Burning Like One Thousand Suns

by themasterofescapism

Thrown into a darkness neither could fathom, Sherlock and John are caught in the fires of vengeance, fires that if burning too hot will destroy not only their hearts but also their lives. (Please leave reviews if you're so inclined, they're welcomed)

2. The one who fights for the angels

The lobby's ceiling towered high above, the entire area dripping with prestige. The air was brisk, a place of business not enjoyment.
"How may I help you?" a young woman asked from behind a marble counter. "Do you have an appointment with one of our employees?"
"Yes, Terry Cartwright." John eyed him with curiosity. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, even knowing who to ask for.
"Name?"
"Sherlock Holmes," he informed her, straightening his jacket and turning to face John with a wink.
"If you'll give me a moment," she requested curtly, scanning the lit up computer screen quickly. "Sorry, your name isn't listed."
"Then there's a computer error," he stated with authority. "I'm here to discuss a highly confidential matter with the Regional Managing Partner for London, and I'm sure Mr Cartwright won't take it all too well that his secretary has denied him a planned meeting. Trust me, you don't want to get on his bad side. Then again, you know that, don't you?"
Fear shone in her hazel eyes. "Of course not."
"Then, will you please hand over a visitors pass so that myself and my colleague may get along with our business. You're impeding upon serious matters," he looked towards the smart bronze pin on her jacket, "Miss Reid. Don't make it worse."
"Here you are, Mr Holmes," she handed him a plastic card and then held one out to John. "And you, Mr?"
"Dr Watson," he filled in and took it, trying to act like he belonged. Her expression seemed perplexed but she let him take it anyway. "Thank you for your time. Where-"
"Down the left corridor. Floor thirty eight."
Sherlock nodded at her and strutted towards the lift, John in step behind him - their footsteps bouncing against the marble walls.
"How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Act like that? I've never asked, but the way you just . . . become a different person."
"You really don't understand the concept of being a sociopath, do you? Manipulation, John. It's my forte," Sherlock explained while he pressed the circular button that lit up with golden light.
"Is everything you do manipulation?" he asked softly, the way Sherlock had asked him to undress him, the trousers, the belt, oh god the hips.
"Don't look so wounded, John," Sherlock said, shocking John to know that his emotional injury had pushed it's way onto his face.
"I'm not, but is everything you do manipulating in one way or another?"
"No. I manipulate when it's an advantage, and that doesn't mean I always need to. Even if I do, is it such a bad thing? I simply know what to do and when, and it keeps me ahead of the game," he revealed, walking into the equally posh lift and pressing the button with the number thirty-eight printed on it in black.
"And is that what life is to you? A game?" The bronze doors slid shut and the lift began to move.
"The greatest game of all, John," he replied, the mischief in his voice blatant.
"I've been meaning to ask-"
"Oh, questions, questions. So idiotic and useless," Sherlock moaned.
"Just, listen. For once. Last night," he stopped, the words stuck in his throat. "Last night, what was that all about?"
"I'm afraid you'll need to elaborate."
"You know what I mean, Sherlock. You asking me to undress you. The Baijiu, and the belt and the hips,"
Sherlock's brow arched. "Hips?"
John sighed, scrubbing his face. "Your hips, when I took of your belt. You know what this is stupid. I'm sorry I brought it up."
"No. Please, continue," Sherlock insisted, a smile playing along his lips.
"Why did you do it? You could have just slept in the suit, regardless of it being expensive or whatever. You've done it before. Why was last night different?"
"I was bored. You were interesting."
John's heart thumped. "You, um, also said something?"
His voice cracked at the end, jumping into a high octave that he cursed himself for. Sherlock chuckled lowly.
"Is that a statement or a question?"
"Do you remember?"
"What I said? Yes, I do."
"It's just that, you were drunk, so I thought that maybe-"
"I told you I wasn't."
"I had to put you to bed because you fell asleep while I was talking," he defended, eyes wide with how Sherlock kept on denying it.
"Your ramblings have the ability to bore a man to death, sleep is hardly a far jump from that."
"I thought I was interesting," he quipped.
"Oh," he drew it out, the low and rough sound rippling in the air. "You are."
John shook his head, shunning the warmth that had spread through his body at the noise Sherlock had made. "I can't have an adult conversation with you can I?"
"It's sweet of you to try."
There he went again, catching John off guard and making his skin tingle. "Terry Cartwright; Who is he?"
"Regional Managing Partner for London," Sherlock recounted. "I did some research into the company on the ride over here. The internet really is a marvellous resource."
"That's how you knew." The doors slid open with a ding and they marched out, a door at the end of the corridor. A silver plaque read 'R.M.P. - Terry Cartwright' in sophisticated lettering.
