Title: A Devil in Despair
Rating: 14
Genre: drama
Wordcount: 28k
Warnings: slight gore.
Summary: There is a solution to every problem, even if sometimes one needs to step outside the realms of logic, common sense, or even human domain. Sherlock knows this and acts accordingly, while John is left picking up the pieces.
Author's note: the story is finished, will be posted whole over the next couple of days.
Credits: Strongly influenced by iSupernatural/i, oddly enough ithe Mentalist/i and Neil Gaiman's iLucifer/i (to the point of borrowing characters from the latter).
Betaed by Yami_Tai. 3 Thank you so much, hun, for all the hard work!
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
It was a moon-less night. John knew as much, because the calendar in his mobile phone somehow had the event marked. Why it would be marked, he had no idea. Perhaps one of Harry's blink and miss hobbies was to blame.
It occurred to him then that his bed was far less comfortable than he would have liked, the light assaulting his eyeballs was at all the wrong angles, and all of his body ached. No, not precisely that. He closed his eyes and reconsidered. His shoulder ached, certainly. His leg, now that was a smorgasbord of pains and soreness, and each one radiated discomfort where there should be none.
His breathing was less comfortable than he generally preferred.
"Your ribs are not broken," someone said. "All things considered you should have been released the last time you woke up. I fail to understand the purpose behind this preposterous waste of hospital funds. You hardly need to be hospitalised, at all."
Great, John thought. Sherlock.
"Has anyone ever told you your bedside manner is frankly appalling?"
"You never complained before."
"I seem to be off morphine, at long last. That makes a difference."
"Were you on morphine? It was hard to tell by the quality of your insights."
"It's good that you didn't go into practising medicine. The suicide rates amongst your patients would have been high."
Sherlock gave him a long look over the cover of Gray's Anatomy. "Diagnostics are interesting. I might reconsider my career options yet."
"God save us all."
There was a long moment of silence, one John was unfamiliar with. Sherlock was trying to say something, he realised after a minute. He was searching for words and failing to produce a question that was, very clearly, of utmost importance to him. John's gaze slid to the book in his lap. He didn't even need to look at the text, just by the general page count he could see it was open on the chapter about spinal cord injuries.
Splendid, really. The cause of his present discomfort turned out to be yet another heavy volume on the many exciting catastrophes a human body can endure. Its spine was digging into his hip. "I seem to be fine," he said at long last, when Sherlock gave no outward sign of having found the words. "Either you are overreacting, or I have been switched to other medication." John gave his IV a critical look. No, definitely no more medication. His toes seemed to be in working order, a discovery that brought him great pleasure. Toes tended to be under-appreciated by the general populace, he found as he watched his own wiggle under the thin covers. Fantastic things, toes.
Sherlock coughed. "I'm- I was just reading."
"Please tell me an actual doctor was involved in my treatment," John said. "Oh God, lie if you must."
"There is a doctor," Sherlock replied, pulling yet another book from John's bed, apparently in order to cross-reference a rib. "She's making sure a car-crash victim dies on schedule."
"Brilliant. So is there a reason you are sitting here reading up on spinal injuries when you could be out there, exasperating Lestrade?"
"He's busy."
"I see. So what you are suggesting is that every crime perpetrated in London is, in fact, Lestrade's own doing and when he is busy elsewhere, you have nothing to do."
A ghost of a smile appeared on Sherlock's sallow face. "You are perfectly fine."
"So I'm noticing." John made the effort and sat up. Other than the shoulder ache and his left side feeling tender, he felt no worse than he would on a morning after a long night at the pub. Better even, considering some of his college parties.
There was a rectangular dressing on his back, he discovered with utter calmness some seconds later. Right over the first vertebrae of the lumbar section of his spine. "I'm assuming it wasn't serious?"
"Clearly," Sherlock said, returning to his book as though the matter was of no concern. The page tore as he turned it a little faster than necessary.
"Doctor Watson, I presume?"
John looked up. It was just his luck that his doctor would be an attractive woman of about his own age and that she had gotten to know Sherlock before they had the chance to talk. "Good morning."
"Afternoon, John," Sherlock said without looking up.
"You feel like remembering a conversation?" the doctor continued, ignoring Sherlock completely. A smart woman, John decided right off the bat.
