A/N Bit more of Hyde here.
Thanks to Kathrin J Pearl, tranland, Natalie Nallareet, mudkipz, and Guest
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock/Doctor Who/Supernatural/the Avengers/Jekyll, or any associated characters, events, etc.
CHAPTER X. Dark
"Holy hell," John breathed, gazing down at the thin cover of the book now lying on the stiff bedspread. Suddenly, the cover—previously so harmless, even innocent with its cheap illustration of a man's face split down the middle—elicited light chills, genuinely horrifying. "Do you—do you really… is that possible?"
"We're part of a team of superheroes, John," Sherlock shot back, already on the other side of the room, with his hand running through his hair and his eyes bright. "One of which is an angel. Is possibility really a factor anymore?"
"S'pose not—hey, where are you going?"
"Director Fury has to know!" Sherlock shot, turning back with one hand on the doorknob. There was a manic sort of intensity in his face, the look of a man who'd made a truly remarkable breakthrough—which, indeed, he had. "And the rest of them—this is it, this is the piece we've been looking for!"
"Wait up, then!" John said in alarm as the detective took off down the hallway without farther ado. He swung his legs off the bed and hurried after, trying not to pay any attention to the fact that he was shaking slightly, presumably with the adrenaline of a new discovery. By the time he reached the hallway, Sherlock's slim figure had disappeared around the corner, and it was only after several minutes of dashing about and attempting to find the conference room that he stumbled into it completely by accident, intending to ask for directions and instead finding himself confronted with the Director and the detective, both speaking lowly and intently.
"You're sure about this, Holmes?" Fury clarified, glancing up but making no farther move to acknowledge John's entrance. "Because I am not going to waste my time going after an innocent man."
"Absolutely sure, Director. It fits all the facts perfectly—the only question is how, but that barely is a question, half of what we do is impossible nowadays. Perhaps he'll give in to a bit of interrogation after we manage to take him in—all a matter of time, though, what matters now is that we go and fetch him from the police before he breaks and does something to them."
"We at least have to call the team together," Fury muttered decidedly. He hurried to the wall, his long, dark coat swishing with the motion, and depressed what seemed to be an intercom button perched next to a small speaker.
"Avengers, report to the central conference room immediately. Holmes has made a discovery that requires immediate action."
"They aren't going to be very happy at being pulled back right before bed," John pointed out, more giddy than truly concerned. This was it, he reminded himself—finally, finally, everything was going right. They'd be able to pick Jackman up, figure out what was wrong with him, and put him under protection. Then they'd be free to go—free to go back home, a place that he'd never imagined being able to miss so much.
"At this point, Dr. Watson, it's about anything but happiness," was Fury's sharp retort.
Even with the urgency of his summons, it took near a quarter hour for everyone to get into the room, the time of which was spent with Sherlock tapping his foot rapidly and Fury glaring out at the hallway and periodically re-announcing the situation. Natasha and Clint were the first to arrive, followed by the Doctor, then Thor and Steve. Tony, Bruce, Dean, and Cas arrived last in a large group, and Fury didn't give them a moment to catch their breath before pouncing.
"And just what the hell were you thinking, taking so long?" he demanded.
"Sorry, got lost," Dean grumbled. His eyes were a bit bleary, and John wondered vaguely if he'd already gotten to bed by the time he was called in—it would have required being very tired, but looking over the rather pale hunter and reflecting on the fact that he'd been paired with Natasha Romanoff, it didn't seem that far a leap.
"We don't have time for you to get lost, Winchester. Like I said, this is urgent."
"Then tell us what it is, why don't you?" Tony questioned eagerly. He was the opposite of Dean—bright-eyed and eager, apparently all too prepared for attacking the new case. Fury nodded and gestured that they sit down—the Doctor did, but the rest remained standing, their expressions ranging from frustrated to triumphant, waiting for an explanation.
"Holmes, I think it might be best if you detail your thought process for yourself."
