Only the Things

IX: Crescendo

Panting, chest heaving and arms akimbo, Sherlock clung to the surface of a self-moving truck. Overhead, shuttles and their attached threads flew over the striped, red-threaded skies of not-London, truth and perspective rearranging within the server of the Mind Palace.

"John," he rasped.

Said Puer Magi gave a grim smile. "I'm here."

"How long?" Sherlock murmured. "Since...?"

John paused. "Since... twenty years ago, really. I made the contract with Ebay that day."

"Contract?"

"Magi like Homura and I..." John paused, before pulling the shimmering grey-white amulet from around his neck. "We're made through contracts with the Incubators. In exchange for a single wish of whatever we want, we must take up arms and fight against demons. This Soul Gem is the crystallisation of that."

Sherlock reached out a hand, bathed in the wan grey light that bore more warmth than a summer's day. Long violinist's fingers nearly brushes it before the truck jostled, sending Sherlock teetering off of the edge.

"That-" Sherlock gasped. "What is it? That doesn't explain your body."

Grimly, John clung on with one arm, tucking it away. "Yeah, I was afraid you might say that. Erm... you see, normal humans can't take much damage from magic without dying. So... the Incubators... they take our souls and put it in the Soul Gems. Take my word for it, it's crazy."

"Crazy does not cover this," Sherlock waved towards the fascimile of London they were in, hurtling on a self-driving truck towards safe harbour. "This is beyond reason, John. Why couldn't you tell me this? I could've joined you, I would be-"

"Sherlock!"

John seized the impossible detective by his shoulders as the truck hurtled some more past a horde of moustached faceless bobbies. All the constables began taking chase behind the chariot of detective and doctor, truncheons drawn and grimly gaining ground.

"Sherlock," John whispered. "Sherlock... you were in Minsk, right?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Good, so you were in Heathrow..." John swallowed. "Get to Heathrow. You need to go back, now. It's not safe for you, especially if that Puella Magi is after you. Homura, Mycroft... they need help. I'm going back to fight. And... Stay in one piece, alright?"

"You can't be going back," Sherlock whispered. "John, this is-"

"This is the war I signed up for," John answered. "This is... like the Work, except I don't enjoy it. But this is the fate of all Magi, to fight for their prayers."

"They can handle it," Sherlock pointed out. "That Magi, whoever she was, is clearly obsessed with you. Your presence is an anomaly; it would disrupt their progress-"

John shook his head, pulling up his pack. "Magi have no choice but to continue fighting. This is the price we pay for a miracle."

"It doesn't have to be," Sherlock whispered as chaos reigned and the cobblestones of London shook.

"It must," John answered. "Because we met, and I was needed. I wish that you would never make the same mistake we all did."

"You're not going away," Sherlock pressed as they reached the main highway, where a barricade of bobbies and murderers awaited them, weapons drawn. "John!"

"Stay safe."

The truck crashed through the sea of bodies, the Puer Magi in desert tan flinging out his pack to grab one of many suspended rifles and aiming, shooting quickly, and at the same time he grabbed Sherlock and they left. The heat of the explosion nearly burnt his back as magic slowed their fall, hitting the ground, rolling and getting up in one swift motion.

A rumbling of tar echoed, rose in the air again as the tank appeared under her, concealed by magic up until now. John leapt, again with Sherlock held close, and the cannons fired with a volley of sound and pyrotechnics through the faceless men and women with the strength of an earthquake.

A monolith of technology and age, Heathrow loomed.

At the same time, a black cloak unfolded itself from thin air, a chatelaine belt tinkled, and dark curls, pale skin and a deerstalker flew in a passing breeze as Puer Magi and detective crashed with Puella Magi. Howls of wraiths echoed around the Witch, for there was nothing else she could be now, not with the corpse of a cat-like being hanging from her left hand and the other stretched, screaming: "Watson-!"

A white blur crashed into the pair, Sherlock rolling from John's embrace into the entrance of Heathrow International Airport, and the blur followed him through the automatic glass doors.

We meet at last, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, the cat tilted its head. I am the Incubator, Ebay. You have met John Hamish Watson and Mycroft Holmes, my contractees.

"Telepathy...?" Sherlock mumbled, almost to himself. "John?"

"Not now, Sherlock," John answered.

"John," the Puella Magi echoed. "John... John, I came back for you. John?"

The third and last of my charges, Ebay commented. As you might have guessed, Homura Akemi, neither my contracted nor I are from this world.

From above, a flash of purple hefted a sniper's rifle, aimed.

That is the power of the Puella Magi before you, Ebay pronounced. You can change our fates, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

Red strings shot from beneath the cloak, ripping apart mid-air rifles as they twirled to capture John, caught off-guard.

"John!" Sherlock rounded on the alien. "Help him!"

I lack the capability, Ebay dispassionately replied. You can save your friend with what I offer; magic to fight magic.

"No!" John shouted, unknowing and uncaring that he was trapped. "Don't make the contract!"

A red string shot out, catching neatly around Sherlock's neck to tighten like a noose. Standing at the dock, Sherlock Holmes faced her, verdigris eyes to verdigris; one narrowed in defiance and pain, the other wide and dispassionate, both mirrors of each other.

"Shirley Holmes," the Puella Magi whispered. "Hello."

Without a single look, without even knowing anything more, the tapestry had been unfurled within the mind palace, tying those dead eyes and cold expressions towards a personal fate.

"I wish-"

The red strings tightened, John bellowing, rushing towards Sherlock, Sherlock who cringed in on himself as John drew a knife and began hacking at the string that held Sherlock's throat.

She screamed, and with them the clash of a thousand shuttles and the fraying of threads. Curtained in the gauzy ends, the detective looked up to the heavens, towards the flash of purple.

Anomaly, anomaly...

Ebay's eyes shifted, huge and true as verdigris turned to gold, a black coat billowed out, and another crystal formed within violinist's fingers.

"None of this is real."

The threads snap.

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