Wings of the Damned
Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock
Story Title: Wings of the Damned, part 2, Rockslide
Summary: Sherlocks final problems, his thoughts and why he does what he does.
Character/Relationships: John, Sherlock, Lesrtade, Irene Mycroft - slashy – John/Sherlock lots of pain.
I Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Rockslide
Don't you see I need you, rock?
Lord, Lord, Lord
All along dem day
Moriarty is arrested of course. He is the new media sensation. At least it gets Sherlock and the damned hat off the page.
He's asked to testify. He's an expert.
John looks at him uncomfortable and almost like he pities him. Sherlock can't help but dress with the solemnity of going to his own funeral. The press is an insanity of familiar faces, and he may have not been able to do this, if John had not been there to ground him. His face hides his terror. There is too much information and it sweeps his system as predatory danger. There are too many smells and sounds. People and their disturbing need to cover their scents with deodorant and lotion and shampoo and hairspray and perfume and aftershave becomes repulsive when they scrunch and swell into a mass. Toothpaste and sour breath are of equal note as he feels the tiny drops of spittle from inconceivable questions bombarding him and he is begging the universe to not let him lose the churning tea in his stomach.
On the way, John shows how little faith he has in him.
"Remember—"
"Yes."
"Remember –"
"Yes!"
Just shut up, John. Please don't do this right now.
"Intelligent is fine, but I'd give smart-ass a wide berth," John manages to say.
"I'll just be myself." That is what you have told me in the past.
"Have you heard a word I've said?"
Of course, John, and many more you think you have not. Your vote of confidence is so very encouraging. Perhaps we should have brought the riding crop and you could stand next to the witness box and keep me in line. How can you not understand there is no need to bother with this? There will be no conviction. We are just dancing in his circus. Don't be such a fool, John. You disappoint me.
I wonder how he plans to do it. Will he shoot me in open court? How will he get the weapon into court? No, he will prove his point first. How could you, Mycroft? How could you let him go? I never believed you actually wanted me dead, brother. It makes sense, I admit, but I think you have broken my heart just a little.
It won't be long now. Not today, but not long.
I will meet with my solicitor tomorrow, should have done so already. I wonder if John will be surprised. What will he use it for? Maybe he will travel. I would have liked to travel with him. I never saw much of America. Florida was a bit garish and yet desolate. New York smelled funny. I wanted to see Africa and the Galapagos islands. I wanted to see more of Canada than just Toronto. I hope he travels.
Perhaps he will become a novelist if he ever learns to spell properly. I would so enjoy solving his little imagined crime stories, or offering a twist ot two while he writes them. I wonder if he might include some small bits of us in his ramblings? Bestseller by Dr. John H. Watson, yes that would do nicely. I should comment later and plant the idea in his mind.
The judge doesn't understand. He's an idiot. There isn't one person in this room smart enough to see Moriarty for what he is other than myself and John. He's still flirting. So what's your plan now, Jim? Pop out for a shag? Offer to take me with you? Ride off into the sunset together? Leave John alone. Kill me if you can little spider, but I will die with you before you touch John or The Woman.
Irene. My dear one. You should never have broken your cover to save me. Sending those papers to Mycroft was a fool's task. Oh, but thank you. Have you any idea how much I will miss you, woman of chains and wits. The Woman. The Other friend. Yes. Friends. How amazing. Molly Hooper. Mrs. Hudson. Greg Lestrade. Maybe even Sally Donovan in a vague peculiar way.
Well, wish me luck, John. It's begun.
Contempt of court. Well, they are not wrong. Did I make it so obvious? Good work then.
I stand just inches from him. His cell, right next to me. I can smell him, Patchouli, citrus, lilac, amber, and brimstone. I can feel him over there. He is like a low pressure zone, sucking all the good from the world. Why me Jim?
John is in one of his 'I told you so' huffs. I listen to the timber of his voice, ignoring the words. His voice calms me provided I don't pay attention to his obvious oblivious observations.
He goes to court without me afterward. No real reason for me to bother even if I were allowed. His texts are so hopeful and naive. I could explain to him, in precise terms for his vocabulary level, but then he would try to get in the way.
The verdict, shall we count my life in minutes now? What shall I do with them? Mycroft was so impressed that John met his imagined murderer with tea. That is rather a lovely idea. Perhaps one of them will notice and understand, it means I knew.
Violin. Old Bess. My longest friend. Making love to you for a last time.
Gun, handy. Atomizing truth mist in pocket. Stair creaking. Release and cab over here in less than twenty-eight minutes, must have tipped the driver well to have made the trip so quickly. No, private driver, not afraid to speed. Strange, no second. He's alone? Clean hands not such a priority in this case? Right on time and John won't be home for at least an hour. Probably three, with his pace, if he walks the whole way. Do save that cab fare, John. Our business should be all concluded by then. Win or lose. Game over.
