A Stolen Magic Trick

by Oscar-Wilde-Inspired

….he walks quickly, effortlessly weaving in and out of the crowds of people. He never touches them, avoids contact like it'll burn him.

Title: A Stolen Magic Trick

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Pairings: John/Sherlock (in a twisted kind of way)

Word Count: 1,344

Warnings: None really

AN: I just really really like this idea.

Summary: That wasn't his trick, it wasn't his skill, it was like he had slipped inside someone else's skin. He had taken a magic trick that wasn't his and attached it to his sleeve, forced it unto himself.

He can see it the moment his eyes lay sight on the blonde haired man. His back is pulled too taunt, his walk is jerky like he's trying to hide the pain he is in but not succeeding very well. His fists are clenched at his sides, despite it all though he walks quickly, effortlessly weaving in and out of the crowds of people. He never touches them, avoids contact like it'll burn him.

There's something horribly wrong, he says to himself as he follows the other man through the sea of people, despite his height he blends in, disappearing behind a couple when the blonde man flicks his head to the side, eyes darting across the crowd behind him. There's nothing to see so he turns back around his step never faltering, his path sure and determined.

When he had finally come back to London the first thing he had done was push open the door to a flat that should've long ago been abandoned. Instead it was left as if it hadn't been touched in three years; a thin layer of dust covered the beakers and microscope left on the kitchen counter. Dishes that are stained with tea litter the coffee table; he avoids the cup that is turned upside down trapping a small arachnid inside. The books on the shelves haven't been moved, dust covering them like a protective blanket. Expect a small square, near the floor that's void of all dirt and grime, the book spines boast of college medical texts. He had run his gloved fingers lightly over the top of the books jerking back like he had been shocked when it came to the last one. The one that reads The Complete Encyclopedia of Guns, it doesn't fit with the rest; it sticks out like sore thumb. He had left the flat with an unsettled feeling nestled deep inside his gut, the same feeling that had kept him alive for the last three years.

It had taken three days to finally catch site of the blonde man and even then it had been by chance, the right turn of the head at the right moment. Just a glimpse of the man was caught as he scurried out the front door, door swinging closed behind him noiselessly, and he had disappeared nearly instantly into the crowd. Three times he had nearly lost the blonde man, when had he gotten so good at disappearing? At blending in? That wasn't his trick, it wasn't his skill, it was like he had slipped inside someone else's skin. He had taken a magic trick that wasn't his and attached it to his sleeve, forced it unto himself.

The chase went on for hours, at first it seemed like the man didn't have a destination in mind, he was just wondering aimlessly through the crowds, through the streets of London. But too late into the night he had realized that the blonde man was not just wondering, he was leading, he knew who was following him; he had let his magic trick be revealed because it wasn't his true trick. It was a fake, a dodge that he had fallen into all too easily.

All the streets were painfully familiar, the back alley ways, the buildings that were more familiar from up high. All of them were remnants of a past life, a life that had been dropped from a building and crushed at the bottom. And then they stopped, the man stopped, disappeared from sight into a building that held memories that were better kept at the bottom of a building, bleeding and broken.

With a steady hand that should be shaking he opened the door and disappeared inside, into the darkness. He followed the blonde man into his parlor, into his magic trick because he desperately wanted to see the dove that was hidden up his sleeve. Needed to see the colored napkin peeking out from his glove, needed to see the trap door that hid the final surprise.

"Sherlock" a voice called out in the darkness, behind tables and chairs, hidden in the darkness away from the pale moonlight that streamed in through large windows.

"Watson" he called back, his voice calm steady, not betraying the tremor that shook his body.

Stepping out of the darkness the blonde man revealed himself, a cruel smile that did not fit on his face turned up the corner of his lips. "It's good to see that you're still alive."

"I guess you didn't try hard enough" Sherlock answered back, his voice casual, bored. He could lie, he's been lying his entire life, faked emotion enough that now he could fake not having any.

A corner of his mouth turned up in smirk that bore the ghost of man lying on the top of a building blood seeping slowly out of his skull. "Yes, well it makes the game so much more fun." A laugh bubbled up in his throat, a ghost laugh that belonged buried in the ground with worms and insects eating its flesh. "Watching the fly struggle against the spider's web."

Sherlock stayed silent, his fist clenched tightly inside his jacket, leather squeaking as it protested against the strain. Anger roared through him, anger was better than hurt, better than screaming, better then the confused despondence that tore through him when the first preserved spider had shown up at his door step. It was better than the hole in his chest that had formed when he had seen the spider running around desperately at the bottom of a glass in a flat that should've been a home.

"He wasn't dead you know" Sherlock refuses to call him John, refuses to acknowledge the ghost that is standing before him. But he still jerks in surprise, his eyes widening. He slips and lets his magic trick be revealed and spider before him crows in delight. "After you…" the man pauses as the smile slips off his lip before it scrambles back, it seems Sherlock is not the only one desperately trying to hide behind a sham. "After your little show, after you flew he came back. He whispered such sweet things in my ear in the darkness. Promised me so much, promised me a way to end the pain, promised me I could make a web so big that a pesky little fly would never come near me again."

The man cocks his head to the side as another smile creeps up; this ghost hurts so much more. Because it belongs on a worn sofa drinking tea with the morning newspaper, yelling at Sherlock as he catches the kitchen table on fire. The smiles belongs to a man that shot through the window beside him and saved Sherlock from killing himself. "But that little spider that dangled above my bed during the night wasn't so smart. It turned its back and I struck I slit the spiders throat and threw him out of my web. Because I wanted the fly to come back, I wanted to play because I owe that fly so much." It was all wrong, the voice the smile, it shouldn't be speaking like that, those words didn't belong to this man's body. It belonged to a rotted corpse, it belonged to a crazed genius who had stepped off the edge.

"Come little fly" the new voice spoke, the ghost spoke, the rotted corpse spoke. It arms were held open the street lights throwing shadows against the wall, adding more limbs than was possible. A smile stretched across his face as the moon rose higher in the night sky "Come little fly, step into my parlor."

There was a buzzing in back of Sherlock's mind, an insistent noise that refused to die away as he stepped forward, as he disappeared into the spider's arms, as they disappeared together into his web, into the darkness. He let himself be pulled into the stolen magic trick because he was tired and the web would let him rest even as death loomed over him.