Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to ijustsigneduptofollow, Celtic-Redhead, LadyK1138, Renaissencebooklover108, INeedAUserName, rainbowpanget, Katya Jade and Tierney Beckett.
~ Owls On Backing Vocals ~
For a moment Sherlock simply stares.
He can't- He didn't- This isn't possible, he thinks. There is no way for someone to simply appear in a room- And yet-
"Before you ask," John chimes beside him, "I can see him too, Sherlock, so either he's really here or we're having matching hallucinations, which isn't exactly comforting-"
Sherlock looks at his friend like he's insane. "Do you think anything about us having matching hallucinations is going to be comforting, John?"
John crosses his arms over his chest and glowers. "You know, you really should learn to take an attempt to comfort you in the spirit in which it was intended-"
Sherlock rolls his eyes heavenward. "Say something even vaguely comforting and I'll give it a try."
"Show even the slightest hint of gratitude," John snaps back, "and I will do-"
"Oh for pity's sake," Serrure snaps. He strides over to both men and without ceremony taps both of them on the back of the head with his cane before darting back the way he came, grinning insolently.
"There, that should lay any questions about my corporeality to rest, shouldn't it?" he says smugly. "Either that, or you both independently came up with my doing that. And you both imagined what it would feel like for my staff to make contact with your skull at the same time. Which would be so unlikely as to strain even your meagre powers of credulity-"
And he bounces on his heels at these words, grinning smugly.
Sherlock is, irritatingly, reminded of himself as a very small child.
This is not, needless to say, exactly enhancing of his Great Detective Zen-
A very, very long beat of silence presses out, wherein everyone present stares at everyone else and hazards a guess over whose penis is probably bigger.
It goes without saying, of course, that anyone who isn't John Watson vastly over-estimates matters.
It's Serrure who breaks it, heaving the sort of martyred sigh Sherlock last heard employed onstage by a particularly miscast Hal when he had to send Falstaff away. "Fine, let's get the preliminaries out of the way," the newcomer announces. "Yes, I'm here. Yes, I'm a great deal more handsome and clever than either of you, which is why Molly likes me better. And yes, I can just appear places when I want to: It is, to quote your great Bard Master Mercury, "A kind of magic.""
The grin gets wider. More mocking.
Sherlock swears he can feel his blood-pressure rise.
"So you want me to believe," Holmes snaps, (because he's not touching that statement about Molly with a ten foot barge-pole) "that you- a man who apparently thinks a gelled-up mullet is the height of sartorial splendour- are capable of performing acts of sorcery? That you are capable of breaking the laws of physics?"
Serrure looks at Sherlock the way a particularly pretty girl looks at a particularly nerdy boy who has just asked her out for coffee.
It's not a look he's used to being on the receiving end of, and he suspects he will like the statement which follows it not at all.
"First of all, dear," Serrure drawls, "not all of us can carry off the eighties perm look quite so well as you, and so have to make alternative arrangements: Being burdened with awesomeness, as my Molly says, carries a heavy price."
Sherlock opens his mouth to start snapping in outrage- about the perm allegation or the mention of Molly being Serrure's, he's not sure- but Serrure glides on past him with nary a pause.
"Secondly, when it comes to me, my dear Mr. Holmes, the laws of physics aren't so much regulations as they are…guidelines." He grins winningly and winks at John; Sherlock sees John have to physically reminds himself not to grin back (the power of those teeth truly is awesome) and this does nothing for his sense of Zen either. "After all," Serrure is saying, "I'm practically perfect in every other way: Why should mere regulations, mere habits of matter and thought, decide what I can and can't do?"
"Em, because they're the laws of physics?" John says. "Everyone else has to abide by them, whether they want to or not."
Serrure shoots John the sort of flirtatious look Sherlock has seen Mary punch girls over. "I don't do rules," Serrure announces. "That's what my dreary older brother is for. I'm far more fun than that…"
And again he winks, causing the most unpleasant thrill of jealousy to thread through Sherlock: First he's snogging Molly, now he's putting the moves on John? Not of course that Sherlock and John's relationship is anything like his relationship with Ms. Hooper, but come on. John liked him first. Something which makes no difference, because John's grinning at him the way a puppy grins at the chance to lick its own arse.
Traitor, Holmes thinks. Bloody hypocritical traitor. But it gets worse, because-
"Now," Serrure announces, apparently unaware that he's prompting a minor meltdown in Sherlock, "Where is my tea?"
"Tea?" Sherlock barks. This git has got to be joking. "You expect to be given tea?"
"Yes," Serrure says, blinking. "I expect to be given tea. With honey and lemon, if you don't mind: Milk and sugar are just so gauche."
At Sherlock's rapidly darkening countenance he gives the tiniest, most elegant, most innocent little shrug. "Have I made a faux pas? I was told that it was customary in this realm to always offer a guest a hot beverage: my Molly says that I should stay away from coffee because it encourages my more homicidal tendencies, and I believe my little carrion flower is correct-"
"Carrion flower?" Sherlock manages to wheeze out. "Carrion flower?"
