Down Street, as it turned out, was big.
Up and up they went, and up some more, and even farther up, and it didn't seem to end. The incline was steep, so steep in fact that John's much-hated psychosomatic limp started to come back with a vengeance. His muscles ached long into the climb, and though the rock was smooth it still felt like hiking up a bloody mountain. John was far from out of shape, but as time went on, and as they went up, something seemed to quiver deep inside him. His muscles started to ache, his heart started to pound. John felt himself start to wheeze.
What the ever-loving fuck? Frustration suffused John's limbs. He was a sodding soldier! Marching was what he did. This was not difficult. It was a steep incline, but it wasn't worse than marching up mountains. John knew from mountains. Why was he wheezing then? It was completely absurd. He was stronger than this. No—not just stronger; he was better disciplined than this. And his damned leg—it wasn't a real limp! It hadn't bothered him at all in the Labyrinth, and that had had much more treacherous terrain.
London Below. It had to be because of something about Down Street. Maybe it made people tired, the way the Labyrinth made people lost?
John stole a glance at Sherlock.
Sherlock wasn't marching, because Sherlock never marched. Sherlock dashed, he ran, he strolled, he glided. He was walking. Walking quickly, but still walking. He wasn't out of breath. He was flushed a little from exertion, but nothing unhealthy. He wasn't wheezing.
John was sure he was red as a tomato. What the hell?
Sherlock paused when John stumbled, about four hours into walking up the bloody street, swearing.
"We should rest," he said, eyeing John.
"Don't be ridiculous," John hissed, "We're not that far behind them, we should—"
"—not fall over from exhaustion," Sherlock grumbled. He pointed to the far wall. "Sit."
John scowled, but he sat to the left of a torch in the wall, because if he didn't sit, he thought his leg might give way. He could feel his heart pounding, and his pulse throbbing in his ears. Sherlock rummaged in their pack and pulled out a protein bar, which he handed to John. He also pulled out a coffee.
"We're out of juice," he said. He sat next to John.
"You need a bar too," John insisted.
"Slows me down."
"Don't care," John said fiercely, and glared until Sherlock complied.
They shared the coffee between them and ate their bars in silence. John felt is heart calm with the rest even though it was fairly uncomfortable sitting on Down Street because of the slope. To John's horror, exhaustion tugged so hard on his aching limbs that he felt himself sway downward with the decline, despite his earlier few sips of coffee. He shook his head.
"We should go," he told Sherlock, "Before I fall asleep."
Sherlock eyed him.
"Twenty minutes," he said. He shuffled over so that he sat downslope of John. Sherlock nudged John's shoulder with his own. "Rest quick, John."
John almost protested, and then decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. God, he was tired. He let his head collapse down on Sherlock's shoulder, and was asleep almost instantly.
He had vague impressions of dreams. The color red, and heat. Somewhere, someone was giggling, and there was a—a bird? It cawed, and it was very frightening.
"John." Sherlock's voice dissolved the dream like sugar in tea. He sounded worried. "John, don't die."
"Huzzat?" John asked him fuzzily, lifting his head. He felt like he'd just closed his eyes.
"Your breathing patterns are that of a ninety-year old man," Sherlock told him unhappily, "And they're getting worse. We have to hurry."
John was about to ask him, what the hell? He was about to say, no ninety year old could climb this absurd street! He was about to say, I'm fine, Sherlock, why are you worried?
Then he remembered why ninety was a significant age, and why Sherlock was worried.
"Oh," he said, and tottered to his feet. His leg did feel better for the nap. "We have any of that coffee left?"
Sherlock let him finish it.
Up they climbed, and up and up. John thought of death, and of dying, because he needed the bloody adrenalin to get him through this. Some aspect of himself—not his health or his shape, because those were pretty good—but some aspect of himself was ninety, and this sort of strain was extremely dangerous for someone of that age. He could drop dead any minute, and then where would Sherlock be?
He'd be alone and frightened in London Below. And he was frightened in London Below—he needed John more than ever, down here. Sherlock knew London, and he knew logic, but London Below didn't always make sense, and when it didn't, Sherlock needed someone to lean on.
Like hell was he leaving Sherlock to deal with it alone.
So John gritted his teeth and marched on, like a good soldier. And on he marched, and on and on. Down Street wound around a great, dark well that went all the way down to the ground. John tried not to look down, because while he wasn't afraid of heights, at this point the spiral had become dizzying. The bottom was a long, long, long way down, and he didn't want to think about a fall like that.
But John did look up, and he was, after hours of marching short of breath, heartened to see that they were more than half way. His feet damn well felt like lead.
Sherlock didn't race ahead, or drag his feet. He stayed nearly glued to John's side. This would have been annoying—John wasn't an invalid yet!—but it was Sherlock, and Sherlock knew John. He didn't stare, or check on John, or any of those things. His eyes stayed forward, and he even let John stubbornly take the outer edge of their spiraling path without complaint. He only matched John, stride for stride, and didn't say a word.
It was good they didn't speak, really. John wasn't sure he had the breath for it, to be honest.
Hatred wasn't really an emotion John had ever associated with Down Street before, he mused as he huffed and puffed and marched stubbornly at Sherlock's side. Now it was.
Up they went, and up and up and around the spiral, again and again. John told himself the Labyrinth had had an end, and so this hellish street must have one too. He marched, and he marched, and he marched.
The rocky path curved, and leavened out. It widened a little and Sherlock reached out and grabbed John's wrist. At last, he stopped. "What?" he asked.
Sherlock gestured, and John looked up from his lead feet.
"Oh, what the hell," he blurted in dismay.
They'd come to the end of Down Street. That was clear enough, because the great spiral path cut off like the end of a ribbon. It ended in a ledge, like a broken bridge, and went nowhere.
Placed on the edge of the end of Down Street, was a tiny, absurd wooden plank, which led to a tiny absurd wooden platform that hung suspended from nothing.
"Are you bloody kidding me?" John spluttered indignantly. "We just spend hours walking up a sodding road that went nowhere?" The anger hid the fear.
If not Down Street, how were they supposed to get out of here? There was no place to go. There was the Labyrinth, and Down Street. If Down Street went nowhere, then what? How could they get out?
