Only the Things

III: Semplicemente

Under cover of the relative dimness of night, John would have taken to the roofs, or the relative anonymity of his younger form, or even relished jumping head-first into the miasmas that tended to gather along the Thames. Tonight, though, something gave him pause.

John stared up at the roofs. Somehow, somewhere, he thought he heard footsteps. The whoosh of a transforming Magi, or something… more than the feeling of being watched.

He stayed on the street level. The police presence around Brixton forced the doctor to walk for the main road, where a nondescript black town car awaited him.

The door opened, and the brunette in the black pencil-skirt nodded at him. "Get in, please."

Hefting his cane – and here he saw that she was shifting in preparation, ready to duck or dash – in one hand, John got in.

"Hi, Vanessa." he started as the car started moving. Both of them temporarily ignored the car's third and fourth occupants.

"Today it's Anthea," she confirmed.

"The Greek chorus call me in?" John ignored the correction.

"Um… no."

"How have you been?"

"We've made excellent headway into the government."

John sighed. "Put down the Blackberry, I haven't seen you since you weaved this mask for me."

She glanced up. The device landed on buttery soft leather upholstery.

"You're back," she said after what felt like a geological epoch. "We all thought… Mickey said so."

The third occupant coughed. "I'm right here, you know."

John looked at him. Put on a stone, the doctor part of him estimated. Old money, as John had always thought of someone with a name so embarrassing that he had preferred to be called Mickey. A sable umbrella was held in one hand, the curved-handle kind with a wickedly sharp point.

"John," the man greeted. "How nice to see you."

Beside Mickey, a tuft of white tail swished from side to side. The large-eared head swivelled about its neck, and the Incubator's ever-smiling face oriented itself from Puella Magi to Puer Magi. "Good evening, John Hamish Watson."

"Ebay," John greeted without turning to face it. "You're still hanging around? I thought economic depressions was where you hung out."

"The Magi population in Greece would be threatened should more contracts be forged," Ebay confirmed telepathically. "This entire subcontinent has been cleared for small-scale testing. Keeping track of the first two Puer Magi in over a millennium is part of that."

"Yeah, we're rarities," John muttered. "If you're not persuading little Greek girls to sign their souls over into your eternal war."

"Your Cubes?"

John grimaced, before a bag materialised in his outstretched hand. He reached in and pulled out a series of small cubes.

Ebay reached out, twisting its body in mid-air until it caught all the cubes on some part of itself, be it head, tail or paw. The blue-outline tattoo on its back gleamed, before it slotted open and the tiny Incubator flung the cubes into whatever hollow it was and shifted back to a cat-sitting position.

Momentarily, its head inclined. "Our business is concluded."

"You know, I've got a phone," John shook his head. "I mean, very clever and all that, Mickey, but, erm... you could just phone me. On my phone."

"You haven't been answering our calls," the man with the umbrella answered. "How long has it been since we met?"

"Over a decade, probably."

"And how did you get injured?"

John shrugged. "I got shot."

The other man fairly swelled, and for a moment John could glimpse the dark violet gem hidden in the Windsor knot, the Soul Gem that was proof of the second and only other Puer Magi John knew of. "John. You know that as what we are, conventional weapons are laughably ineffective. The Incubator confirmed as much."

"Sniper rifle. High calibre."

"You don't seem very afraid," he observed.

"You don't seem very frightening," John countered.

Both men exchanged stared for a moment before the besuited man's face split into an infectious grin and the two men shook hands.

"Mickey, have you been hitting the cakes again?" John mocked solemnly. "You've gained weight since I last saw you."

"Losing it," the man now named as Mickey specified. "You, on the other hand, have lost a lot of weight."

"Gaining it," John shrugged. "Demons hitting London much lately? I've been getting lots of hunts just by walking around Tower Hill."

"Imbolc season," the man with the umbrella leaned closer. "What can permanently injure a Puer Magi?"

"Tell me if you know," John shrugged. "I'm still recovering."

"We have a support network for Magi like us, and it started because of you," Mickey gravely commented. "Our network would provide much better than a tiny bedsit, a therapist you regularly lie to, and a pitifully small pension."

John ignored everything Mickey had implied. "It's... not that. It's not about the money. Never about the money. I'm moving house, found a flat-share."

"Ah, yes, with Sherlock Holmes," Mickey agreed. "What is it, John? We've fought back-to-back for ten years."