"Yes. Carrion flower." Serrure takes a bracing breath, shoots another fond look at John. "She really is the most thoughtful little creature, you have to admit. And pretty. So pretty too." His gaze flits back to Sherlock and there's mischief in its depths. "So fetch me my tea, there's a good man, Sherlock- I assume even a hovel as unhygienic and slatternly as this one has some of the stuff- and we can discuss why I'm here-"
"Why you're here? I'll tell you why you're bloody here," Sherlock announces. "You're here because you want to make some sort of asinine claim on Molly, and I'm telling you, she won't have it. And if you think she will you don't know her at all-"
But Serrure is shaking his head pityingly. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," he clucks ruefully. "I fear you misapprehend my meaning: To suggest I came here to, as you say, lay claim to Molly, would suggest that I think of you as a rival. Which I don't."
He rakes a frankly unimpressed look over the detective.
Sherlock could be wrong, but he swears he hears John snicker a little bit. The git.
"I mean, yes, I suppose you have a sort of naïve charm- if one likes that sort of thing- but I have no illusions," Serrure is drawling. "Nor should you." He gestures to himself. "After all, why in the Norns' names would Molly want you when she could have me?"
And he leans in, those green eyes alight with mischief.
A dash of cologne rises up and it occurs to Sherlock that Serrure even smells better than him, the bastard.
"I mean, I've never told her that her mouth or her breasts are too small," Serrure is saying. "I've never made a joke about her broken engagement even though I've frightened her half to death with a drugs scare. I've never become involved in a fake engagement- on this planet, at least- which left her confused and alone and in need of someone new and charming and altogether better than you to comfort her…"
He grins and the smile is slow. Predatory.
For one split second Moriarty flashes through Sherlock's mind, though he pushes the thought quickly away.
The guilt of knowing that what Serrure says is true is a great deal harder to shift, however.
"So all in all," Serrure announces, "I have no interest whatsoever in competing with you, little mortal, because it wouldn't be a competition of any description."
John leans in and asks the question before Sherlock can give himself an apoplectic fit. "So why are you here, then?" he asks.
Serrure grins at him in unmitigated delight. "I'm so glad you asked that," he says. He glances at Sherlock- "Still waiting on that tea, chop, chop, dear,"- and then leans in confidingly to John. "I have a family matter and I think you could help me with," he says. "I'd like to track down my brother, and Mycroft Holmes is being very uncooperative in giving me his whereabouts. Says it's a state secret or some such, which we all know is absolute and utter tosh."
At this John raises an eyebrow, leans in closer.
Apparently, Sherlock muses ruefully, he and Sorcery Ken have forgotten he's there.
Holmes trudges into the kitchen, not at all sure what to make of this eventuality but knowing he doesn't like it, and gets out the tea and biscuits he usually serves Mycroft. The ones he keeps beside the decaying buttocks flesh in the fridge, because, well, it's the sort of little thing that lightens his heart, alright?
When he comes back into the parlour one look tells him that John knows what tea and biscuits those are. He passes on the chance to partake, instead scooting over to let Sherlock perch on the arm of his chair since Serrure has deliberately, Sherlock is sure, sit in his favourite chair.
"So you're telling me you have no idea what might have happened to your brother?" John says.
"None whatsoever," Serrure answers. "It's why I came here: he and his girlfriend have all but disappeared from this realm. And Molly persuaded me that, now I've turned over my new leaf I should try and repair my relationship with him, something for which, I fear, he will need to be present." Again Serrure smiles in that nauseating fashion. "She's so kind-hearted, you know, I don't know what I'd do without her-"
You're going to bloody find out, Sherlock thinks, and then shakes himself, surprised at how much vehemence his unconscious put into that thought.
"So let me get this straight," he says, rather than muse on that little surprise. "You, Mr. Serrure, want my help. You, who apparently don't even have to follow the laws of physics, want my help to find your older brother, yes?"
Sherlock knows his smile his smug, but come on: this git had it coming.
Even the Great Detective, however, doesn't guess what's coming next.
Because Serrure grins, rising from his chair, the carved head of his walking stick starting to glow with an ominous green and gold light. "Oh no, Mr. Holmes," he says, "I don't want you to find out where my brother is, I want you to find out when he is…"
And with that there's a flash of light and suddenly Sherlock, John and Serrure are no longer in Baker Street.
They're standing in the morgue at St. Bart's in front of Molly Hooper, who doesn't look at all surprised that three people she knows have just defied the laws of physics.
Instead she shoots Serrure a slightly cross, girl-friendesque look which makes Sherlock grind his teeth on general principles and then waves to everyone. "Well, lads," she says, "looks like you're going to find out what I did on my summer holidays-"
And that's when the large green man- the Hulk, Sherlock thinks they call him- wanders through the morgue and he realises that this is about to become a very, very, very long day indeed.
