Authors note: I am so, so sorry for the wait, life's just been so hectic!


Chapter 4: And all the other things we've wasted


The guard at the gate didn't blink twice as Sherlock handed him the stolen ID. He lifted the ramp to let them pass just as Sherlock released the weaving threads of light that he'd bent in order to morph Mycroft's picture, or more precisely, the way the guard saw it. The effort of casting the spell strong enough to break through the magical barriers imposed around Baskerville left him white-knuckled as he gripped the steering wheel. Seeing John's curious look, Sherlock forced his body into obedience.

They left the car and started navigating the outer courtyard of the facility. It wasn't too long before Sherlock spotted a young man in drab coming their way. He supposed he could manage at least a basic level covering spell. Invisibility was out of the question, with the security so firmly in place at the base. Sherlock could feel the strange sensation associated with places of high magic that was artificially accumulated and kept sedated in one place. It was a completely different feeling than going to sites of original magics. Rather than filling him with power, Baskerville drilled into Sherlock and sucked his magic into the mainline. It didn't feel as much as being drained as being plugged into a bigger power circle, losing autonomy and control over one's own power. It felt like belonging to a mass. Sherlock wondered if ordinary people felt this way every day. He didn't appreciate the feeling.

His thought of a cover spell was quickly dismissed. The young soldier was already too close to not have seen them, and Sherlock poor, paralysed magic was not up to the task of anything simpler than lighting a candle at the moment.

"What is it? Are we in trouble?" The soldier came to a stop in front of Sherlock and John." A simple armband of purple told Sherlock the man was magic-enabled as part of a defence team. Obviously, he had too low a rank to ever have actually met Mycroft in person. Which meant Sherlock could play this to his advantage. He straightened his spine, clasping his hands together at the small of his back.

"Are we in trouble, sir."

"Yes, sir, sorry, sir."

Apparently, Sherlock's innate imperiousness was not enough to get them through to the main entrance, since the man, although chastised, didn't budge from his spot. He decided on a different approach.

"You were expecting us?"

The soldier shuffled his feet.

" Your ID showed up straight away, Mr Holmes." Apparently using Sherlock's (or Mycroft's, to be precise) name, reminded the man to introduce himself. "Corporal Lyons, security. Is there something wrong, sir?"

"Well, I hope not, Corporal, I hope not."

"It's just we don't get inspected here, you see, sir." The young corporal sounded hesitant. "It just doesn't happen." He wasn't relenting and Sherlock was coming to the end of his patience when John stepped in.

"Ever heard of a spot check?" he asked, brusquely, whipping out his credentials – "Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers"– which sent Corporal Lyons into a slightly-panicked salute.

"Sir. Major Barrymore won't be pleased, sir. He'll want to see you both."

John ran his eyes all over the younger solider, and then looked away, dismissive, and cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid we won't have time for that. We'll need the full tour right away. Carry on."

Lyons opened is mouth to object, but then froze for a moment not even breathing. It lasted but a second, and when he snapped back he obviously saw that there was no other solution than to obey. John had that effect on people, Sherlock had noticed. It started a feeling at the pit of Sherlock's stomach that almost pleasantly disconcerting.

"Yes, sir." Lyons replied with eyes slightly glazed over.

And so they went into the belly of the beast.


The narrow white corridors echoed as the three men walked through the sterile maze. Doors around them opened and closed as people walked briskly in and out of rooms, too quickly for Sherlock to glance at anything hidden in the spaces behind the doors.

Corporal Lyons lead them along at a brisk pace, pointing out the areas he deemed appropriate to be seen by outsiders. Finally, the stepped into a wide, brightly lit room stuffed with cages of various sizes, from the small ones containing rabbits and rats, to large boxes covered with sheets, intended for larger animals, Sherlock supposed. On the other side of the marked linoleum floor, a door was marked as "out of commission".

"This way to Major Barrymore's office." Lyons ushered them across the lab.

They walked over and stepped into a small, book-filled office overlooking the way they came. Scanning the shelves, Sherlock could already make out the owners character – books on Thatcher and Churchill that spoke of family values and love of discipline, several war anthologies and history books with discernibly military characters indicated a soldier to the bone, and not a scientist. A set of leather-bound, unmarked tomes just confirmed what Sherlock assumed – Barrymore was one of the Magicals. Hardly anyone in Baskerville wasn't. Despite the lack of title or any other mark, the books on Barrymore's bookshelf were familiar to Sherlock. He'd seen them in many places, including his brothers office and his parents' home. The Unfinished Books, some people called them. Overly dramatic, really, if you asked Sherlock. All those book were was a ledger of all the names of Magicals born over the years. For most part, the pages were filled with intricate family trees.