"I think so, yes."
"Good. Well, I'm pleased to say that despite an act of horrendous stupidity, you are in excellent health. The dressing on your back will need to stay there for a week or so, but the injury looked much worse than it actually was, so you needn't be concerned. Everything else is bumps and bruises."
"I'm sorry, did you just say horrendous stupidity?"
"Did I? I have been informed you were trying to repair a gas leak." An arched eyebrow seemed to question the story, but the doctor nevertheless pressed on. "I'm sure there are plenty of people who would tell you why this was a very bad idea. I do envy your luck, mind."
"Yes, I was lucky," John said weakly, glaring at Sherlock.
"Do you have any questions?"
"Yes, actually, how soon can I be out of here?"
"God, please, now, if you can manage." For the first time since entering the doctor looked at the great detective. "Your friend has been scaring my patients. I'm prepared to risk your life just to get him out of here."
Sherlock snorted into his book and the doctor rolled her eyes. "The nurses are beginning to rebel, too. I would be happiest if we could keep you overnight, for observation, just in case, but frankly you have been questioning my expertise, so I assume you can treat yourself from now on."
"Did I?" John asked, looking from the grinning doctor to Sherlock. "That doesn't sound like me."
"You have a very convincing actor for a twin brother then." She jotted something down on her chart and signed it with a flourish. "A nurse will be along shortly to change the dressing, I'll have her bring the paperwork too. I'm sure she'll appreciate you going out for coffee before she gets here," she told Sherlock.
"Already had three this morning."
"I'll have dialysis equipment set up for you then. Out."
Sherlock gave John a long look, but made his way out without further protest. John was vaguely grateful. There was stiffness in his movements, suggesting he hadn't got nearly enough exercise for the past few days, and if John had learned anything, anything at all, it was that Sherlock must be kept at a level of sufficient bodily comfort, however insane his standards were, otherwise there would be hell to pay.
"I didn't say anything too embarrassing?"
"Not as far as I'm concerned, no."
"Sherlock's been around a lot more often though, hasn't he?"
"Oh yes, day and night. We released him a few days back. It's quite touching." The doctor's hand travelled to her bosom in the universal gesture among females of "oh, that is so sweet, you two are such a cute couple."
"Is he okay?" John asked, resigned. One of these days he would have to get Sherlock a girlfriend, a deaf, mute and mad one, just so he could hold a conversation with a woman without having her declare her vehement support for gay rights.
"If you mean medically, then yes, he most certainly is. Otherwise, he is barking mad."
"Oh, that's all right then." John said to the doctor's back, as she left the room.
Sherlock returned with the coffee, however, before the nurse the doctor sent had the chance to leave. John saw her give the second paper cup a disapproving look, watched her open her mouth and then wither under Sherlock's gaze. She cleared out of the room in record time with John's discharge papers.
"You seem to be in remarkably good shape," John said, taking a sip of his coffee.
"Explosions are just statistics," Sherlock said, refusing to elaborate.
"Statistics."
"There're minute variations, but overall it is possible to generate a model that predicts more or less safe areas in any given blast."
The world, John decided, had been in mortal peril ever since Sherlock had discovered sarcasm. "Good job, I'm sure." There had been plenty of Semtex, he remembered, and though he wasn't a bomb expert he had seen the footage of the site where the elderly lady had been killed. The shock wave alone should have painted the wall with them. "You didn't hit your head by any chance?"
"Why?"
"It might cure your utter idiocy."
Sherlock looked away.
"It's not my place to lecture you, but the next time you find yourself inclined to arrange a private rendezvous with a psychopathic criminal mastermind do me the courtesy of finding me a replacement flatmate first. I happen to like Baker Street."
"And risk you calling Mycroft?" Sherlock's left eyebrow was delicately arched and his tone carried - in so far as it was possible for Sherlock - the vague hint of contrition and something akin to a peace offering.
"Mycroft will be the least of your worries," John promised. In the back of his head there was the diluted memory of a roaring blast, a groaning concrete structure and then a shock of cold water, choking the breath out of him. Then a stretch of alternating lights and darkness, blurred faces - most with a halo of dark curls - and then this morning, or afternoon.