Sherlock squeezed John's wrist. "Stay here," he said softly.
"What do you mean, stay here?" John snapped. "Where the hell would I go?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and went to investigate the ledge. John's breath caught—he hated Sherlock near ledges, he hated Sherlock above him: anywhere Sherlock could fall was dangerous, made John sweat and his heart pound.
Sherlock crouched at the ledge, beside the plank. He reached over the edge, felt around the bottom. He prodded the plank and frowned. Then he stood and looked back to John.
"Perhaps—Oh!" His eyes fixed on the wall on the outer edge of the path.
"What?" John asked.
"There's a lift," Sherlock said brightly, and walked to the stone wall.
"There's a what," John spluttered, and followed him.
Tucked in the dark, sooty mortar between gray stone bricks, was a small, round elevator button. It was wood, painted black, but it matched the mortar so well it was nearly impossible to see. It was labeled.
UP
"Huh," said John. Sherlock pushed it with his thumb. Somewhere above, there was a buzzing sound, as in an old-fashioned human operated lift.
John and Sherlock looked up, into darkness.
Sherlock rang the lift again.
The silence of Down Street seemed louder after the second buzz.
"Great," John muttered, unenthused.
"Shh! Listen."
John listened.
There was a low groaning sound, like an ancient motor, and creaking. Something was moving up there.
Slowly—very slowly, John thought irascibly—a dark box began to descend. It was an antique service lift, painted in a peeling olive green. John and Sherlock watched it descend with almost comical slowness, before shuddering to a stop on the far wooden platform, on the other side of the ridiculous plank. The metal lattice door slid open with a bang.
"Of course," John muttered, rolling his eyes, "Of course we have to cross that thing. It doesn't look stable, but what fun would it be if it were? Why the hell doesn't it go to the ledge? That would make sense!"
Sherlock chuckled behind him. "It's London Below."
"Right," John agreed, exasperated. "I have no idea why I would ever expect anything down here to make sense." He made his way to the wooden plank, and crossed it carefully, muttering indignantly the whole way. He didn't have a fear of heights, but his heart did leap into his throat when he chanced a look down.
It was a very long way down.
Still, he made it across without incident, and onto the other wooden platform, and into the lift. It was very small on the inside. Sherlock followed after, and John held his breath as Sherlock strode confidently across the plank, over the great, gaping chasm beneath.
Sherlock smiled at him brightly when he walked into the lift.
The lift, which presented a problem. "Which button?" John asked him, baffled. There was a whole row of them, small and black and unlabeled, and John had no idea what floor they wanted.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and hit the next-to-last one. The lattice door slammed closed and the motor started up again. Slowly, creakily, the elevator began to rise.
"How did you know?" John asked.
"The button on the wall said 'up,'" Sherlock explained. "Which implies there isn't a 'Down.' It is likely, then, that we were in the basement. The next-to-last also has a great deal of wear, which suggests that it is the ground floor, and that we are not in a sub-basement."
"Some basement," John muttered.
Sherlock grinned at him. "I thought everyone kept a Labyrinth in their basement," he said blithely.
John burst out laughing.
The lift creaked and groaned and the motor sputtered and struggled. Still, it made its way up valiantly. The yawning emptiness around it was replaced by an elevator shaft, which was somewhat reassuring. Finally, it reached a promising looking wire door.
There was a footman on the other side.
When the elevator creaked and shuddered to a stop, the metal lattice banged open, and the footman opened the wire mesh door. Cautiously, eyes on the man, John stepped out.
Really, he should not have been surprised. The footman was wearing a powdered wig, of all things, but it was mussed. The powder was on his face, and the strands of fake hair were frizzed, as if he'd fallen down, or someone had pulled them out. It sat crookedly on his head, and a few strands of blonde hair were peeking haphazardly out from beneath it. His scarlet livery was tousled and torn, and when they approached, he cringed back.
He had a black eye, and he held himself gingerly, like his ribs hurt.
"Are you alright?" John asked, concerned, but Sherlock overrode him.
"The man who struck you," he said excitedly, "Can you describe him? Did he have anyone with him?"
The footman glared. The effect was somewhat ruined by a flinch and the black eye.
"Listen," John said gently, "I'm a doctor. You look wounded. If I help, will you tell us what we want to know?"
The footman eyed him mistrustfully. "I think," he said at last, wheezing a little, "That my ribs are broken." His eyes widened with alarm, and he shivered. He looked terrified.
John rushed forward. "Alright. It's alright. Can I see?" He slung the bag off his back and started rummaging for the first aid kit.
By the time he'd got it out, the footman had hesitantly begun to remove his tunic and jacket, but he watched Sherlock warily.
"He won't hurt you," John assured him, "And I won't either. I'll patch you up in exchange for information. It's a fair trade, right?" Although, in reality, John would patch him up for nothing. He looked awful. "What's your name?"
"Winston," the footman said. "You?"
"Doctor John Watson," John introduced himself. "He's Sherlock Holmes. I'm a London Above surgeon. Or—I was, anyway. I took an oath to do no harm to my patients, okay? And you're my patient. I really won't hurt you."
The footman seemed to relax at that. He removed his tunic, but he left his breeches on. John hissed in sympathy.
His chest was blotched and bruised. The skin had torn in places, and he was bleeding sluggishly. John held out his hands. "I'm going to check you for breaks, and listen to your breathing, alright? I need to touch you for that. May I?" At Winston's nod, John gently reached forward to feel the contusions. Winston flinched, but allowed the touch.
They didn't feel horrifically broken or shattered, which was good. Poor Winston did cringe as John felt around, though he tried his best to be gentle. A small fracture, maybe?
"A boot," Sherlock was saying excitedly. "Hunting boots. Steel toed. Yes?"
Winston nodded.
"I don't have a stethoscope," John apologized, "So I'm going put my ear against your back, okay? I want you to breathe."
John listened. His lungs didn't sound damaged, which was very good, but in all honesty he would really prefer an X-ray or a CT scan.