"Very well, Director." Sherlock turned to the rest of them, his chin high and his lips curved in a slight smirk. "It's become very clear to me, team"—he used the word with no small matter of sarcasm—"that we are indeed dealing with something inhuman—and simultaneously the most human thing there is."
"Don't be all mysterious and shit, please," Dean whined. "Just let us know what we need to."
"Tom Jackman is the victim of… let's call it a disorder," Sherlock went on. Any other time, John was sure he'd have paused just to irritate Dean, but his own urgency was clear, even disguised as it was under a smooth, casual tone. "One which has appeared a few different times throughout history—always dismissed or hushed up, of course. The only case of it that the majority of you would be familiar with is that documented by Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson."
"Jekyll and Hyde?" Steve blurted out immediately, then looked slightly embarrassed as all the wide-eyed heads of the room turned towards him. "Sorry, it—I read it back… before any of this happened. Um—very good book."
"You read classic fiction?" Tony questioned, sounding as though he couldn't quite decide whether to be awed or humored. An almost shy nod was returned, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearing his throat strongly to bring the room's attention back to himself.
"Yes, Jekyll and Hyde. A variation of this sort of illness, I believe, can be seen in our own Dr. Banner."
"I have… thought of the comparison before," Bruce admitted.
"Hold on." Natasha lifted her hand in a gesture to slow down, looking far less impressed than the rest of them. "What makes you think that Jackman is… Jekyll? What proof do you have?"
"I don't need proof, Agent Romanoff. I have the facts, and that's all I need."
"Give them to us, then," Clint demanded, supporting Natasha as always.
"Fine. The physicality alone is practically enough to give it away—stunning similarity, more so than even most identical twins would have, but with a few very specific differences. You'd all agree, I believe, that the image sent by Torchwood provides for a much more menacing image than the face of the Jackman you encountered? Classic; Hyde had the same sort of differences. The personalities, then. One a rampant, psychopathic murderer, the other a quiet, tired, smart sort of man. And of course the memory—Jackman denied that he had murdered anyone, and he was telling the truth, at least to the best of his knowledge. Isn't that right, Agents? Unless you intend to suggest that you don't have any particularly remarkable skills at lie-detecting, yourselves?"
Natasha scowled slightly, but otherwise didn't react.
"The inhuman strength, that's part of it, too. Even the name is similar—Jackman. I wouldn't be surprised if he was a descendant of the original Jekyll line, which absolutely would have changed their name after the infamy of Stevenson's so-called novel… there's nothing that does not fit. And now, we need to go retrieve Jackman from that jail where he's being kept, and quickly, before he decides to pull another Houdini stunt. We can't afford to lose him again, not now that we know how dangerous he is."
"You aren't all going," Fury cut in. "He needs to be captured, not overwhelmed. A simple matter of transportation—coming in, coming out; we shouldn't need any more than Castiel alone for the job."
"Wait, wait, hell no," Dean interrupted. "He's not going anywhere without me."
"You'll only hold him up."
"No, I… it would be good, for me to have backup," Castiel interrupted, glancing over towards Dean. "Being accompanied by at least one another will assist rather than hinder me."
There was a brief pause, then Fury exhaled heavily. "Fine. Winchester, Romanoff, Barton. You're going to the jail with Castiel."
"I'll need the location," Cas murmured as Natasha scowled and Clint stiffened in what could be eagerness as easily as frustration.
"Guess we're staying back here, then?" John murmured to Sherlock, who responded with a faint noise of irritation.
"Nothing strange whatsoever about that. Missing the action is hardly a concern, but I can't claim to have that much faith in their success."
"They'll do fine," John insisted, to reassure himself just as much as Sherlock. Castiel, having received the address from Fury, was now reaching out. Dean took one of his hands, while Natasha wrapped her fingers around his other wrist and Clint gripped the side of his coat.
The truth was that he was worried. More than worried—positively anxious at the choice by the man whom he was finding himself to trust less and less as time progressed. He had to have some faith in Fury, though. It was the only option, unless he wanted to find himself and the rest of them entirely without guidance.
