This is a Sherlock/Dexter Cross, with slight hints to Hannibal. It is also an extension of my story 'First Rule' which sets up the AU that Hannibal, Sherlock, and Mycroft are related to each other and Dexter.
Note: The timelines are just screwed up. Dexter is older than he was in 'First Rule' but he is not an adult. Obviously, Debra is not an adult either. Sherlock characters are their regular ages. Just go with it.
I hope you enjoy, tell me if you want more in this AU.
X
He never sees it coming.
Rushing anywhere, to do anything, is not something he liked to do. Situations became messy then and it defeated the purpose of any sort of planning. Accuracy and intent could become blurred, making the mere thought of covering one's tracks unless, nevermind the actual execution.
Yet.
Yet, in all his lessons and visits from his, eccentric to say the least, uncles, he doesn't expect it. Despite the playground fights he gets sucked into, but Debra finishes, with no shame from him, it still is like a punch to the throat. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if perhaps the signs were there and he was just too stupid not to see them. He wonders this because no amount of experience in the gruesome morgue where bodies rested, or in the back of a flat while a case was solved in the front, had given him any idea that this would come. Nothing could have given him this to stare at and though he has his suspicions of his mental capacity, he knows that if he considers himself illogical, then those are him are just blind men trying to lead others.
Around them, the space is a mess, which is comforting but painful as it is the normal state of the flat that is their second or third home, depending on which sibling you asked. Papers of every sort are scattered and the tell tale sign of experiments, rotting, solidified, and otherwise were still able to be detected. The space is chaos and right now he's not sure which one, blank slate or familiar mess would have been better to see. He had elected to stand, observe, while she took emotional control of the grief consuming the space. Their father was talking to the police, trying to figure out what happened, as the three of them had been kept out of the loop by a sea between where they were and where they had been.
The sight of Debra curled around their shaking uncle is unnerving. Though she now towers over him in heels bigger than the average dick, a habit she picked up in middle school of all places, he still seems bigger. Their uncles always have; despite the extended branches of the family tree, even now when the trained back is bent and the silent sobs of distress are heard, John is still bigger than them.
The Doctor does not cry, though pain is visible in every place his body fills and that gentle giant he remembers from his childhood is crumbling right before his eyes. Deb herself is crying, never one to hold back anything, especially emotion, in the presence of family. He is not capable of such, but no one questions it as they just assume him to be in shock. This sphere of aftermath is seen in the corner of his eye and it is so human to watch. It's raw and bloody, like the wound that killed the slender guardian to the city.
He never expected to be here, or even overseas anytime soon, but the news had caused a suspension of his careful thought process. Future planning was crucial in his case, as he had been told by those overseeing him, due to his urges but it all flew out the window in favor of doing something human. He had boarded, disembarked, and received the phone call with stiff movements, something he knew was associated with grief. Then, he had hugged his uncle softly, before moving and allowing his small amount of empathy to be replaced with the comfort of a more reliable source than his chilled self.
Watching as the investigation swirled around, the seemingly limitless noise of the media outside finally became muted, and events such as therapy came to pass, his suspension withdrew. The interconnections of John, as he was made up of pain and honor and the ability to feel that unfortunately was not a trait he couldn't of inherited, had put his urges high, as he needed to release these emotions he wasn't usually surrounded by. Any plans he may have had were interrupted and faded, by a single glare from the brother of the deceased; it was a thing of warning and questioning, as though Mycroft was wondering why he was sucumbing to desires and not logic. Such action had led to his old habits of suspicion to reemerge, critical observation coming into play. The shock was then gone and he watched.
And none of it made sense.
It was a conclusion supported by the comparison of the present information, of what had happened, and the past memories he had of the man who had died. As the events were told, uncovered, there was a carefully constructed game between his uncle and the enemy that he saw. The pattern was one he recognized, as it was the same back and forth he had experienced before. On a smaller, less bloody scale, of course, but it was familiar.
It was just a game of skill, intelligence, used to judge oneself and another. His uncles had intellectual prowess yes, but it meant little to them when they were all in the same room. They would spin stories of facts and logic to tell to Debra and himself, assist with homework, and even cook, all while trying to outdo each other. Chess was no longer allowed any of their homes, as one incident had proven that while one could not receive a concussion by a king to the forehead, it was entirely possible for it to feel like it. There was tension at times from this sparring that the uncles, and himself though he wasn't very good at it, participated in, but it was all just a game.
To test oneself is not a crime, his uncle, now deceased, had told him, but the self importance of such is so high that perhaps it should be. Up until now he thought such to be silly, because why would his family commit crimes? He was still trying to create an answer, in the face of the idea that his uncle was a fraud, that he was no genius.
He knew better, as this was all just a game. Every step, he saw defenses, strength, chase, and retreat; all of it planned many moves ahead and then...
Empathetic Emptiness.
Something was missing, but he didn't understand, he couldn't relate. And if it was in his nature, he would be irritated, frustrated, furious perhaps; all he wanted to know was why. Something had caused the last action to be taken, by no answer came. The grim line of Mycroft's lips were all telling in that something had not gone to plan, that something was amiss, and yet it was madness that he did not know why. Disgrace had always evaded their family, as was the the common goal of their enemies, but the lack of his uncle had finally exposed them to a world of the angry.
The last move made by the coldest, youngest of his extended family was unorthodox.
No, that wasn't the right word; neither was unusual, strange, or dubious. It was insanity it terms of behavior and the dance that had occurred between Moriarty and his uncle. Everything had been so carefully laid and created to stop the other, like a chess game that was won, though a piece had never been moved and instead both kings were knocked over.
Such a jump was uncomposed, unjustified, and was a simple use of gravity and it's forces, simple but devastating and there seemed to be no reason for it. It was unplanned, which was basically a sin in his lineage and yet it had been done.
It was irrational, as perhaps his uncle had considered emotion before making his decision, and it was a painful way to die. Such action was puzzling and he returned to America with anger curling within him.
Everything was always planned, always expected and if there was changes, then there was always a contingency plan. How else, when he and Debra had been taken to the zoo, could three giant umbrellas have appeared out of nowhere to shield them when there had been no indication of a storm or of any of their uncles carrying something to keep them dry? Everything was always taken into account, ready to be put into play, and yet...
Yet.
Yet, he was glad for the anger. He was glad for the humanness of the missing information and his reaction to it, because it was used to express his thoughts in a way words couldn't. Such anger was put to use when the door opened to reveal the deceased.
He entered his home, on free soil, and saw the templed fingers that was signature to only one person. The pieces did not fall into place right away and they had to be explained, but there was relief and still anger. Though it was muted, there was still anger because he knew of another's grief, his own gentle giant and he could do nothing about it.
Emotions were a strange thing and actions were insanity or smart depending on which view you were looking at, who was looking. And both were a game, one that was played by all.
He wished the stakes weren't so high.
( Alive, he thought. Living, breathing, and he wondered what stained his grieving uncle's sleeve from checking a pulse. Alive. He didn't care.
The punch felt so good.
John would be proud. )
X
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