"Okay," John said. "You've either got a minor fracture, deep bruises, or both." He rummaged in the first aid kit. "I don't have any really good painkillers in here, so you should get some of those if you can. In the meantime—" He handed him two blister packs with two paracetamol pills each. "Not the greatest, but it's all I have. Swallow two, then wait four hours before taking the other two. Also—" he cracked their last remaining cold pack. "Have this, get yourself some real ice, if you can. Keep active, but take it easy. No heavy lifting or heavy strain, okay? Rest if you need to— just try to stay upright, except to sleep. Don't put pressure on it. I can give you a few breathing exercises to prevent a few lung infections. Don't wrap it; it could damage your lungs. Give yourself at least six weeks to take it easy, okay? If you need longer, take it."
Winston nodded. He blinked at the cold pack. "What—?"
"Put it against the break. Should keep down swelling," John told him. "But don't put pressure on it."
"Oh. Can I put my clothes back on?"
"Hang on, let me take care of some of these cuts."
The first aid kit had four antiseptic wipe packs left, so John used two of them to mop up where Winston was still bleeding, and he bandaged the wounds carefully.
When he was done, he asked, "Do you have any more injuries?"
"Some bruises on my legs," was the response. "But nothing else. Is that it?"
"Yeah, that's it." He patted Winston's shoulder gently.
He reached down for his tunic and winced, so John retrieved it, and helped him put it back on.
"Okay. You can alternate with that," John gestured at the pack. "It'll keep down swelling. On your eye, too."
"Thank you," Winston said.
"You're welcome. Could you answer some questions about who attacked you? Did he have anyone with him?"
"Yes," Winston said, as John helped him back into his jacket. "He was a young man, short, with red hair. His eyes—" he swallowed. "I've seen those eyes before in killers. Blue, like fine china. He had steel toed boots, as Mr. Holmes said, from London Above. Though the man was born Below, I can tell you that. He's an assassin; I know the type. He had with him—a man and woman, younger than him. He threatened the girl, and the boy listened. He was—" he dropped his voice to a whisper, "He said if I told anyone he'd—he'd cut out my throat!"
"Then we'll guess," Sherlock said excitedly. "Did the boy have strange eyes?"
"Yes, sir, they were many colors, like a gemstone or an opal," Winston said, catching on. "And the girl too. He—the boy, he—left a door." He bit his lip.
"Excellent!" Sherlock grinned. "Can you take us to it?"
"Yes, sir. Follow me." Gingerly, Winston meandered over to a side table by the elevator door. There was an elaborate candelabra standing on a small side table. He picked it up with a grimace.
"Ah—" John said, "Let me?"
"Thank you," Winston said. He handed the candelabra to John. It wasn't that heavy, though it did have a surprising weight to it. "This way."
He led them up a flight of drab wooden stairs, flinching every other step. "Take it slow," John told him in concern, and he glanced back. Winston set his lips stubbornly and climbed the stairs without another word.
He led them down a hall with a threadbare rug, and then up another flight of stairs with brown sacking that was rather sad looking. Up another flight, that was carpeted. Winston had to stop to rest, and John frowned at him.
"You shouldn't be taking this many stairs," John told him. "Not until you're stronger, at least."
"I'll take the elevator next time," Winston panted.
He led them up more stairs, and the carpeting became richer, lusher. Finally, they ascended a grand staircase with marble curling railings on its end and a deep, plush red carpet down its middle. At the top was a door that was cracked open. Light spilled through around the edges.
"It's supposed to go out to Brick Street," Winston whispered. "It goes somewhere else. The boy Opened it." John could hear the capital.
"Thank you," John told him. "Get some rest and some painkillers."
"I will." Winston nodded. He took the candelabra back from John and walked left down a hall. John watched the light from candles disappear around a corner, into the gloom. He turned back to Sherlock.
"You have your gun?" he asked John, grinning. John nodded. His gun had been snug in the small of his back since they'd entered the Angel's Cage, so long ago. His chest hurt, but he ignored it. "You'll need it."
Through the door was a great, yellow fog. John stepped out first, and the mud nearly sucked off his shoe.
"Ugh," he said unhappily.
"London Fog," Sherlock said behind him. John turned back to glance at him, and he saw Sherlock close the door. He was grinning.
"What?" John asked.
"Yellow river fog," Sherlock said, still grinning. "Pea-soupers. The last was in the 50s, before the Clean Air Act."
"People died in that fog," John frowned, remembering his studies. "Respiratory infections."
"This isn't the real thing. Come on." He started walking. John could hear his steps, shoes making sucking sounds as he pulled them out of the mud. John followed. His throat itched.
"What do you—?" John started. He hadn't felt particularly phlegmy before, but the cough came out thick and wet. Sherlock glanced back at him, alarmed, but John waved him off.
"It's an impression," Sherlock said, though he sounded concerned. He slowed his walk, so he was shoulder-to-shoulder with John. "Like the places in the Labyrinth."
John caught his breath. "Those were real, weren't they?"
"Illogical," Sherlock grumbled, and urged John along.
The fog was very thick. John had no idea where they were, or whether Sherlock knew where he was going. His breaths became wheezes again, and the wheezes became deep, wet coughing. Sherlock didn't seem to know what to do with the coughs. He walked closer to John with each one, so their shoulders knocked. He kept glancing over anxiously. Eventually, he took off his scarf.
"Breathe through this," he offered, "it might filter the air a bit."
John couldn't catch his breath. He took the scarf and held it in front of his nose and mouth. It didn't help much, but it helped some. "We've got to get out of this," he managed on a rasp.
Sherlock nudged him along. John was trying to ask, "Do you even know where you're going?" unsuccessfully through his hacking, when Sherlock ran ahead.
"S—herlo—" John gasped. He took three steps forward, and in front of him, the mist cleared, a little.
There was a bridge. He stepped forward again, and found Sherlock kneeling at its foot. Yellow mist swirled around him. In strange, disturbing eddies. John caught his breath on a wheeze.
There was a body.
Of course there was a sodding body. No one could breathe with this kind of air. John couldn't quite see it, because the fog was affecting his vision. Sherlock was prodding at it, though, examining it with a frown. "We need to get out of this," John panted. He didn't even try to crouch beside Sherlock. He suspected he would fall over.
