Chapter Seven
John woke later than normal. He had been kept up most of the night with his mind in turmoil. Every time he'd tried to sleep he'd see Vara with her beautiful eyes and funny way of speaking and she'd say, "John, I am the Whore of Babylon." It didn't exactly put him off but it was unsettling. How could one woman be perfectly normal and utterly abnormal all at the same time? And how on earth did he keep getting dragged into messes with these nutters?
Speaking of, John got up to see what state Sherlock had worked himself into. He was where John expected him, not far from his music stand in his big leather chair, his violin clutched to his chest, fingers plucking absently at the strings. Apart from his hair being mussed, obviously from his hands running through the dark curls in agitation, he looked as he always looked when he was on a new case. Distracted yet focused. You'd never know there was a mind whirling in there so fast there should have been smoke coming out of his ears.
"Did you get any sleep?" John asked politely as he started the kettle.
"Hmm. No." Sherlock's voice was rougher than usual from disuse.
"Plan on getting any sleep any time soon then?"
"Probably not. Not until I have this sorted," Sherlock said. His thumb plucked out a discordant series of notes.
"Where is our illustrious guest?" John smiled to himself. Of course, he didn't believe any of this was actually happening; the eternal woman and her not quite family of undying madmen? Nah, in all likelihood he was in a coma or had a Sherlock-induced breakdown and was now drooling in some padded room in a lonely hospital which, if all of this did prove true, was the first place he planned on heading.
"I believe," Sherlock said, "she's sunbathing nude on our roof." Sherlock grinned a little when he heard pottery clatter from the kitchen and John's startled curse as he spilled hot water on himself.
"What if someone sees her!" John blustered. Sherlock glanced up from his violin to meet John's worried face.
"Then I imagine they'll get an eyeful," Sherlock responded calmly. It was unfair of him to needle John but it was so easy he couldn't resist. John always turned the most alarming shade of red. Sherlock could only see the top half of his face over the miniature chemical lab that had once been a dining room table. He currently put John at a 7.5 on the about-to-blow scale. "Maybe you should go check up on her, make sure she's safe from peeping pigeons." Oh, that got him to a 9, interesting.
"Well, I mean, if you think I should…"
Sherlock heard a clatter from upstairs. "Ah, well," he said with fake regret, "maybe next time."
Vara flung open the door in a rush, her long dark hair shining in waves over her shoulders which were, thankfully, clothed. She wasn't wearing John's night-clothes anymore, but a dark blue wrap dress that hit her about mid-shin. "Where did you get that?" Sherlock asked rather sharply. Vara grinned and twirled, the hem fluttering around her legs. "Do you like it?" she asked. "I ran into your lovely land-lady as I was going up and the dear loaned this to me. How did you ever deserve such a sweet woman to take care of you? Oh, hello John!" Vara waved at John who looked as though someone had clubbed him over the head. He's hit a full 10, Sherlock thought.
"I feel so much better now," Vara said before John could pull himself together enough to return her greeting. She walked to the window and basked in the sunlight. "Just like my old self."
"Should we be worried," Sherlock said dryly.
Vara peered at him through her eyelashes and gave him a long look up and down. "Hmm, maybe…"
John cleared his throat loudly from the kitchen. "Well, I for one am very glad that you've recovered." A little ass kissing never hurt anyone especially when said ass made Mrs. Hudson's dress look positively indecent.
Vara smiled brightly at John. "You're such a sweet man, Doctor. You should take lessons from him, Sherlock. He could teach you a thing or two about human interaction."
"You look different," Sherlock said, pointedly refusing to acknowledge her ridiculous notion that he had anything at all to learn from John Watson.
"Well, I would, wouldn't I?" she said. "I got my mojo back! Soaked up enough sunlight to get all my bits working properly again. Would you like to inspect me?"
"Yes, actually," Sherlock said as he put aside his violin. Vara's heart leapt into her throat. Blimey, she thought, didn't think that would work.
Sherlock towered over her and repeated what he had done the day before in the morgue. He tilted her head this way and that to observe the way light played in her eyes and across her skin, both of which were brighter and even more luminous than they had been before. He ran his fingers through her hair and she only just had enough self-control to keep from embarrassing herself. He was close enough that she could tell he'd showered sometime in the night; he smelled like expensive body wash and bow rosin. She watched him as he watched her. In the morning light, Sherlock's eyes were actually two different colors. One was greener than the other with a dark evergreen band on the outside and a splash of brown near the top, the other more golden near his pupil and a paler shade of blue.
"Heterochromia," she sighed.
"Hmm? Oh, yes," Sherlock said.
"What did you say?" John asked, closer than Vara had expected. When he saw Sherlock plunge his hands into Vara's hair, John had decided that she also needed a professional doctor's opinion and supervision.
"It's when one eye is a different color than the other or multiple shades within the same eye," she said.