"Most people knock, but then you aren't most people…"
Sherlock cheated on John, once Jim left that is. It was a most unsatisfying encounter, but the luxury of the two cigarettes afterward, made it less disappointing. Didn't come to kill me, just to toy with me. He made his offer and I made mine. Neither of us found the other as amusing as could be expected. His words were somehow more sad than threatening. I am unsure if our encounter cheered him up. He is hiding his depression, and it makes me somewhat appalled. How boring to have such power and still find it all worthless. I pretend to be a sociopath. He pretends he isn't one.
The nothing that follows, is breathtaking. I hope Mycroft doesn't let him go this time. I bury myself in the work and pretend each day that my brother will do his job. John is skittish for a few days, but he slowly falls into the lull of normal.
Two months go by and John watches Sherlock warily. Sherlock has stopped his weekly meeting with P.U.P. beings it had seemed to almost give John a seizure. P.U.P. needs much work on it and there is so little time. Perhaps lowering the dose for long term use would prevent the issue. Sherlock needs data but, he won't use this on John again. He had tons of volunteers, though with so many drugs sweeping through their systems, it can be hard to determine what is caused by the inhalant he administered and what is caused by the fact some of the subjects would sell out their kidneys for the next hit.
Sherlock gently begins to detach from his friend. He is careful to keep his steps imperceptible, but it is necessary until this all plays out. John barely notices.
Sherlock doesn't understand it is Moriarty when he begins. He waits on John, though if he'd taken much longer it would have really been aggravating. Sally gives off a strange vibe. Her words are very poignantly complementary and her face pulls into a passable friendly gesture, yet there is an undercurrent of snarl. Sherlock passes off her odd behavior as Lestrade forcing her to contain her constant sarcasm.
She would have been promoted long ago if she'd been able to show the self-control to contain her mouth. Good, if Lestrade has finally explained it to her, London can hope for news of a new Detective Inspector soon. Sherlock misses the banter he and she shared long ago. The quick wit, though gut wrenchingly dark at times, at least proved she wasn't actually afraid of him. There were times she actually did hurt him a bit, but she was his only whimsical distraction at a crime scene for years before John. Anderson actually hates him, wasting infinite energy on the emotion. Sally dislikes him, but Sherlock never felt she would fit in with the mob of Jackals. She is smarter than the lot of them, just a bit lost at times. Sally is worthy to be almost a second Lestrade. He's actually recommended her for promotion three times.
Perhaps it will take this time, if he mentions her assistance in solving this case. She is the one to happen on the exact location of the children's hiding place. She has fantastic observation skills and quite the dedication to learning. She had asked more questions of Sherlock than ever before. She seemed so interested and exuded a genuine respect for the science behind what he'd done. He patiently explains his steps to her, flattered by her calm scrutiny. She seems to realize that he had not meant to frighten the poor child in any way.
She acts as kind as he's ever seen her, even though he is obviously shaken by the little girl's reaction. Lestrade is philosophical about the whole business, making jokes about wanting to scream every time Sherlock walks in a room. He doesn't engage in banter. Across the street, something moves. The lights flash on and it becomes clear to Sherlock why this case was so chaotically clever and yet the kidnaping held no motive or clear purpose. It is all a sham. He's free again and on the hunt.
I. O. U.
No. This can't be. What are you thinking, Mycroft. Sherlock swallows, having lost track of the conversation in the room. It is time to go. He must get away from John.
Sally leans toward him, eyes soft, smile flitting to her lips. "It was really amazing what you did. Saving those kids."
He pauses and drops his eyes, pleased. "Thank you." You will make an amazing Detective, and I hope you know you deserve it. He can't actually say those things, but he hopes his quiet response conveys it. He moved on to leave, hands shoved in his pockets.
"Unbelievable. Actually," she adds. The words are quite mild, but there is so much venom in them.
Oh. Sherlock can't even respond. I missed your game entirely, didn't I Sally? A jackal after all? It doesn't matter. I may not make it back to Baker Street alive. Head shot in the cab, more than likely. You should enjoy labeling any of the bits and the gore will have Anderson exploding all over you before you are warmed up. I imagine a dead freak will make for quite the engulfing sexual liaison. Please, not in the actual presence of my discarded transport. Spontaneous postmortem gastrointestinal rupture would result if there is such thing as karma.
John waits for him. He's hailed a cab for them. No. Head shot, could hit John as well. "No. This cab is mine. You get the next one."
John looks like a wounded puppy. "What? Why?"
"Need to think. You might talk." Or get in the way of a bullet for me, which would be infinitely worse than what is probably about to happen. Oh, God. John. I have to get you away in some permanent fashion until this plays out.
He texts Mycroft. [ I imagine you realize, a farewell is imminent? Twice. I can't believe you turned him out on me twice without so much as a word. Soon to be late SH]
[Don't be so dramatic, brother. You know I will protect you. M]
[and what of John? SH]
[A given, of course. It might help if you didn't leave him stranded on the street every time he annoys you. M]
[Not annoyed. Trying to save him the vision of a head shot and the misery of rinsing my brain matter out of his jumper. SH]
[Have I ever let you down? When it actually mattered? M]
[No need to grace that with an answer. Much less a list requiring giga-storage.]