"He was murdered," Sherlock said. He stood smoothly. "Knife wound to the belly and throat, but he went down fighting. His killer is our kidnapper—look at the prints in the bud. Hunting boots, steel toed. Come on." He pulled John up the bridge.
Up they went, John dragging his feet forward with all his will. They thudded on the wooden boards, but finally, at the apex of the bridge, they were over the fog. John took a grateful, gasping breath. He bent, hands on his knees, and breathed.
"Alright?" Sherlock asked. He hovered uncertainly at John's side, which was fairly annoying, actually.
John was fine. He was bloody fine. It was just the fog. He made himself stand up. "Better. Let's go."
They walked quickly down the other side of the bridge. John thought, a little angrily, that they would normally be running, but to be quite honest, he doubted he had the breath or the strength to run. That fog had taken its toll, though Sherlock seemed okay, the bastard. At the bottom was a door that swung wide off one hinge, the other wrenched off. From inside, there was a shout.
Sherlock took off, John close behind. Adrenalin surged in his veins, making his exhaustion secondary. There was another body, this one clearly torn apart by a knife and very dead, but Sherlock leaped over it, hardly stopping, and John kept to his heels.
Through the door was a warren of stone corridors. There was another shout, and a woman's scream now. Sherlock swung toward the sound like a bloodhound on the trail, and they ran.
They raced down a corridor, and John's vision tunneled. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give in to the strange exhaustion settling over his limbs like snow. His feet slapped on the stone, and he heard his heart pounding in his ears. He loved this. He lived for this, to run at Sherlock's side. So why did it hurt so much?
No matter, no matter. Sherlock needed him.
Around a corner, there was another angry shout: a man's voice, pleading in French, followed by a woman's scream. The same woman, John thought. Two men and a woman?
They turned the corner, and Sherlock took a sharp left.
The room opened up. There was a fireplace burning cheerfully on the wall, and a dead man sprawled out before it, a poker through his neck. His robes—black, and thick like a monk—spread and sprawled softly around him, slowly seeping up the blood. John swung his tunnel vision around, and there was a man.
He was short of stature, slender with a shock of red hair. His jacket was military-issue, green camouflage, and very bloodstained. It had torn on the chest, where he had a great, deep claw mark, as from a tiger or a lion. He spun when John and Sherlock thundered into the room and bared his teeth in a feral snarl. His eyes were china blue and cold as ice, just as Winston had said.
This was most definitely their kidnapper.
Another man leapt forward to grip the kidnapper's arm. He was dressed in pale blue, a waistcoat and stockings, and his shoes had heels. He was also slender, but weedy with a shock of pale hair—couldn't be more than eighteen. "Please—!" he said with a heavy French accent. The man—the kidnapper; that must have been Sortie— threw him off, so he staggered to the side.
John's vision was going gray.
The kidnapper lunged at Sherlock, knife outstretched. Sherlock sidestepped, but the man kicked and he went sprawling. From the left, a woman with wild opal eyes and scars on her face charged, but the man flung her away with barely a thought. She hit a chair by the fireplace with a horrible sound, and the chair crashed to the ground in splinters.
The momentum carried her forward. She skidded against the marble floor, smearing it with blood. The boy cried out something, but John couldn't really hear.
His vision was tinting red now, and there was something—a sound in his ear, like the roaring of flames.
He pulled out his gun. "Get to the back of the room, hands above your head," he said, but the man only laughed.
Fast, faster than anything, the man picked up a piece of the broken chair and flung it at John's arm. John fired, but it went wide because he couldn't bloody see and he felt sick, like he would collapse. The piece of the chair was wooden, and it slashed John's wrist hard, knocking the gun to the floor. John staggered off balance, and the man rushed him.
There was a mad scramble for the gun, and Sherlock lunged from behind, grasping the man in a headlock. But he didn't seem to notice, instead ripping the gun nearly from John's hand and then bashing Sherlock's head with it, hard. Sherlock made a small sound and slid off his back to crumple on the floor, and that just wasn't on.
Furious, John raced forward. His feet pounded the stone floor with the beat of his heart. The man only laughed.
"Oh, so you want to die sooner, then?" he said, very civilized and calm. He actually dropped the gun and kicked it away, let John strike him. He was like marble, and John's knuckles burned.
He reached out casually, grasped John's wounded wrist and flung him, hard, clear across the room. Evidently his small size was deceptive, because he was very strong. John hit the far wall with a resounding slam that rattled his bones. All the breath left his lungs. He had not been expecting that.
His ears rung. Loudly, actually. It sounded like—a train?
Sherlock was snarling something very far away, and there was a muffled thump, and a metal skidding sound. The gun? The gun of the marble floor? The world was red now, and fuzzy as if John were trying to see under water. He pushed himself up.
"Non, non," said a soft voice. Sortie. That was French, right? Had to be Sortie. There was a hand on his back, gentle. "Stay down. He'll kill you."
"Sherlock," John rasped.
"Oh," breathed Sortie, sounding very young and very afraid. "Oh, no."
John pushed himself up. His muscles felt like butter and his vision was failing, black spots danced in the foggy red in front of his eyes.
The girl was sprawled unconscious on the marble floor, but she was breathing, so that was good. A scuffle and a thump, so faint over the train howling in his ears, the roaring of flames. John looked up, and over, and there was Sherlock, wrestling and badly losing against the bloodied kidnapper, with his steel-toed boots.
As he watched, grainy like an old television, Sherlock went down and the man kicked him hard in the ribs with those boots. Something went crunch, and John would have cried out in protest, but he had a better idea.
The gun was lying there, innocent by the corner of the rug. Sherlock must have kicked it. It was too far for John to reach, but Sortie...
"Gun," he whispered.
"What?" Sortie hissed.
"Gun—" God he could barely see and his muscles ached. John gestured as best as he could.
Sortie sucked in a breath.
The scuffling had got louder. Sherlock had curled into a ball, protecting his head, and the kidnapper in the boots was striking him. He had part of the broken chair, a huge splinter of wood, and he was thrashing Sherlock with it and kicking him, hard enough to make Sherlock whimper. John didn't know if Sherlock's distress was an act or not, and he didn't care.
Sortie crept forward, snatched the gun and skidded it across the floor so it scraped loudly. Silently, John cursed him, because the kidnapper looked up and saw.