"You mean, you've stood behind and called our asses into strategic gear in the mazes while we fought to provide your Cubes."

"Being useless in battle is the price of omniscience," Mickey answered with a shrug. "But if you are so inclined to work where you should be recuperating from what took down a Puer Magi, then I can imagine a suitable job for you."

John stared at him. "Pretend, for a second, that I am interested, and that you're not making it up on the spot just as a favour."

This earned a snort. "I always require trusted personnel, both in my capacity as a minor official of the British Government-" this earned a snort from Anthea, "-and as a Puer Magi fighting in defence of humanity. I have news that there is another Puella Magi out to take over London, and that Irene Adler has taken her side."

"A territory battle?" John commented. "The Incubators don't care as usual, right?"

Mickey gave a shrug that still conveyed his opinion of worry. "London has traditionally functioned as their testing zone since the House of Normandy. It stands to reason that they would be looking on to test the efficacy of Puella Magi migration in both short- and long-term."

"Anyway," John changed the subject. "I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me."

"About you, no," Mickey demurred. "About your potential flat-mate, and my brother, yes."

John's brow furrowed. "T- There are two of you."

"Sherlock Holmes was meant to be the case study after Mycroft Holmes," Ebay related. Its voice was cheerful; there was barely any deviation from a joyful, happy tone that seemed to be the default of all Incubators. "A pity."

"Mycroft Holmes and Sherlock Holmes; our parents were genuinely sadistic," Mycroft agreed, though with a touched of extreme reluctance. "He is… He is brilliant, multi-talented, and capable at anything he turns his mind to. But he is incapable of hiding his brilliance, and social norms do not come to him so normally. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Yes," John blurted. "Wait… no. No."

Mickey sighed. "Yes, there's two of me. Try to keep up, O fearless soldier. Otherwise I may have to reiterate that bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity."

"Of course. The world couldn't just give us one arrogant sod. They had to give us two," John paused in his muttering. "Is he... one of us?"

"No," the answer came too quickly. "He is not, and never shall, know of our world."

"Not due to my better efforts," Ebay chipped in.

If Mickey's expression ever changed, John would have sworn that the elder Holmes was glaring at the Incubator.

"If he's half as brilliant as you, Mickey, he must have figured it out." John pointed out.

"That was the tenet of my wish," Mickey quietly answered.

A long silence, before John coughed into his free hand. "Oh. So... oh."

Mickey's silence spoke volumes.

John leaned back on the upholstery, grimacing. "If this is a social call, Mickey, I will pull your brain out through your nostrils."

"A surprising amount of vitriol that the act itself would require, John," came the answer, now that the resulting tension had dissipated. "Your impression of the little brother?"

"He's a bit mad," John admitted. "But if he's haring after serial killers... well, he managed to deduce Harry, except that he missed that Harry was female, she died married and yes, Harry was drunk. Do you guys do that for fun, Mickey? Read a person's entire life history from their physical form or something?"

"It's a family knack," Mickey self-deprecatingly answered. "My... knack, as it is, is much more than Sherlock's, but what makes Sherlock an effective person in his chosen field is his tenacity and resourcefulness."

"Basically he's a mad bugger who's willing to do anything to prove himself right," John guessed.

Mickey grimaced. "I worry about him. Constantly. Since yesterday you've moved in with him, and now you're solving crimes together. It beggars belief."

"Not you too," John groaned. "Mrs Hudson already asked if we'll be needing two bedrooms."

"You can't deny that Sherlock seems to be positively accommodating of you. It's... unusual."

"That's accommodating?" John shook his head.

"You've met him. How many friends do you think he has?"

The doctor and Puer Magi winced as one within John Watson.

"Whereas, if Sherlock were to have a... permanent bond," Mickey soldiered on. "A bodyguard whose endurance has already proven stable in the battlefields of Afghanistan, a protective man who would care for him-"

"Mickey... never. Never. Play matchmaker." John shook his head.

"Ah. I see."

"Thank God you're above all that."

"In one day you're moving in with him and solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"No! No, no!" John moaned. "It... doesn't matter."

His phone beeped. Baker Street. Come at once if inconvenient. - SH.

"I hope I'm not distracting you," Mickey placated.

"Not. At. All." John sighed. "How do I explain that I was in your cushy car, and Sherlock might actually be able to tell if I was in it?"