One of the limitations of Magical folk was that their magic did not enable them to identify others like them. There were non-magical people with energies much brighter than those of some Magicals. There was simply no way of telling if someone was magical or not. Which was why there were ledgers. Like certain hereditary traits, magic tended to pass through generations of some families – thus the family trees – even though every now and then, children of non-magical parents strayed into the mix. Obviously, Barrymore felt the need to keep this information at hand. Speaking of the wolf...

"Sir." Lyons saluted with a stiff spine as a tall, thin, balding man in a uniform entered the already crowded office, bringing with him an older man sporting a lab coat and a friendly smile.

"I was not aware we were taking visitors today, Corporal", the Major bit out.

"An inspection, sir."

"So I see. But that's the thing – we don't get inspections here. Who are you lot?" Barrymore turned to Sherlock and John with a disdainful look on his face.

"Now there, Major, no need to be rude" the elderly scientist said and then turned to offer his introductions to Sherlock and John. "Dr Bob Frankland, at your service."

"This is bizarre!" Barrymore ignored Frankland's attempts at civility. "I demand to know what you are doing in my lab."

"New policy. Can't remain unmonitored forever. Goodness knows what you'd get up to." Sherlock replied, matching Barrymore's arrogance with his own. God knew it posed not problem to him to do so. He just hoped neither Barrymore nor Lyons would be stupid enough to mention the word "magic" - the task of keeping John under the impression that his was merely a military science base was going splendidly well for now.

"I was not notified of this", the Major replied, his voice full of mutiny.

"It's a surprise inspection, it wouldn't have done much good to notify you." John said.

"Precisely", Sherlock took over. "We will require unlimited access to your labs for a period of 24 hours."

"24 hours?" Barrymore spluttered in outrage. "I will have to speak to my higher-ups before I grant such a ridiculous request." he said, about to turn on his heel and leave. Only, just as he was about to do that, his breath caught, much like it did with Lyons earlier on, and the Major froze in place.

"You already have the permission of your higher-ups. Do you think we'd be standing here if you didn't?" John asked, not in the least bothered by the Major's odd behaviour. Barrymore shook his head, as if to clear it, and focused his befuddled gaze on John.

"Ah...yes." He cleared his throat. "Very well then, yes. 24 hours."

"Let me know if I can be of any assistance." Frankland added.

If Sherlock thought Barrymore's sudden cooperation was odd, he was not about to question it too deeply, lest it be withdrawn. "Excellent", he said, clapping his hands once. "We'll start with this floor."

And so the lab was cleared promptly, if one didn't count the disgruntled murmurs of scientists being driven out of their natural habitat. Soon, Sherlock, John and the two soldiers were the only ones left in the sterile space. With a last warning glance, Barrymore walked towards the exit with Lyons at his heels. In the silence of the empty room, Sherlock turned to John.

"That went smoother than I expected."

"I expected we'd be held at the main gate and thrown into a holding cell until your brother came to pick us up. So yes, you could say that."

Sherlock just snorted and looked around, but before he could say anything John spoke up again.

"What do you suppose all the animals are for?"

"Whatever they're developing in here needs to be tested. I suppose the animals are the first stage of testing."

"And the second?"

"Humans."

"Volunteers for that must be swarming at the door." John marked with sarcasm.

"John, you've seen this place. I do not think they wait for volunteers."

"Yeah, that's not creepy at all. So, what next?" he asked, levelling Sherlock with a questioning look.

"We split up. You go check that", Sherlock pointed at the out-of-commission door. "And I'll see what they're keeping in the back rooms."

"Why do I have to be the one to go in a potentially dangerous room?"

"Because I'm the one with a chemistry degree, so it makes more sense that I am the one checking out the chemicals in the back rooms."

"I am a doctor, you know. I've passed chemistry. Several types of chemistry, in fact."

"And yet, you manage to over-brew the tea. Sorry if my faith in your chemistry skills is lacking."

"Arse."

"Arse with a degree in chemistry. Now go, I'll meet you here when you're done."