"You little shit!" he shrieked, but by then it was too late. John had it, and he raised it.
Sortie gasped in what seemed like genuine terror. John glanced at him. He seemed haloed, hard to see. The black spots in his vision danced and danced.
It was just enough time.
The kidnapper had thrown his wooden slice of the chair at John and it struck him hard across the face. The black spots in front of his eyes turned green and danced, but it didn't matter. John only smiled in triumph. It would take fractions of a second for him to get across the room and to John; John only needed a fraction anyway.
The crack! echoed in his ears. The kidnapper bellowed. The world was far away and very hazy.
But they needed him alive, didn't they? So the Arbiter didn't take their souls.
Might be too late for John's. So he didn't take Sherlock's soul, anyway. Like hell. No, John thought furiously over the ringing in his ears. One more. Need him alive, need—
He sighted as best he could, pulled the trigger a second time. He heard someone shout, and hoped desperately that it wasn't Sherlock.
Everything went red.
Red
Red
Red
Red
The nightmare went like this:
Somewhere, Sherlock is screaming. John sees nothing but red light, blazing, burning hot red. Sherlock calls for John, he begs, he pleads. John tries to open his eyes, to call back, but when he inhales it burns and he chokes; when he opens his eyes, he screams, because they shrivel and broil. John's screams make no sound, because there is no sound to be made in the plasma-hot redness of the world. He has no throat and no mouth, but he burns inside and out, and blazing pain licks at the softest core of him.
Somewhere, Sherlock falls from a high tower and dies again and again as he did in John's memory, only this time he does not come back. He cries for John, and then he just cries, and then he bleeds, and fades entirely into the red. There are faces in the redness, grim portraits in orange and crimson terror. There is Moriarty, and a bullet through John's shoulder, and enemy insurgents, and a cabbie with a pill, and every evil and fear to ever haunt his dreams. And it all hurts.
John tries to make a sound, a howl, a wail, something to call Sherlock back, to make him not dead or not gone, or maybe just to scream, because everything is burning. He has no skin but something of him is burning up, burning away. Everything curdles and shrieks with pain and he can see the black cinders, the smoke—it's him. His very being, his very self, and he screams soundlessly with the horror of it, as everything goes dim and sickening and awful and it hurts so very much to turn to ash. He wants Sherlock. He wants Sherlock so badly, though not to save him, and not to be here—Sherlock doesn't deserve this, no one does—but he wants Sherlock because he loves Sherlock, and Sherlock meant safety and home and not this horrible, horrible red pain and red death and red nothing and the red goes on, and on and on and it's red forever and John is going to burn up—
White.
Silence.
Cloying, horrific panic.
The feeling of being held.
He was kept someplace warm, and it was awful, the worst thing. John curled up in shaking terror, but the warmth never burned.
The world went fuzzy again, there was a feeling of motion and then blackness, and he wanted to sob and sob.
"John." A voice he loved, raspy with worry.
The first noise John made was a scream.
It went on and on and on. John choked off into coughing, sobbing, and the tears were hot on his cheeks and that was terrifying.
"Cold!" said a man's voice, sharp. "Get something cold—now!"
A flurry of movement. A voice John loved was swearing. Then there was something cold on his forehead, wiping the hot tears from his cheeks.
Water.
"Shh," whispered the voice he loved, "I have you now. You're safe, John. You're safe."
John breathed hard. "Ice," said the voice he loved sternly to someone else, "And real towels. Quickly! Sortie—Sortie, how—?"
"He's burned," said a second voice, male and softly accented. "But not lost, I do not think. Only hurting and frightened." A hand took John's, warm. John choked on another scream.
"Non," whispered the second voice, "Non, Je—John. Listen, now. Not the warmth but the touch." Pressure on his hand. "Feel. You are not in pain. Can you open your eyes?"
A word. John said it, hoarse with fear. "Burns," he gasped, eyes still squeezed shut.
"No," said the voice he loved fiercely, "You're safe here." Pressure on his other hand, wet and cold but warming. "You can open your eyes." Pause. "Yes?" he asked someone. A wet palm pressed into the side of his face then, and fingers brushed his lashes. The water kept the hand from feeling very warm, and made it soothing instead.
"Yes," said the second voice, French accented. "You will not burn here. I will kill my Uncle for hurting my rescuers. You're safe, John."
The hand lifted from John's eyes. Hesitantly, he peeked one open. The world was blurry, but the air was cool, so he risked the other one.
The ceiling above him was arched and gray. To one side, there was a dark head with a halo of black curls hovering over him. Sherlock smiled with relief when John met his eyes.
"Hello," Sherlock said, very tenderly. His face was black and blue. He had a slash on his forehead and a black eye, and what looked like a boot print on his chin. He was holding his ribs gingerly, and had one arm in a sling. John had never been happier to see him.
"Sherlock," John whispered, and the horrible burning tears welled up. He huffed with panic at the hot sensation, squeezing his eyes shut.
A hand in his hair, fretful. "You're alright," Sherlock said. "I have you. You're alright, John." A thumb swiped away one of the burning tears from the corner of his eye. That could only be good, right?
"Hurts," John whispered.
"Only the edges," said the French accented voice with forced cheer. "You were not in the furnace for long. Maybe an hour or so? It takes years for a soul to burn to cinders. You will heal. You might not even go mad." Beat. "Do you remember who I am, John?"
Of course he did. "Sortie," John rasped.
"Yes," Sortie said encouragingly. "See," he added, must have been to Sherlock, "He is not brain damaged. He will be fine. Oh, thank you, Brother Fuliginous. Here, John. Can you open your mouth?"
Like hell. John clenched his jaw shut.
"Give me that," Sherlock snapped. Something cold pressed against John's lips. "It's ice, John," Sherlock murmured, almost crooned. "It'll cool you down."
Ice. Wary it was a trap, but trusting Sherlock, John opened his lips, and let Sherlock push an ice chip onto his tongue. He savored it as it melted, opening his eyes when it was gone "Another?" he rasped hopefully.
Sherlock beamed at him. He rattled the cup, which he held in his good hand. "Will you sit up?" he asked.