"What time is it?"
"One o'clock. Wednesday."
John's eyebrows stretched his forehead. "It's been a week?"
"They," Sherlock started, fitting resentment and annoyance into the otherwise anonymous pronoun, "found it necessary to sedate you."
"No wonder the doctor wants me discharged." John had hoped the violent flashbacks were a thing of the past, but clearly as soon as his brain processed the explosion it wanted to punch something.
Good thing he was living with Sherlock, then.
"Get out, I need to get dressed," he said. "Do I have any clothes here?"
The follow up left John wishing he'd never returned from Afghanistan. Bombs exploded in the desert just as alarmingly as they did in London, but in Afghanistan no one expected him to describe the experience in minute detail. By the time the police were satisfied John had been gritting his teeth and planning Sherlock's demise for putting him through the ordeal.
He fired his therapist after the second post-explosion session. She wasn't surprised and wished him well, if he correctly interpreted her cautioning him about continuing his relationship with Sherlock.
He regretted it as soon as he stepped out of the office. Sure, she was annoying and any progress he might have made was more due to the frequent bursts of adrenaline and not talking it over. She tried, he appreciated that, but trying to get his head fixed would have taken more than an hour of stilted conversation every week. Considering recent events fixing his head would require a lobotomy.
He walked back to Baker Street trying not to think, lest his mind stray to the horrors that awaited in the flat. Sherlock had taken the attempt at their lives personally, it seemed, and was working around the clock to find Moriarty and, presumably, deliver a bouquet of flowers and a dinner invitation.
Well, maybe not. Not unless the flowers were poisoned and the dinner was held in a vat of piranhas.
It was a reasonably pretty day, windy but rain-free, and were it not for the traffic and constant blaring of horns, John would have enjoyed his morning tremendously. Unfortunately, he was acutely aware of the subtle whir of CCTV cameras turning towards him, and every now and then he spotted a sleek black car, always too far to draw attention, but close enough for an intervention.
John skipped up the stairs to the flat, only noticing something was amiss with his hand on the door. He smelled smoke. His mind turned to a litany of "Sherlock", "No, please, God, no", "Going to kill you, you bastard" and "No more experiments in the house, I mean it!"
The fears proved to be unfounded. He opened the door to find Sherlock sitting in the middle of the darkened living room, surrounded by a hundred candles. When his eyes got used to the shivering lights he was able to see a white circle on the floor, surrounding Sherlock, and a set of highly suspect silver dishes in front of him.
It said something about his state of mind that the very first thing to pop into his mind and make itself know via his mouth was, "So, will he be staying for dinner?"
Sherlock turned. "What?"
"The devil. I assume you are extending a dinner invitation? It is Thursday."
Sherlock's face remained a picture. "Don't be absurd, John. The devil has far more urgent matters to attend to rather than consult mortals."
"I take it there is sulphur-free food in the house, then?"
It took Sherlock a minute to answer. "Yes, I think so. Don't touch the bread, though…"
"It's an experiment," John finished for him. "Figures. Any tea?"
"Two sugars, please."
John rolled his eyes, but the kitchen was relatively clean (a huge surprise, John cleaned it up in the morning, was out for most of the day, and Sherlock was home) and he needed a cup of tea. He took the cups to the living room, liberated his chair from a tray of candles and sat down.
"What are you up to?" he asked after a few minutes, during which Sherlock made no move to take the tea or seem like a sane human being.
"You fired your therapist, good."
"So I keep hearing. What are you doing?"
"Gathering data."
"I see." John waited for a few beats, hoping for a punch line. It didn't arrive. Instead, Sherlock poured what had to be blood, because cranberry juice wouldn't have had the same effect, from the silver beaker into a silver goblet and arranged it artfully on the floor, next to the silver plate on which a handful of ashes was still smoking. He unfolded, a spectacle no doubt, and stepped out of the circle. "And what data requires blood in a silver goblet?"
Sherlock, to John's surprise, seemed abashed. He mumbled something under his breath, then looked away.
"Sorry, didn't catch that."
"I think Moriarty may be aided by demons," Sherlock said.