With one last long-suffering look, John heaved a sigh and marched away toward the door. As soon as he was inside, Sherlock bolted to the control room he'd seen on their way down. If his instincts were right (and they almost always were), the room was very much not out of commission.


The room was bare, save for the pipes lining the walls that ended in valves and something John assumed were shower heads. In all likeness, it was a decontamination shower room closed down for maintenance. The eerie quiet did nothing for John's nerves as his steps echoed in the abandoned space. He had an inkling Sherlock had a very good reason for sending him in there. And Sherlock's 'very good' reasons tended to be very bad, most of the time. But the undisturbed quiet seemed unsettling at best, but not threatening. John assumed it could have been worse. He walked the perimeter of the room, peering at the fixtures on the walls and searching for anything that could be counted as odd. But the room was disappointingly plain and unexciting and John decided he was probably sent here so Sherlock could go off doing god-knows-what and not be chastised for it by John. John resisted an eye-roll and started for the door. Which is when the siren started howling and the lights flashed.

Momentarily disorientated, John could do nothing else than stumble and cover his eyes as the wailing continued and bounced off the tiled walls, the bright lights suddenly illuminating the semi-darkness of the room in flashing waves. John reached out to find the nearest wall and follow it to the exit. He was almost there when the showers came on, spraying him with a fine mist of whatever was in the pipes. And whatever it was, John doubted it was clever to breathe much of it in, which is why he covered his nose and mouth with the collar of his shirt as he pulled at the door. Only to find it locked. He tugged and tugged, but the door wouldn't budge. His head was pounding with the noise and the blinding lights. Then, just as quickly as it has started, the cacophony died down.

John's abused ears caught the faint sound of the door automatically unlock and he rushed to open them, stumbling back into the lab where he was met with Sherlock's pale face.

"Are you alright?" The Detective's face was unnecessarily close to John's for some reason as the taller man crowded the ex-soldier.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, no need to mother-hen me. What the hell was that?"

Sherlock fidgeted.

"The door must have locked automatically as some sort of protocol started."

"And where were you if I may ask?"

Sherlock bristled with insult, all ruffled feathers. "I was investigating, John."

"Right." John wiped his sweaty palms against the corduroy of his trousers. "And did you find anything?" Sherlock's fidgeting was annoying and more than a little suspicious.

"I'm not sure yet." Sherlock muttered, as if the words themselves offended him. Without a word of warning, the Detective leapt into a fast walk and headed towards the lift, typing out a message on his phone. "Come along, John!"

And if John's head was still spinning a little from the commotion of it all, he had no choice than to risk bumping into a wall as he ran after Sherlock. As they walked out of the complex and back to their car, Sherlock seemed to keep an awfully small distance between himself and John, as if fearing John would come tumbling down any moment.

"I'm fine, Sherlock, no need to hover." John snapped. The fleeting hurt in Sherlock's eyes made him regret it immediately, but the other man did take a step to the side, giving John some breathing space. All the was back to the village, John was aware of Sherlock's strange looks, cast when the Detective thought John wasn't looking. There was something expectant about Sherlock's behaviour. John just looked out the window.


When they arrived back at the inn, the sun already setting behind their backs, Henry was waiting for them. His pale, troubled face cleared a bit when he saw the pair walking up to him, and he almost knocked over his chair in the haste to get up.

"Mr Holmes. I got your message. Did you find anything?"

"Ah, Henry. How many cigarettes do you smoke daily?" Sherlock asked, slipping off his gloves and completely ignoring Henry's question.

"Um... it depends really. Why?" John shared Henry's confusion as both men stared at Sherlock.

"No reason. Tell me, did you change your brand lately?"

"No."

"Hm."

"Mr Holmes, is there something wrong with my cigarettes? Do you think they put the po-"

"And how about the filters? I've noticed you sometimes roll your own cigarettes, any changes in the brand of filters or tobacco?"

Sherlock pretended to ignore John's suspicious looks as he interrupted Henry. The fool nearly gave everything away. But Sherlock needed to know. If the substance that made Henry so susceptible to certain urges were truly in the cigarette smoke – the same smoke Sherlock had so greedily inhaled during Henry's visit – that could easily explain all of Sherlock's...symptoms.

"No, nothing", Henry replied, frowning. "I told you, the only thing that was different was the sugar."