Sherlock held his hand up to the door and knocked, looking to John afterwards and saying, "Let me do the talking."
"Come in," a voice welcomed on the other side and Sherlock pushed down the handle, striding to stand before the large rectangular glass desk. The man behind it was around forty, stern lines marking where his brows had pressed together a few too many times. The black, combed back hair was greying at the roots and his eyes were hardened. "Who exactly are you?"
"Sherlock Holmes. I'm here to inform you about the empty position you have just recently acquired."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"Dale Hughes," Sherlock said while pulling out his phone and displaying it to Cartwright. On it was the news article about the affore mentioned Dale, who had gone missing two days previously.
"You found him?"
"Dead, yes."
"God, dead?"
"Tortured and dead to be exact."
"Sherlock," John warned.
"No use in sugar coating it. It wastes time. I'd like you to tell me anything and everything about Dale and the days proceeding his death. If you wouldn't mind,"
"Are you the police?"
"Yes," and Sherlock whipped out Lestrade's stolen Scotland Yard badge. "Detective Inspector Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure you know the law, Mr Cartwright. So, if you would please enlighten me."
"Dale, well he was a good man. Brilliant barrister. One of the best in the business, most certainly in the project development and finance sector. That's where he worked. He was working on getting the planning permissions for developing a leisure centre I think it was, but there were some major legal issues. It was a grade two listed building, so there needed to be meetings to work out it's historical significance, that sort of thing."
"Let me guess. An old Gas Light and Coke warehouse,"
"Yes, how did you know?"
"Irrelevant. How were the legal side of things going?"
"Well, the decision is supposed to be made this afternoon, but because of Dale's absence, the plans will be refused."
"And who will benefit from this turn of events?" John spoke up, knowing a suspect was only one reply away.
"No one."
"No one?" Sherlock repeated, apparently surprised himself. It was a rare achievement.
"Drew," Cartwright murmured, his eyes staring into the distance.
"Who's Drew?" Sherlock jumped onto it in a second.
"Dale's brother," Cartwright carried on, rubbing the stubble of his chin. "He's going to be devastated."
"Drew and Dale?" John said with amusement. "Alliteration in siblings, I bet they loved that."
"John, really," Sherlock said with disappointment.
"For Pete's sake, you're the one who smiles about murder," John reminded him, irked that Sherlock was let down by his taste in humour when he himself was much worse.
"I don't find it amusing, John. I find it interesting," Sherlock sneered.
"Oh, yeah, I know all about what you find interesting,"
"Okay, what are you two talking about?" Cartwright inquired.
"Doesn't matter. Can you give us the address of Drew? We'll deliver the sad news," Sherlock said, his voice feigning grievance.
"Yes, of course. He lives in Belgravia, Eaton Place. My secretary can give you the most direct route," he told them, standing and escorting them to the door.
"Thank you for your trouble," John added as they left. "So this Drew Hughes. Do you think he did it?"
"Nope," Sherlock chimed as he entered the lift, his long finger tapping the ground level button.
"How can you be sure?"
"He's his brother," he exclaimed, apparently all the explanation he thought was needed.
"And? I'm sure if you were given the chance you'd kill Mycroft," John judged honestly. They had a sibling rivalry that bordered on the insane.
"He'd obviously be the main suspect, so killing his brother would be utterly idiotic, and I doubt he's that stupid."
"He could be."
"Only he isn't," Sherlock persisted.
"What's gotten you so worked up?"
"What are you talking about? I'm not worked up. A death that appears to have no effort. One suspect who couldn't possibly have done it. A murderer who takes to torturing his victims in abandoned warehouses that mock their livelihood, and absolutely no leads whatsoever. Not good ones anyway. It's like Christmas, only better."
"You enjoy having nothing to go on?"
"The hunt is always more fun than the catch, John," he said, his words having multiple meanings. A double entendre? "Ask his secretary for the address, directions, all of that. I'll go grab us a taxi."
"Sher-" he didn't bother continuing, the huge coat billowing slightly from the wind coming in through the revolving doors as Sherlock headed for them. Sighing he wandered over to the main counter, smiling at the secretary. "Mr Cartwright said you could give me directions to Drew Hughes?"
"Mhm, he told me just now in an e-mail. I wrote out his address for you." She passed over a sheet of paper, eloquent handwriting having scrolled down the details.
"So, you and Sherlock Holmes," Miss Reid said coyly.
"What about us?"
"Lover's spat?" she asked crudely.
John coughed. "Excuse me?"
"I work in a building of powerful people who try and hide their feelings in all matters and I've picked up on a few things in my time here. The tension between you two was about to make my brain burst." Her deep red lips emphasised the brain and burst, making him feel even more uncomfortable.