"I do this with all of Sherlock's... long-term acquaintances not vetted." Mickey waved. "Right now he thinks I'm offering you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to... ease your way. In exchange for information, nothing indiscreet, nothing uncomfortable. With the understood clause that my concern went unnoticed."

Beep. If inconvenient, come anyway. - SH.

"You have this," John tapped the middle of his forehead. "What's my answer?"

"No. Then I would have answered: 'But I haven't mentioned a figure'. You'd tell me not to bother. I would make a pithy comment on your loyalty, you'd reply you're just... not interested, when in fact, you are very loyal, very quickly. Then I would pull out your therapist's notes and comment on your trust issues – which Magus does not have them after meeting the Incubators? – and make another insinuation with regards to the homoerotic status between my brother and yourself-"

"I need to scrub my ears-"

"-and then I'd summarise that from your left hand, it's not going to happen," Mickey finished.

"My hand?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand, your therapist thinks it to be PTSD but it's perfectly steady when you're under pressure. She thinks you're haunted by the war, when in fact you miss it. I would leave, Anthea would take you back, and then you'd stop at your awful bedsit to get that very illegal Sig Sauer and bring it to Baker Street, where Sherlock would make a comment on how you should have accepted my offer and split the fee when in fact he's touched by your loyalty. I believe a candlelit dinner between the two of you follows."

His phone beeped again. Could be dangerous. - SH.

"Really?" John muttered. "A candlelit dinner?"

"Yes," Mickey's smile remained, though it had grown progressively less feral and more of delighted near-sadism. "Yes. By the by, don't let Sherlock take any cabs tonight."

"Why?"

Mickey smirked. "You'll know."

The car slowed to a stop at the nearest corner, and Mycroft opened the door to walk out, swinging his umbrella from one hand.

"Bye, Mickey," John mockingly waved. "Try not to start any Magi wars while I'm away, you know how Puellae Magi get up to."

Behind the magically changing figure of Mycroft Holmes, the silhouette of Ebay the Incubator paced behind, trotting sedately in time with Mycroft's now-adult pace behind the walking Puer Magus, the car drove off, with John and Anthea inside.

"What are you up to, Ebay?" John snidely muttered.

"Go back to where you called me across London to send a text," John demanded about ten minutes after the car dropped him off at 221B Baker Street. "I got kidnapped and then driven back here, and the first thing you ask for is my bloody phone..."

"Have you done it?"

"Ye- hang on!" John typed as quickly as he could. "'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out'- you blacked out?"

"What? No- No!" Sherlock actually pulled himself off the couch to glare at John, pulling a hot pink case towards the fireplace.

"'22 Northumberland Street, please come.'" John finished typing and hit send, before he stared towards Sherlock, and the case, with no small amount of barely concealed horror.

Sherlock paused, and then sighed. "Oh, perhaps I should mention – I didn't kill her."

"I never said you did."

"Why not?" Sherlock pressed. "Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

Assumptions were dangerous, hence all judgements were to be held until further notice lest a Magus accidentally killed a human. John didn't feel like explaining this, though. "Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

"Now and then... yes."

Sherlock then proceeded to explicate, with broad sweeping gestures, everything about the case – how the murderer wound up with the unwanted memento of his crime, how he got rid of it, Sherlock's cleverness in finding it – all down to the colour. "It had to be pink, obviously."

"Why didn't I think of that," John murmured half to himself, and was stung when Sherlock immediately replied: "Because you're an idiot. No, no! Don't look like that. Practically everyone is. Look. Do you see what's missing?"

John glared. Well, the idiot says: by virtue of it not being there, you bloody rude arse... "How could I?"

For asking, John was walked through a series of deductions concerning the whereabouts of the phone, which had to be pink, and its most likely fate...

John was equal parts astonished... and alarmed. "Did I just text a murderer?"

The phone rang and John picked it up. [Number withheld]

"A few hours after his last victim, and the murderer receives a text that could only be from her," Sherlock mused. "If somebody just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer... would panic."

"Why are you talking to me?" John asked as Sherlock leapt up and began pulling on his coat. "What about the police?"

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull." It sounded petulant. "Four people are dead, there isn't time."

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull."

"Relax, you're doing fine," Sherlock deflected. "...Well?"

"Well what?" John bristled.

"Well... you could just sit there and... watch telly," Sherlock suggested, with a hint of disbelief.

"You want me to come with you?" John cottoned on.