"So you did." Sherlock murmured. They bid Henry goodbye with promises of an update, and then went up to their room. John needed a change of clothes and Sherlock needed...well, Sherlock need a lot of things – a smoke, time to think, a cure for whatever seemed to have gotten into him lately. After dousing John with what was in the pipes of the decontamination showers, Sherlock had done his best to entice John. Had the love-potion or whatever it was in the spray, it should have started influencing John by now. But John seemed frustratingly unaffected. Sherlock, on the other hand, found that his own inner tension intensifying. Seeing John so rattled after the scene in the lab left Sherlock with an unexpected twinge of guilt and a feeling of protectiveness that was highly irrational, given that John was in no real danger and that Sherlock was the cause of his...discomfort. He needed to solve this case, and fast. Perhaps going back to the known routine of their life would settle down this vapid swarm under Sherlock's breastbone.

Unfortunately, none of the things Sherlock longed for were available as Sherlock found himself some minutes later sitting with a glass of scotch in front of a fireplace in the common room of the inn, with John in the armchair across. John had insisted on coming down, claiming he would not spend the entire night in their room, thank you very much, and neither would Sherlock if John had any say in it. As it turned out, he did, so now the two were seated in front of a crackling fire, sipping their drinks in silence, until John spoke, looking at the twirl of liquid in his glass.

"You thought it was in the cigarettes and in the spray, didn't you? The poison?"

Sherlock blinked at the fire.

"I...had a theory."

"You were the one who set off the mechanisms in the shower room." It wasn't a question, so Sherlock offered no answer.

"And it wasn't in the spray, was it?"

"No."

"You were wrong."

"My hypothesis was disputed."

"Just say it, Sherlock. You. Were. Wrong." John pushed. His tone was still dangerously amicable.

"Fine. I was wrong. Happy now? "

"No, I am not happy!" There it was. Sherlock had an ego, but heavens knew John had a temper to match. "Jesus, Sherlock. You locked me in and tested a drug of potentially unknown side-effects on me without even telling me!"

"Had I told you, would you have agreed to go in?"

"That's beside the point entirely!"

"Then what is the point?" Sherlock asked derisively.

"The point, you git, is that one does not do things like that to his friends."

Oh John. How could he still not know? How could he say such things when Sherlock's blood seemed aflame, burning him from within. Friends? Is that what John thought he was to Sherlock? The sudden frustrated rage at the unfairness of it all – of Sherlock having to deal with the raging unrest in his chest while John seemed so unaffected – erupted in Sherlock's mouth, so instead of saying something along the lines of 'you are more than a friend' or indeed just a simple 'sorry', Sherlock came around hissing and spitting venom.

"I don't have friends."

To see hurt on John's face would have been a pleasure compared to the resigned disappointment that spoke of John's worst assumptions confirmed. As if, all along, he had believed Sherlock to be heartless and now getting the confirmation he dreaded.

"Yeah. Wonder why."

And with that he was off, walking out of the inn and leaving Sherlock with a traitorous tongue and a heart that felt bee-stung and swollen.


The air on the moor was biting, the wind howling. John walked uphill until he reached the top and looked back to see the blinking lights of the village below. Energy suddenly drained from him like dirty water out of a sink and with it his anger. He'd been fighting this spiralling fall of his for so long, and rather unsuccessfully at that. Only as of late, John had allowed himself to try and find comfort in the fact he'd known for a good long while. He was, beyond hope of salvation, in love with his mad flatmate. He kept it well under wraps, in his opinion. For the first time in a long time, John felt alive, with Sherlock, at Baker Street, in their mad whirl of a life. He would not risk it for anything in the world. Not even the laments of his heart. And what Sherlock had done felt like...betrayal. An invasion. John thought they were partners. Not a scientist and his labrat. Only it wasn't a betrayal really. Not of Sherlock's character, John thought. Sherlock had never claimed to be moral or considerate. John supposed that somewhere along the way, he'd let his own wishes colour the reality of things. That did not mean he was not still pissed off as hell because of what Sherlock had done. But the anger took a backseat as disappointment flooded John. Just because his heart decided to love did not mean it was clever to. And was there a stupider thing to do than to fall in love with Sherlock Holmes? The case was only adding to the irony of the whole thing. Because, despite what Sherlock thought, John had done some digging on his own about the case.