"It was nice chatting to you," he rushed and then made a bee line to the taxi waiting outside.

"Got the address?"
"What do you think I've been doing?"
"Being idle."
John looked at him incredulously and relayed the address to the taxi driver who nodded in confirmation and drove into the main line of traffic.
"You think I'm that useless?"
"Oh, John, don't go making a scene out of everything," Sherlock said tiredly.
"Making a . . ." he couldn't straighten his thoughts into a coherent sentence. "I give up. You're insatiable, hurtful, and-"
"And what?"
"Never mind. Actually you know what, 'and' you're wearing. Very, very wearing."
"As much as I enjoy the insults you have for me, I thought we'd spend our time better by thinking," Sherlock brushed past John's words with ease. "Brainstorming."
"You never need another person's input," John said bitterly.
"I need yours."
John squeezed his eyes shut, pinching his brow. One second he loathed Sherlock, the next he felt nothing but amazement, adoration, dare he say it: love. The mind of a sociopath. He couldn't make sense of it.
"I'll start then, shall I? No one of the planning committee or law sectors had anything to gain from Dale's death or life in the matter of the warehouse: So, they're scratched out. What's left is his brother, who again has nothing to gain and wouldn't be thick enough to do it. We must be missing something, a component to it all, a clue, something we haven't factored in," Sherlock rambled, his pace quickening to match the lightening speed of his thoughts.
"Well, you have the killer themselves. They must have had a reason to do what they did. Torture, perhaps to get information from him."
"Dale worked in project development, nothing of such great importance goes on in that sector. The killer has a mind of a sadist; he would have done it merely for enjoyment. To stave off boredom."
"He randomly picked his name out of a hat?"
"Perhaps. Or maybe he was hired. Hired by a third party."
"But no one gains anything from seeing Dale dead."
"That we know of,"
"Sherlock, I think you're looking for something that's not there."
"There must be something, John. There's always something."
"Give it a few days then, Sherlock. You'll run that tap of yours dry if you carry on like this."
"My tap?" he questioned, understanding that it meant his mind of course, but did so anyway to annoy John a little. "And I'm always like this."
"Yes, that's what worries me. Never eating, constantly thinking, it's not good for your health."
"You've never said so before," Sherlock told him with a suspicious eye.
"Well, I've never really thought about it a lot before."
"What's changed?"
"I don't really know," John said puzzled by it himself.
Sherlock looked out the window. "Well, it looks like we've arrived."
He gave the driver cash and then jumped out, twisting around on the spot as he absorbed the environment. John climbed into the open air and took in the lines of houses himself. They were a creamy beige, each with two pillars before their front steps. Grand could barely do it justice. Black iron fences protected their windows as well. He spotted the number of Drew Hughes' house and started for it. Sherlock was still spinning, observing.
Up the small flight of steps, he knocked three times on the black wooden door. It was pulled open and a young man came into view. His light sandy hair rough and sticking about the place, his white dress shirt untucked on one side and his odd socks.
"Oh, sorry. I wasn't expecting any visitors," he laughed awkwardly, his voice elegant and cultured. "Who are you?"
"Dr John Watson. You are Drew Hughes, correct?"
"Yeah, that's me. What's this all about?"
John leaned back. Sherlock was still examining the place. He caught sight of John and the glare he was giving him and came at once.
"Hello, Mr Hughes. I'm afraid we, uh," Sherlock choked back a sob, "we come with some devastating news."
"It might be best you sit down," John suggested, eyeing Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Another persona then.
"Um, well if you want to come in?" Drew invited politely, brows furrowed, oppressed by worry. They walked in towards the main living room to which they were directed. "This news?"
He sat down on a white armchair, gesturing to them to take their seats on the sofa. Sherlock sniffed dramatically and John rolled his eyes.
"Who are you?" Drew stared at Sherlock, clearly unsettled by his act.
"Oh, god, I'm so sorry. Dale and I, we were good friends at Charles Cane. Helped each other out a lot," he explained, his smile forced - apparently pushing passed the pain. John couldn't fathom how ridiculous he was being.
"Dale? Is he okay?" The fear in Drew's voice was unmistakable.
"He's," John paused. "He was found this morning. Dead."
Drew's blue eyes hazed over, his skin becoming a terrible pallor. "No."
"It's just terrible," Sherlock sobbed. John elbowed him in the side, getting annoyed with his obscene act.
"It is. It really is. Terrible and really awkward," Drew spoke, voice steady. His eyes were alight again.
"You don't seem that upset," John observed.
Drew laughed. "I don't do I? You should probably be a little bit more distraught though."
"Dale's dead, how is it funny?" Sherlock asked with fake frustration.
"Drop the act, Sherlock."