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud," Sherlock dismissed with a shrug. "The skull attracts attention, so... problem?"

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan."

"What about her?"

"She said you get off on this."

Sherlock paused a long moment. "And I said dangerous, and here you are."

He turned with a sweep of his coat as John took that in. "Dammit!"

"Come to spy on me now?" John later remarked as he spotted the cat-like form perched on a streetlamp, specifically watching him. He was quiet so as to not draw attention from the ongoing drugs bust that had greeted them when Sherlock and John had come back from a candlelit dinner, a run through London and catching up to a case of mistaken identity in a black hackney. Magic filled the area around 221B; clearly, a Puella Magi was hunting around. John resolved to have a firm word with that Magi soon.

A black cab rolled up towards 221 Baker Street, and here the driver got out. The man readjusted his cloth cap, an ordinary move, except that John's gut told him that the man was clearly possessed, that the sheer wrongness of the demon housed in a human body could be felt even from the second-floor window.

Wraith, Incubator and Puer Magi concluded immediately.

"Wait, the police…" John swallowed as the cabbie headed up towards 221B. John walked out, ignoring Sherlock's shouts towards Scotland Yard in general before he passed the attic window.

"They cannot stop the wraith," Ebay murmured. "A demon that embodies murderous intent… how unique. I wonder what its effects would be."

John's hand was steady as he climbed onto the banisters. His limp had faded as he rested his weight on one arm. The Soul Gem around his neck sparked, before the Mark I Webley revolver materialised in his hand, but the cabbie had already gone into the house.

"You play a risk, John Hamish Watson," Ebay persuaded. "Better for Sherlock Holmes to draw it away, before you place yourself at risk."

"Ebay," John spoke through gritted teeth. "Now I know you're up to something."

"Does it matter?" the Incubator lightly asked.

At the same time, the cabbie exited the building and got into his cab. Seconds later, a dark head poked out, wrapped in a flaring dark coat.

"You idiot," John muttered, raising the gun.

The shot rang out at the same time that grey-white light consumed his form, and as the cab started to move. A tyre popped, and with it Scotland Yard poured out, all of them headed towards the disabled cab.

While Sherlock was bemoaning the loss of knowledge amidst Lestrade's yells for a search party, John had taken to the roof, where he caught the Puella Magi above. Her dark hair was cropped short. Instead of a school uniform, she wore a layered skirt of black lace, rusty red and golden silk. Her bodice was a stylish mess of red leather belts with golden buckles, on top of a blouse fashioned out of red and with black lace edging and netting. Dark gloves reached up to her elbows, and lace-up boots with square heels hugged her calves. A subtle reddish glow came from her main belt buckle, where a carmine crystal gleamed in its housing.

"Daddy…?" the Puella Magi's stared from John to Ebay, and then back again. "Ebay? You didn't… who are you?"

"A Magi, like you," John answered, feeling sick with realisation.

"You have done well, Lucy Ferrier," Ebay murmured, though its lips did not move. "But, the wraith was intercepted. In moments your link to the last demon swarm will be taken into custody, and relieved. Your father is going to be arrested."

"Stop," John softly persuaded. "Lucy… you can't trust Ebay. It's lying to you. It does that. Everything is made so that we never have to lie."

"The only way you can save your father here is to kill Sherlock Holmes," the Incubator continued cheerfully. "Without Holmes's evidence, there is no proof. The one you made your wish for, the one you healed with your miracle, will remain free."

"Your father's a serial killer," John rapidly spoke even as the Puella Magus began to edge away from him. "He's killed four people already, there was a lady in pink yesterday. You can't help him."

"You can," Ebay murmured. "Holmes is only one man, and human at that. No one would ever think it was magic."

A coin appeared in Lucy's hand. it spiralled about slowly, as if suspended in mid-air. John could see the resolution right before Lucy Ferrier even pointed the coin towards the ongoing crime scene.

The report was loud, as expected from a .455 bullet. The Gem never stood a chance.

Lucy's form tottered, almost in disbelief before death overtook her eyes. The girl fell down from the roof of 221B Baker Street, her brains dashed on the pavement and with a sickening thud. As the finest of the London Metropolitan Police gathered around the dead body of Lucy Ferrier, John's sixteen-year-old form had long disappeared into Baker Street's buildings, where, a flash of grey later, John doubled over in the toilet and was violently sick.

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