Honestly, the little comfort John had came from the fact that Sherlock hadn't yet figured it all out. The man seemed oblivious of John's emotional turmoil. But then again, Sherlock was oblivious about a few other things concerning John. Those very things were John's last lines of defence of his heart. Or maybe against it.


There was no point in trying to sleep, Sherlock knew. Besides, he still had a case to solve and Major Barrymore did say 24 hours. He never said there was a closing time at Baskerville. And even if there were, Sherlock had no moral qualms about a little bit of breaking and entering. Taking the jeep back to the labs, Sherlock found himself examining the sugar from Henry's house in the dead of night. He didn't know what he expected to find, but whatever it was remained stubbornly hidden. Not that the echo of John's words and the floating vision of his disheartened face were any help at focusing at all.

There had to be something. In all his years, Sherlock never heard of such powerful magic being trapped in something so mundane as sugar – powerful magic needed powerful objects – but if there were a place where it could be achieved, it was Baskerville. Preoccupied with his thoughts, Sherlock barely registered the sound of steps drawing nearer until the door swung open.

"Oh. I didn't know there would be anyone else here at this time. I do apologise."

"Dr Frankland" Sherlock greeted. "I didn't know you worked the night shift."

"I don't usually, but I had some work that could not wait until morning. Time-sensitive matters, if you understand."

"Quite." Sherlock replied. Frankland's demeanour was nothing if not friendly. Maybe even a bit too friendly, if you asked Sherlock. But that might have been due to Sherlock's foul mood and the fact that Frankland was keeping him away from his samples.

"And what are you working on at this late hour?" The old doctor inquired. Sherlock had a creeping feeling that beneath the benevolent exterior there was something else entirely. No one working at Baskerville could be considered benign. So he decided to use the man while he had him at his disposal.

"The case that brought me here."

"Oh, of course. Poor Henry. I've known his father, you see."

"Yes, interesting. Tell me, Dr Frankland, what do you know of storage of complex multienergetic forms at particle levels?"

The fatherly smile wavered on Frankland's face. He must have been aware of Sherlock's (or rather, Mycroft's since that was Sherlock's assumed identity here) magical nature – the Holmes family was, after all very famous in the magical circles. But Sherlock's question about trapping complex magic at the level particles seemed to knock the good doctor off balance.

"Not much, really. Nearly that any and all attempts at it had failed."

"Have they now?"

"As far as I am aware, yes. The higher magics are almost impossible to bind, as anyone knows. Their separate components can, in theory, be bound and used a catalysts, but even that is almost impossible in practice. I pity anyone who'd think of binding a whole Complex. There was that one time..." Frankland droned on, but Sherlock was no longer listening.

Oh. Oh, of course. How could he had been so stupid?

Grabbing the pack of sugar from the desk, Sherlock dashed through the lab, startling Frankland out of his lecture.

"Mr Holmes?"

"Good evening, Doctor. I do hope you manage to finish your work!"


He found John in their room. John's skin and hair smelt of fresh air and the moor. Undoubtedly, he'd taken a walk to calm down and clear his head. The memory of their fight almost made Sherlock waver. But he could not stop now. Not when he was so close to knowing. John was not in danger. Sherlock just needed to know. And then everything would be solved.

John had apparently decided to ignore Sherlock. He was lying in bed, reading one of his cheap crime novels. Sherlock suppressed the urge to spoil it by deducing the ending aloud. Instead, he moved to John's side and offered a cup of tea he'd made in the downstairs kitchenette. He said nothing as John raised his eyebrows.

"What's this then?"

"Tea."

"Yes, I can see that. Why did you make tea?"

Why? Sherlock couldn't say, for a few reasons and then some. Some of them a bit not good and some potentially catastrophic.

"I mean what I said, John", he said instead, unable to face John's curious stare. "I don't have friends...I only have one."

John tilted his head, sending Sherlock an odd look. Sherlock met it for a moment and then could not look away. All he could do was flick his eyes helplessly to the cup in John's hand and back to John's face. He was about to tell John not to drink the tea, to toss it away when something in John's eyes changed. He lifted the cup to his lips, his eyes never leaving Sherlock. There was something very deliberate in that action and for a moment Sherlock had the insane feeling that John knew. John sipped calmly at his tea.

"I don't take sugar."

Sherlock knew that. John, however, didn't seem to mind. He just kept looking at Sherlock until Sherlock wanted to scream. Draining the last drop, John set the cup back on the saucer.

And then the clock stopped ticking.