He could, couldn't he? He had a body. He was lying on a low cot, covered with a sheet. John wriggled. When he tried to get his hands on the bed, to push himself up, he flinched hard and gasped. Fiery pain shot up from his fingers. Sherlock's eyes widened.
"Easy," he said. "Here." he set the cup on the bed and he carefully took one of John's hands by the wrist. His hand was warm, and John had time to tremble once before he closed John's fingers around the cup of ice.
"Oh," John sighed. "Oh, that's better." He brought his other hand up to clutch at the cup, too.
John struggled to sit up without his hands, but his muscles felt like soup—hot soup, because they burned when he tried to use them. Sherlock curled his good arm around John's shoulders, though, helping him upright. His arm was warm, and that was fairly awful, but he was Sherlock, and John managed to accept the touch without flinching. "Where am I?" he asked, looking around.
Sherlock was sitting cross legged at the side of John's cot. It was low enough that that gave him full access to John, lying there. It seemed his legs were fairly undamaged, though the rest of him looked really quite terrible. He was black and purple nearly all over. Standing a little to his right was a boy of about eighteen, finely dressed in pale blue silk. He had fair hair and a thin face and bright, distinctive opal eyes. He smiled warmly at John.
"You are at the Black Friars', my son," said a third voice, low and smooth. John glanced up.
In the doorway was a man wearing a black robe. He was fairly small and fairly young, but he was an adult, not a child. His skin was like mahogany, and he was smiling warmly.
"We crossed Blackfrair's Bridge to get here, do you remember?" Sherlock asked.
Fog. Dead man in black robes. Bridge with wooden planks. It seemed like a lifetime ago. "Who—" John coughed. "Did you get the kidnapper?" he asked.
The man in the doorway frowned darkly. "He killed four of our order," he said.
"He was going to kill everyone," Sortie said. "He almost killed Ingress and Sherlock. You saved us, John. You saved all of us." He smiled.
"You shot out his kneecaps," Sherlock told him. "Before—before—"
"Just before your time was up," Sortie said enthusiastically, "You shot out his knees. Perfect shot! How did you do it without being able to see? You must teach me! Uncle can procure me a revolver, probably."
John blinked at his enthusiasm. "I'm—a good shot," he managed. Sherlock barked out a laugh that sounded just this side of hysterical.
"The best," he said.
"What happened after?" John asked.
"He fell," Sherlock said, "Obviously, he fell. Sortie bound his hands and stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth, and I told him to make a door to the Underside line. We brought Croup—it was Croup, the son of Mr. Croup, trapped with the angel—back to the Arbiter, along with Sortie in exchange for you. I brought you here, Sortie put you back and you woke up."
"Mr. Vandemar ate all his children," the monk—no, friar, must be one of the Black Friars, John thought woozily, because it was sodding London Below—added. "Not really surprising, given his disposition, but it did show rather a lack of foresight. The boy—Croup Junior; I believe his name was Evander—was attempting to take over the family business. To do this, he had to kill his father, who was Elsewhere. He had an Opener, but he needed the Key. Our Order protects the Key."
"Obvious," Sherlock sighed. "Had I the data, it would have been obvious. This case was a two at best, John. You are not allowed to die for a two."
John stared at him. He huffed once, twice, and then he was laughing, his chest ballooning with joy. It helped dissipate the horrid burning sensation that still lingered deep beneath his skin.
"You prat!" he managed, snickering, "This wasn't a bloody two! We're stuck in London Below. No one remembers us! We need a whole different rating system because literally everything here is dangerous and this case was sodding life changing."
Sherlock scowled. "Yes, but it was still a two. The kidnapper was obvious, John! If I had known the history, and the culture of Below, I would not have needed to leave the Underside line! You would not have—you wouldn't've—" He gulped.
He wouldn't have burned. But Sherlock's eyes were huge and guilty, so John smiled and reached for his hand. Sociopath his arse. The burning was fading, like a really, truly awful dream, though he still ached under his skin. The laughter had helped.
"It wasn't your fault," John murmured. "You still got me out. I'm alive because of you."
"You're here because of me," Sherlock said, obviously distressed. "Of course it's my fault."
"I wouldn't have missed it," John told him. He squeezed, even though it hurt his aching hand. "Really." He let go, and reached up to touch Sherlock's eyebrow, bruised and blackened. "Are you alright?"
"Bruises," Sherlock told him, a little choked. He shuffled closer to the bed. "I'm fine."
"What about the woman?" John asked, looking up to Sortie. "There was a woman."
"Unconscious," Sortie said. "But she'll be alright."
"Ingress," Sherlock whispered. "She's Ingress. Door's missing sister. Croup found her first, but she never learned how to Open doors properly because she was kidnapped so young. She couldn't do the door to Elsewhere."
"She can only unlock things," Sortie explained, "Not Open them."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," John said woozily. "But now we've paid off Door, right? We don't owe her now?"
Sherlock gave a strangled laugh. He sounded exhausted, and grateful. "Yes," he said. "We don't owe anyone anymore."
John slept. His nightmares had escalated to night terrors now, and he would wake screaming and thrashing. Sherlock had taken a cot next to his, and would wake in the night, and talk him down. Sometimes he would bring him ice from one of the brothers.
The Black Friars were very grateful that John had saved them. Apparently, Evander Croup had killed their best fighters as well as their Abbot, and would have killed the lot of them just to get the Key to Elsewhere.
"A copy of the Key to Reality," Brother Fuliginous had told John one morning. He frequently brought John breakfast, cold fruit and cheese because John still couldn't stand anything warm. Sherlock slept through most mornings.
"A copy?" John asked.
"Mm, yes. The Warrior of London holds the true Key. It could not be in better hands. The copy, however, was made by the Lady Door, and goes Elsewhere. She gave it to us for safekeeping."
"Oh," John said, because he couldn't think of anything better to say.
Sortie came and went. He checked on John fairly frequently. "You saved my life," he'd say earnestly. "Sherlock brought me home. You do not owe my Uncle anything, but I owe you."
"The Arbiter's your uncle?" John asked.
"No," scoffed Sherlock. He was sitting next to John on the small cot, reading a book that one of the Friars lent him.
