. Hey! It's an A/U. That's acceptable, in my book.

And, yes I know, Gentle Critic, theres a glaring plot hole surrounding their physiology: they don't have beating hearts yet they breathe, bleed and apparently Mycroft eats cake. Also, yes. My characterization of Sherlock is rather a mashup of all of my favorite depictions of him. So good on you if you recognized this.

C and C welcomed and greatly appreciated.