John stared. "Right," he said when it became clear he'd heard correctly and that there would be no elaboration. "Right. Tell you what, I'm gonna go down to the pub, you clean this up and for God's sake, don't piss off Lestrade in the foreseeable future. At the very least, until you get rid of whatever it is you're smoking now."
"I'm not smoking anything. I've quit."
"Yes, let's say I believe you. I need some fresh air." It was a good thing he hadn't had the chance to take his jacket off yet, he thought, as he hurried down the stairs and back into the windy streets of London.
Sherlock was losing it.
Moriarty had been silent since the night at the pool, most of London had been quiet, and Sherlock was going crazy. They'd spent Friday night scaring some poor kid to death, because he'd lifted a chocolate bar from a corner store and Sherlock had been desperate for some action. John had felt bad about it later, but on the plus side, the kid would likely never shoplift again, not after a night of finding a crazed sociopath and his flatmate around the corner.
A bored Sherlock was a dangerous Sherlock, that was certain, but a crazed Sherlock, that was a whole new brand of disturbing. John could almost feel sorry for Moriarty, when he repressed the memory of being strapped to a bomb, because he knew that the merest shred of evidence, a hint, a suggestion, would send Sherlock careening after the criminal mastermind with the momentum of a speeding train, and the collision would likely be the end of them both.
He contemplated calling Mycroft, but what good could that do, when Sherlock barely tolerated sharing a room with the man? The best John could do at the moment was to grin, hide the evidence and, sometime in the future, deliver a solemn eulogy at the detective's (inevitably empty, for want of recognisable pieces) grave.
John preferred not to dwell on the possibility, if only because he knew that in that eventuality Sherlock would have taken with him a substantial chunk of the world. Already the mere mention of Moriarty sent him into frenzies the like of which was only available to seasoned addicts of various substances. No, this ending had to be prevented at all cost, if only because John had delivered one too many eulogies in his lifetime.
Granted, his treacherous mind provided, for a man of modest literary ambitions (damn blog, it turned out to be quite addictive) the challenge of writing a final farewell for such a singular specimen as Sherlock was not to be scoffed at.
The other option, one that John found far more probable, was that one day, somewhere in the world, there would be a magnificent fireworks display, one that would consume the curious threesome of himself, Sherlock and Moriarty, likely stuck together respectively trying to defuse, admiring and setting off an enormous explosive. The subsequent eulogy would then be delivered by Harry (a scary thought, best avoided), or Lestrade.
John then wondered what did it say about his character, that he considered his own violent death preferable to two madmen doing each other in, hopefully by means of jagged rocks and turbulent waterfalls, to rid the world of the evidence.
He supposed he had to be quite mad indeed.
A casual glance to his watch revealed he'd been wandering for almost an hour, which should have given Sherlock more than enough time to clean up the candle experiment, whatever it was, and hide the drugs, whatever they were.
It hadn't. Sherlock had made no move to lift so much as a single candle, or pick up a single crumbled sheet of paper, a fact made all the more appalling by the presence of a young lady in a fetching cocktail dress.
"Don't mind me," John said, grabbing the kettle and fixing himself a cuppa. "I'm off to read."
Sherlock didn't acknowledge his presence, but the woman smiled at him across the room. John, not quite certain what he was doing, sped up and all but leapt for the comfort of his bedroom. He wondered why his heart wouldn't quieten for another quarter of an hour.
Finally, when his cup was empty and sleep seemed like a near possibility, there had been a crash and then a scream.
John shot up as if bitten. It was Sherlock's voice, he realised, already halfway down the stairs, and he was begging for the woman not to go-
Wait, John thought as his brain caught up, nearly tripping him on the final steps. He wasn't begging, whatever the tone had implied. "Do not go!" Sherlock had yelled, "I command you!" followed by more words John failed to make out.
"What?" John asked when he had Sherlock, a curiously dishevelled and wide-eyed Sherlock, in sight. "What do you mean 'command'?"
"Nothing," Sherlock said. "It's- it's not important."
He was lying. The knowledge hit John like a pool of icy water. Sherlock was lying and falling apart in the dark living room full of shimmering candles, bent in half over a goblet of blood.
Of course, that had to be the exact moment Lestrade finally got off his arse and saw to it that a sufficiently confusing crime had been committed.