"No," agreed Sortie. "But he is my caretaker. He isn't my father, but he is—family, if not by blood. Drempel called him brother, because they were close in age. I decided on Uncle."
"And he's—he's good to you?" John asked.
"Oh, very!" Sortie beamed. "He loves his Openers. He got me Perroquet, my raptor. I'll take her to meet you next time I come, yes?"
Sherlock pressed just a little closer to John, though he didn't look up from his book. It couldn't be comfortable—he had at least two broken ribs—but John leaned into him, just a little, for reassurance. Sherlock still didn't like to talk about the Arbiter, and he had screaming nightmares about the Fireman. John couldn't blame him. The Fireman featured in his nightmares, too.
Still, it was good Sortie wasn't afraid of them, at least.
"You named your—your dinosaur?" John asked.
"Of course! She's quite lovely. Would you like one? A dinosaur, I mean? I should like to get you something, or give you something. I owe you, after all, and I wish to pay my debt."
"Ah—ha—" John managed, unsure how to even go about refusing. What the hell would he do with a dinosaur? Besides, he was uncomfortable accepting a gift. He'd saved Sherlock's life and paid the Arbiter, that was what mattered.
"A place to live," Sherlock said, looking up from his book.
"What?" John asked him, but Sherlock had fixed Sortie with frown.
"We need a safe place to live, inasmuch as anything in London Below can be safe. Can you create a door that only John and I can open? A place that only we can access?"
Sortie lit up like a Christmas tree. "Of course! Do you have a door in mind?"
Sherlock grinned. "Perhaps."
"What, seriously?" John asked him. "Did you just ask him for a house?"
"No," Sherlock sighed. "I asked him for a door. He's an Opener; do keep up."
"Yeah, but a door to where?"
"221C, of course," Sherlock said imperiously.
"What? Sherlock, that's in London Above!"
"Of course it's not, John," Sherlock sighed. "Why do you think Mrs. Hudson could never rent it?"
"But Carl Powers' shoes were there?" John asked.
"Alright," Sherlock said, "Describe it to me. 221C. What did it look like?"
John blinked. "Uh," he said, "Bare walls? Peeling wallpaper, kind of damp?"
"What was the layout?"
John frowned.
"It's entirely unremarkable," Sherlock said after a beat. "And I know for a fact that Mrs. Hudson wasn't half so invested in renting out C as she was for B. She hardly thought about it—hardly spoke about it. You barely remembered it existed, and I frequently forgot about it without deleting it. It's important to know the layout of one's own home—had it been memorable, I would have kept it, especially after Carl Powers' shoes.
I've seen the building plans; when the building was first built, it was numbered quite differently. Mrs. Hudson, for example, lives in the original C flat. We lived in what used to be A. But B was frequently forgotten, so one of the previous Landlords changed the lettering, leaving the last, most overlooked flat to fall into London Below."
"So you're saying that you want London Below's version of 221 B Baker street, you sap," John told him, grinning.
"If you object—" Sherlock started huffily, but John laughed.
"No, of course not. It's brilliant, actually." He turned to Sortie. "You could do it? Really?"
"Of course. I would be happy to help." He smiled, big and bright. "And I am sure you would rather finish your recovery in your home."
"Yes," Sherlock cut in. "We would. I would like two doors, however—one that leads in and out of London Below, and one that leads in and out of London Above. An escape route."
Sortie shrugged. "Doable."
"Excellent."
They left the Black Friars some time after that. John honestly had no idea who long it had been. Sherlock's ribs looked a little better, though nowhere near fully healed. John could walk again, which was nice, though his fingers and toes still prickled, and occasionally stung like a healing burn.
"It's your edges," Sortie said as they strolled down a long, cobbled street. Mist swirled around their feet, and there were gas lamps spaced periodically as they walked, though the light they cast did not go far. "You weren't burned much, but the edges of your soul got cooked. It wasn't much damage, but it was enough to hurt, and it'll ache some before it heals. Souls take longer to heal than bodies. I am sorry about that. If you ever run into the Underside Line again, I'll be sure to be there and tell my Uncle to leave you and Sherlock alone."
John huffed. "I doubt we're ever going to go back that way. No offence."
"None taken," Sortie sighed. "No one likes the Underside Line. That's what Uncle told me—we'll see the world, any time and place I like, but there aren't many we can call a friend." He gave John a melting, sad look.
"Oh, please," Sherlock grumbled, bad-tempered. They walked slowly because Sherlock could not walk at any other speed, with his ribs still healing. The pain as well as the slow speed put him in an ill mood, only participating in the conversation to snarl at them. He spent most of the time watching Perroquet.
Sortie had brought his dinosaur to walk with them as they made their way to Baker Street. He could make the door anywhere, but it would be easier to make a door going to a specific place if it was near that place anyway. Since the door was so specialized, and since Sherlock obviously wanted to be on Baker Street more than he would say, Sortie had taken them on foot along the lane.
Perroquet whistled and echoed and frolicked around Sortie gleefully, like a strange mixture of a puppy and a parrot. Sherlock seemed fascinated around his discomfort, and the dinosaur gamboled around him, too, chirping curiously and whistling. The white mist eddied and swirled around the creature's bottom half, as it raced ahead and behind and around them, herding them like a sheepdog.
"Be nice," John told Sherlock, smiling. "Friends are always good to have." He smiled at Sortie, who beamed back at him. "Though we'll thank you if you keep the Arbiter and the Fireman far away from both of us."
Sortie scowled. "Devorat doesn't ever leave the train, don't worry, and Uncle is not particularly sociable. I'm sorry they frightened you."
Sherlock snorted blackly.
Perroquet let out a high pitched trill that became a raspy caw, like a particularly pissed off crow. In the distance, John could hear the clip-clopping of a horse on cobblestone.
"Perroquet! Au pied," Sortie said sharply, and the raptor cawed aggressively again, but slunk close to Sortie's legs. "Stay close," he added to John and Sherlock.
Through the darkness, a horse came into view. Its eyes glowed a little disturbingly, and its rider was dressed in armor. "Hail," said the rider, deep-voiced.
"Bonjour," said Sortie politely. The dinosaur snarled at his heels.