So he forced himself into blind confidence, swallowing and leaning just a bit closer to Sherlock as Castiel and his company winked out of existence.
Dean hit the ground with no small lack of grace, half-gasping as his elbow collided with cool cement and a jarring chill raced through him. "…Damn it," he groaned, shifting onto his side. "Cas, don't you think you could be just a bit more…"
He trailed off as it hit him that the rest of them were perfectly silent.
Swallowing, he forced himself onto his knees and then his feet, ignoring the pang in his elbow, which he figured was sure to bruise. It was dim—not black, but several seconds still passed before his eyes adjusted enough to identify the several figures clustered in the small room with him.
Cas had aimed well, it seemed, even if the actual transition was a bit rough. There was no doubt that they were in a prison cell—a very small one, a hundred square feet at best, tiny enough to give a definite sense of being more than a little cramped. Cas was near the barred door, squinting into the hallway, which was slightly brighter than the shadowed area they were locked into. Clint and Natasha lingered by the far wall, if any side could be called as much, their gazes directed warily towards the final occupant.
His face was shadowed, sitting as he was on the thin bunk shoved up close to the wall. His body shape didn't much resemble that of Tom Jackman—it seemed minutely slimmer, and perhaps a few inches taller, though height was hard to judge from his hunched position. The dark, tousled hair was all too familiar, though, and as Dean gaped, the stranger's head slowly rose—not in the sort of startled motion understandable in the case of four people materializing in one's jail cell, but rather a movement that was steady and almost eerily graceful—predatory, somehow.
It was undeniably the man that Torchwood had first issued a warning about.
Dark, arched eyebrows stretched over wide eyes that seemed pure black, not quite inky enough to belong to demons but haunting nonetheless. His features were handsome in a sharp, cultured sort of way, and a wide grin gleamed in the murky semi-darkness. It was that grin that caused Dean's stomach to drop and turn, because despite the familiarity of the rest of the face, the smile absolutely did not belong anywhere near the solemnity of Tom Jackman.
"Mm, hello again," he purred. His voice was rich, syrupy, and he oscillated his head slightly as he spoke.
"You say again," Castiel replied in a low growl, "but we haven't met you before… your body, but not you."
"Ooh, quick, are you?" The creature's eyes drifted shut for a moment, and he drew in a long, deep breath as if tasting the air. Dean, utterly confused by this greeting, glanced up and down the figure of the man who he supposed was their prisoner, rewarded only with more expressions of relaxation, casualty. "No… no," he went on, eyelids lifting again, "I haven't met you… Daddy has, though. He didn't like you, either. Which I suppose means that we should be friends… enemy of my enemy, and whatnot."
"I'm afraid we're not here to be friendly, Mr. Hyde," Natasha replied through gritted teeth, and in a single swift movement she had her gun cocked and aimed. Though she was still a yard away from her target, there was no doubt that her aim was flawless, and if she pulled the trigger, the creature would go down.
"Wait," Dean muttered, edging towards her with a hand raised in caution. "…Don't shoot."
"I'm afraid you aren't my superior here, Winchester."
"Fury wants him alive," he replied through gritted teeth, struggling not to grip her by the throat and shake some sense into her. "There won't be much of a way to figure out what the hell he is if he's dead, is there?"
Natasha didn't reply, but her grip on the weapon seemed to loosen slightly, and that was enough to keep him contented for the time being. He glanced back over towards the creature—Hyde—who was now stretching, extending his hands in front of him until the joints of his shoulders cracked audibly.
"Not my friends, then," he acquiesced. "Well, if you'd like it that way… though perhaps I ought to warn you, darlings, I'm not the best person to have as an enemy."
"Torchwood let us know that already," Clint replied coldly. "That's why we're here, in fact. You're not going to hurt civilians any longer."
"Oh, but I hate people telling me what to do."