"Ah," John replied, squinting up at Sherlock. "Apparently. So, Sherlock, what is your analysis?"
"She appears livelier," he said. Sherlock turned Vara to have her back to the window. He tucked her hair and held out her ear to let the light shine through the shell in a vivid pink. "Or more alive, whatever you want to call it. Her pulse seems a little over elevated though."
John cleared his throat. "Yeah, wonder why. Should we go back to the lab?" he asked.
"Might be a bit awkward," Sherlock said. "I'm sure Molly is wondering where the body is and seeing it waltz back into the lab will be hard to explain."
"Understatement," Vara said ruefully.
Sherlock stepped back crossing his arms, his black dress shirt straining at the buttons. "So," he said, "what are we to do with you, Vara of Macedonia?"
Vara's eyes glazed a bit as she stared at his chest. One quick tug, she thought, and those buttons will fly off at the speed of light. "Whatever you want," she said, her voice husky enough to make John blush.
Sherlock smiled tightly and flopped back into his chair. "Wonderful. Now, impress me."
"What?" Vara asked.
"You feel all better now and I'd like to see an example of your tremendous powers. Go on. Surprise me."
"Oh. That."
"Yes, that. Unless, of course, all of this is some drug-fueled faffing about in which case we can all get on with our lives. I, for one, want nothing more than to put this foolishness behind us."
John winced. Sherlock might have been able to say that in a nicer way, but sometimes he couldn't resist the urge to be an insufferable dick. Vara, to her credit, did not back down to Sherlock's venom. "You'd like that, wouldn't you," she said, her voice overly sweet and her eyes daggers. "Who would've thought a mind like yours would shrink from the unknown. How… disappointing." Sherlock stiffened but said nothing. "You want proof?" Vara looked quickly around the room and grabbed a book. "Is this important?" she asked.
Sherlock read the title and shook his head. "Good," she said and in the space of a heartbeat the object went from a book to… a book, but solid, clear crystal. No. Sherlock blinked as light reflected off, but not through the book.
"What is that?" he said, his voice tense.
"Oh, this," Vara said quite casually. "This is now a giant diamond book."
She tossed it to him and he caught it reflexively. It was heavy, heavier than it should've been for a medium size guide to British bird watching and, yes, it was quite obviously a book shaped diamond.
The room was silent for a long while. John collapsed into his battered armchair like a marionette with its strings cut.
"How?" Sherlock finally asked, dragging his mismatched eyes away from the book to look at the impossible woman before him. She raised her chin in defiance.
"I told you how last night," she said. "It's not my fault you had your head up your arse and refused to believe me."
"How could I believe you? How could I possibly believe you, this is madness," he yelled as he leapt to his feet, waving the book-thing at her face. "Can you change it back," he demanded.
Vara shrunk back from him, edging farther into the sunlight. "No, I can't," she said.
"What! Why not?"
"Once I change something I can't undo it, it doesn't work that way. I can change it into something else, but it'll never be that same book again."
Sherlock looked beyond aggravated. "You said you could do anything, so prove it! There's no reason you shouldn't turn this back, it makes no sense."
"Yes it does, you prat," Vara snarled at him, getting right back in his face. "Think! Hardening an already carbon based object into a diamond is simple, one big step, but I would have to know every word, every molecule of ink, every tiny stupid picture of fucking finches, binding, glue, you name it to make that into a book again so before you get after me thinking you know anything, anything, better than I do you had better check yourself, you, you," Vara's lips twisted, "you cock!"
Vara turned and faced the window, her arms crossed and her back stiff. Sherlock lowered the book and opened his mouth to, maybe, apologize, when a shot rang out. The window in front of Vara exploded in a shower of glass. She dropped where she stood, a gaping hole in her upper chest so large you could see her heart feebly beat once then stop. Sherlock dove to her, covering the wound with his hands, blood thick and hot covered him to his wrists. He was yelling though his ears were ringing and his voice sounded muffled. John leapt up the moment the shot rang out and drew his pistol from a pocket built into the side of his chair. He ran to the window and stood with his back to the wall beside it and screamed at Sherlock.
"What?" Sherlock shouted.
"Get down!" John said though Sherlock had to read his lips to know what he wanted. John took a deep steadying breath, refusing to look at the mess that had been Vara, and darted his head out of the hole where the window had once been before leaning back against the wall. He hadn't seen anything. Judging from the hole in her chest oh, God, it's huge he guessed a .50 caliber sniper rifle fired from as much as a mile away.
John's ears started ringing as his hearing returned and he could work out that Sherlock asked if he'd seen anything. John shook his head and slid down the wall, his knees giving out. He finally looked back at her and Sherlock who was covered in her blood.
"Is she…" John gasped.
Sherlock pointlessly took her pulse. She was so tiny. Such fragile little hands. He looked at John.
"She's gone," he said.
"Well," a deep voice said from the doorway, "I wouldn't say that."