The rider regarded them, and the nudged his horse and continued on his way. the sound of hooves on cobbles faded into the mist.
"Uh," John asked.
"Watch out for them," Sortie said darkly, "Especially if you're going to be living in this neighborhood."
"What are they?" Sherlock asked, and sounded like he hated asking.
"They don't really have a name," Sortie said uncertainly. "But they'll rob you blind."
"You mean that literally, don't you?" John said, exasperated.
"Of course I do," Sortie said.
"Marvelous. Why didn't he mug us, then?"
"Perroquet," Sherlock said, eyes following the horseman. "A poor idea to attack a group with a raptor as protection, isn't it?"
"Yes," Sortie agreed. "At the next Floating Market, I would suggest getting yourselves a guard dog of some kind. Even if you can defend yourself, they are quite nice to have." He reached down and patted the dinosaur's head, which came up to about his waist. "C'est bien, Perroquet," he added, and the dinosaur wriggled.
"Great. Hang on, this neighborhood? This is Baker Street?" John spluttered.
"Of course. Don't you recognize it?"
Sherlock hummed, looking around. John followed his gaze.
The mist was no higher than their ankles, but the street was dark, hardly lit at all by the gas lamps. It was cobblestone, too, which, while not utterly foreign, was certainly different. John didn't recognize it at all.
"As it was first built, perhaps," Sherlock said offhandedly, "And I imagine parts of it are still marshland."
"Yes," said Sortie.
"Excellent," said Sherlock. "We want 221B."
"Unless someone's already living there," John added hesitantly, "Then we want somewhere else."
But there was no one else there but a few rats, as it turned out, scrounging around for scraps. John gave them some chunks of one of their last protein bars, in exchange for the rooms.
"Also," he told them, "If you can find the Lady Door, tell her that her sister is with the Black Friars. She's fairly badly beaten up, but she'll be alright. And from Doctor Watson—tell her thanks for the time."
One of the rats squealed at him, and they scarpered.
"Is it to your liking, then?" Sortie asked. John stood up.
Sherlock had disappeared somewhere in the flat, but John wasn't particularly worried. They'd come in from the street, rather than from the front door in London Above. While the place had looked horrid the last time he was here—when he lived in London Above, when Carl Powers' shoes were here—having experienced London Below, and not being part of London Below, it looked bloody marvelous.
There was a fireplace and a kitchen, a sitting room and even two bedrooms. It even had running water and Electricity, which John thought was practically luxury for London Below, though he worried it might cost Mrs. Hudson if they used it. They'd have to find a way to pay her back.
"Oh yes," Sherlock said, striding back into the sitting room. "This should do quite nicely. I would like a door to London Above as well, however."
"Why?" Sortie asked, but he strode over to the front door, which led to the rest of the building. When he touched it, it swung open onto the familiar landing of 221, London Above. Perroquet bounded over to snuffle the threshold, huffed disapprovingly, and stalked back toward the dark fireplace to sniff at the poker.
"Escapes," Sherlock shrugged. "Also to get some of our things."
"And food from the markets," John said with a wry smile.
Sortie shrugged, "If it's what you wish. A front door to Below and a back door to Above, and you're the only ones they'll open for. Is my debt paid?"
Sherlock and John shared a look, and then John smiled at Sortie. He held out his hand. "Yes, I should think so. Thank you."
Sortie beamed at him. "Thank you!" He shook John's hand enthusiastically.
When he and his dinosaur left, John turned to Sherlock. "We're going to need to find ourselves some furniture," he said wryly, and Sherlock laughed and laughed.
Mrs. Blackpaw raced through the pipes of the Underground. Somewhere below her, a train thundered by in its tracks, and she could hear the faint strains of the Earl's jester singing, slowly fading as the train carried them farther away.
She hopped over puddles and stopped to sniff at a discarded crisp bag, but sadly it was empty, so she raced on. She had some very important news, too important for a Ratspeaker. It had to be delivered in person.
The House without Doors was easy to find, if you knew where to look. Or, at least the white room was.
Out of the pipe and onto a station, and then through a grate and down, down, until she reached a doorbell, which she pressed with both paws.
And when it opened, the Lady Door was smiling, bright hopeful eyes. "Hello," she said.
Your sister is injured, Mrs. Blackpaw said, urgently, But Dr. Watson said she will be well. She is with the Black Friars. He says 'thank you for the time.'
Door choked. "Oh—oh god. Thank you—thank you so much!" She had a slice of apple in her hand, and she offered it to Mrs. Blackpaw, who accepted it gravely. It was sweet and lovely.
Good day to you, milady, she said politely.
"Oh, yes. Very good day to you!" the Lady Door laughed, and looked over her shoulder. "Richard!" she cried, "Richard, take your key—we're going to the Black Friars!"
Mrs. Blackpaw bid her goodbye as soon as she had finished the apple, and then scarpered back to the nest, feeling well accomplished.
There was a new boy in the nest, and he was sitting with Wiggins, wide eyed and amazed. They both greeted her politely as she passed, and then continued on with their conversation.
"So you're saying," The new boy was gaping, "there's a wood on Wood Street, savages in Savage Gardens, Down Street goes down and there's a baker on Baker Street?"
"There isn't a baker on Baker Street," Wiggins told the boy imperiously.
"But that's not what you said!" said Little Bill, crossing his arms in frustration.
Sherlock Holmes lives on Baker Street, said Mrs. Blackpaw, He's a detective. He and Doctor Watson found the Lady Door's sister.
"They should call is Holmes Street, then!" The new boy cried, exasperated. "I thought everything here was lit'ral."
Wiggins rolled his eyes. "You idiot, it's just the opposite. I'm sorry for his disrespect, Mrs. Blackpaw—he's yet to learn his place."
Mrs. Blackpaw chuckled. You were just the same. It's no trouble.
Wiggins smiled to her sweetly. Honestly, it was a good thing that Holmes had killed the Baker—such a shame it would have been to lose this boy. "Nothing is literal here," He added to the new boy. "Mrs. Blackpaw says Sherlock Holmes lives on Baker Street, and that's the end of it! Now. Earl's Court—"
Epilogue to come! Don't forget to drop a review :)