Tension was tight in every muscle in Dean's body. Hyde's behavior was too fluid, and he didn't look dangerous enough to have overcome Torchwood alone. There was no doubt as to him having the power, though, so what was causing him to hold back? There was certainly something, some method to their manners that resulted in his restraint, and its breakpoint was inevitably approaching.
He glanced towards Cas, attempting to convey some extent of his concern, and was rewarded with an even stare from dark azure eyes, just as confused and doubtful as he himself was feeling.
"Then we'll have to resort to more forceful methods," Natasha murmured, raising the nose of the gun again. "Either come along nicely, or we're going to have to be more damaging than we'd strictly prefer."
"Your preferences aren't of my concern," he shot back, and the words, while bracingly singsong, were practically shouted, startling enough that Dean flinched and would have set back if not for the determination he'd already armed himself with.
"Shame," Natasha snarled, and pulled the trigger.
Or at least she attempted to pull the trigger. She got no farther than a twitch in the muscles of her upper arm before a blur flashed across the rooms, tearing itself forward with more swiftness than a ghost, and then her weapon was hitting the ground heavily and the bullet was shooting out from between the bars of the door, ricocheting somewhere in the hallway and causing a wave of sparks to fire up from hidden metal.
Clint shouted out her name—"Tasha!"—but Dean was paralyzed, unable to do anything but stare on in horror as Hyde shoved Natasha violently against the wall, his fingers wound up in the collar of her sleek suit and his bared teeth inches away from her wide-eyed face.
"I hate," he repeated, pronouncing each syllable slowly and carefully in a macabre imitation of condescension, "silly little people telling me what to do."
She inhaled sharply, audible even from across the room, and then there was another flash—Hyde's movements seemed almost to jerk and blur as he whipped a hand behind his back, bringing it back up in time for his knuckles to collide violently with her cheek, splitting the skin immediately and sending a thick rivulet of blood down to her pale chin.
The movement set the rest of them into motion—previously, the three men had been unable to move, frozen with uncertainty from Hyde's aggressive but harmless position, but the outright violence was enough to launch them into pure defense.
Clint reached them first, lashing out at Hyde's shoulder. The monster didn't so much as glance behind himself before retaliating, taking the assassin's wrist and wrenching it sideways with skilled precision, eliciting a muted cry and sending Clint sprawling across the room, his head colliding with the cement wall. He slumped down, not quite unconscious but nowhere near strong enough to rise again.
Dean would have been worried—scared, even, at Hyde's easy handling of one of the most physically accomplished people he knew—if he'd been willing to spare the time enough for any sort of doubt to cross him. Instead, he threw himself towards the thin, dark-haired man, unarmed but instead lashing out with his hands, reaching for throat, temples, anything vulnerable.
He didn't even see Hyde move, but suddenly there was a fist in his stomach, as strong and solid as iron, and the breath flew from him with such intensity that stars exploded behind his eyes and static numbness sucked against the back of his skull as he stumbled backwards. For a moment, everything rang and blazed black and purple and red, then he became aware of arms around him, stopping him from collapsing to the floor, supporting him under his shoulders and behind his head.
"Dean." The voice pierced the veil of pain raging through him, and was instantly cooling, relieving. Castiel.
"Shit, Cas," he tried to say, but his lungs felt flattened, and it came out as a raw sort of whimper. Get Hyde. Save Natasha. Get Hyde.
Slowly, the warmth leached away, and a sudden wave of violent nausea swept over him. His head tilted sideways—there was a wall behind him now, Cas must have… Cas had set him down—lights flashed before his eyes and sounds whistled aimlessly through his skull, shouting, crashes, something that might have been laughter…
When he next managed to orient his senses, the cell was dark and quiet again. Clint and Natasha were limp forms on the ground, and Cas stood at the door—the prison door, which was somehow destroyed entirely, the bars ripped apart by energy that was doubtlessly superhuman. The angel's eyes were wide as he gazed out into the hallway, his face set and solemn.
Hyde was gone.