"He never told you his name," John noted, trailing off at the smirk on Drew's face. Sherlock had discarded the display.
"I'm waiting," Drew whispered to them melodramatically.
"For what?" Sherlock queried.
"For John. To you know, act distraught. He really should have started already. I don't have all day,"
"He's your brother!" John reminded him, as a last defence against whatever was happening.
"I know," Drew sighed.
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "You want him to act distraught because we were wrong about you. You killed Dale, I'll assume?"
"Nope. I'd never kill my brother. You were right to think that," he said with respect. "Now, John. Defeated, crushed, heartbroken even. You're the one who starts the real performance."
"Am I the only one not getting this?" John's tone was becoming hysterical.
"I'm lost, as well," Sherlock stated calmly, eyes narrowed.
"You think your're lost now," Drew muttered with a chuckle. "You have no idea. Sherlock Holmes. Clueless."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted. "I reject that in its entirety."
"You can't. It's fact. Tell me then: what's happening right now?"
"You're delusional and have a severe mental health issue that needs to be addressed," John snapped, his sanity wearing thin.
"Something's going to happen," Sherlock murmured prophetically.
"Starting to catch on I see. A few moves behind though, so apologies but we need to get on with this," Drew said and got to his feet.
"What's going to happen, Sherlock? What's going on!?" John's mind was confounded, stuck and twisting. He didn't understand what was happening. How could anyone? He looked to Sherlock with wide eyes. "Tell. Me. Now. Please?"
"I'm so sorry, John," he apologised, sounding beaten. Like he'd lost a card game. "I didn't see this coming."
Bang.
John's ears rang after the shot went off. Who had been shot? Who fired? He double checked himself, ears still tingling and ringing - feeling like water was blocking them. No wound. He was safe.
Sherlock.
He stared at his friend, who hadn't moved an inch. He looked fine as well. Then who was hit?
"My, my, my," a gruff voice repeated, the owner walking in from the doorway. Gun still in hand. "Finally, the daemons get to wreak their vengeance upon the one who fights for the angels. The crusader of justice."
Sherlock turned his head slowly, face pulled taut and eyes cold. The ringing subsided and John could hear clearly, looking over the newcomer. Tall, six foot something. Heavily built, like a soldier. Dark eyes and a cruel expression.
"Moran," Sherlock wheezed with recognition. Wait, wheezed?
"Does it hurt?" the other man asked, voice plain and void of anything empathetic. Almost hopeful in fact.
"It's different to my expectations."
"Always is. I could have hit your heart, you know. Missed on purpose."
"Sherlock," John gulped, looking over the lean physique of the sociopath he adored. "Where?"
"Right shoulder. Through the Brachial plexus nerve fibres," Moran informed him with delight. "Must be painful. You should be screaming right now."
"I don't scream."
"Not yet," he retorted ominously. John searched for the wound and found it. The blood was seeping through Sherlock's jacket, a dark stain spreading as the blood welled.
"How can you be so calm with that injury?" John asked, forgetting about Moran entirely. He could recall his own bullet wound, his shoulder as well. The agony had been unbearable. Staying so composed, it was too surreal to make sense of.
"Pain is in the mind, John, nothing more. Acknowledging it at the moment serves no purpose. If anything it's counterproductive," Sherlock said almost mechanically.
"I'm glad you think so, because pain is going to become your life, Sherlock Holmes," Moran threatened.
"Why?" Sherlock was doing all he could to keep his voice level but John could see it in his eyes. The anguish he was experiencing.
"I'll let you figure that one out. You know who I am, which is all you need."
"Vengeance you called it. Ugh, avenging your father, how boring," Sherlock whined, wincing when he tilted his head back.
"Trust me when I say you'll soon be entertained," Moran said darkly. A hand clamped around Sherlock's mouth and John jumped in horror. He tried to snatch at the new figure but a tight sharp pain pulled at his neck. He clawed at the object another stranger had wrapped around it, cutting off his oxygen supply.
"Sherlock-" he croaked out, fighting against his own assailant as he watched in terror. Sherlock wasn't fighting back, and a sensation like ice cold water running through his blood overcame him when he realised why.
"Chloroform, Dr Watson. Old but effective," Moran said pitilessly. Lights burst behind John's eyes as the blood swelled in his head, his chest heaving for air but being denied. It burned and his eyes watered. Two men hoisted Sherlock's limp body and carried it away.
"Nn-" John slurred out a failed 'No'.
"Good night, Dr Watson. Remember Sherlock well."
The string, tie, whatever it was, pulled tighter around his neck. His body ached and throbbed, his mind drumming and his chest searing. Finally the darkness prevailed and he fell into an unwelcome abyss of unconsciousness.