The cab driver. How the hell did he miss this? "Stop the cab. Now!"
Dear God. What is it with cabbies being people wanting to kill him?
"I Owe You!" Moriarty says and laughs as he drives off.
Point Moriarty and here I stand in the middle of the street. Come on then. Show my brother how useless he is. Breaks squeal. A figure knocks him out of the way.
"Thank you." I am not myself tonight, you see. I am about to die but, what a lovely gesture. Shaking hands with him and confused because he is as far from a John Watson noble sort as could be imagined. Mercenary by profession, MI6 person of interest, kidney stone sufferer, and set up nearby on assignment. Just blew his cover. The stranger lurches, dancing to the echoing beat of sniper metronome.
He falls. Sherlock braces for the impact of the next round. They could not have missed? Nothing, where are they? I don't understand. Damned it, the man barely touched me. Did they kill him for that? Oh, John, for God's sake not now. No, don't touch me. Mycroft will have a crew here soon. I give him a questioning look directly at the CCTV camera.
I don't explain to John, I can't.
I know where Mycroft's bugs are in our flat. But I realize there are others. He's been watching. All our private conversations, every move is compromised.
"Well it seems we still have some friends on the force. That was Lestrade. They are bringing you in for questioning, for kidnapping." John's face is dark with betrayal.
John and Sherlock argue about him refusing the less official invitation to be publicly arrested and disgraced. Of course, he is back on course. They will be back. This time he won't be able to politely refuse. He hopes to anger John in such a way that he will tell him off and leave for the camera.
John is a tenacious stubborn fool. But Sherlock is too honored by such trust to show any reaction even if it was tempered with the addition of the moniker 'annoying dick'. Actually quite witty, John. Not a penile reference, but a nickname for a private investigator in all your horrible little crime novels.
[Do you see? They will arrest me soon. SH]
[I will send a car around. Do not run. M]
[ Don't be a fool. You can't fix it now. Leave this one to me, brother. I will see it wrapped up within the next 24 hours, I assure you. SH]
[I have new pirate adventures arranged. Please. For the both of you. M]
[You will have to trust me. And no. John would never go with me. I can't escape JM and he would only use John against me. My plan is better. SH]
[Which means you don't have one. M]
[Which means I have several. Fluidity is the key to bending around any obstacle and cutting off the oxygen rather than demanding the opponent stop breathing while you are at a disadvantage. SH]
[Do spare me your useless ancient wisdom. You never listened to idiots before. M]
[I listened to you far more than you ever knew, brother dear. SH]
[Well, now I am truly frightened! M]
[24 hours. Do this for me. I will get you the key code. Believe it to be here somewhere. Hardly a danger to have time to search. SH]
[An amazing accomplishment from Jail? M]
[Hello, nice to meet you. The name is Sherlock Holmes. Let me emphasis the Holmes part. SH]
[It was Donovan, you know. M]
[Yes. Assumed. Have you ever believed in me?]
[You know the answer. M]
[Prove it now. I need 24 hours. SH]
[Do not make too many messes for me to clean up. I am not your housekeeper. Do not die. You will find hell quite dull, I assure you. MH]
[You are the expert. I knew Mrs. H was in your pocket. Not afraid of hell or its tweed clad, umbrella carrying prefect. SH]
[Higher. Not one minute more. ]
[Thank you.]
[Keep John with you. I have great confidence in him.]
[Me too. SH]
His plan is brilliant and I have nothing to fight him with. Nobody does. Not even my mighty brother. But I don't have to make it easy on him. I don't have to play. I have to change the rules to win. The good news is he's not after John any longer.
Lestrade comes himself. The sorrow in his eyes is not as vibrant as the fear. Sherlock isn't sure if it is fear for him or of him, but he offers no resistance to the cuffs. John is in battle mode and outraged that Lestrade is leading Sherlock's betrayal.
Sherlock takes a last long look at John. "He's just doing his job, John." Sherlock glances at Sally, as he is lead out. Reporters flash long distance pictures.
There are twelve police cars here and Sherlock is left against a cruiser. On display, easy target. Jim maybe wants to see him fail to escape? He may die by cop, beings some are from Leman Street over in Whitechapel. Central Operations Specialist Firearms Command (CO19). Sherlock smiled, a little at several familiar faces. He'd never been on this end of the 'blue berets' before. What a lavish production for one unarmed man, who was in good standing less than ten hours ago leading them on the search for the missing children.
Oh. He owns some of you too?. I wonder if you were settled with the actual torture of two innocent children? Mercury poisoning, and not elemental, which would have been safer. They both will probably suffer kidney damage and the boy has terrible odds for permanent brain damage. Which of you, among London's finest, complacently allowed two lives to be forever damaged by this one grand gesture? He's insane. How do you reconcile your guilt? And I am the sociopath.
Can't see you in your gear, can I? I would pick you out face to face. Oh well, first things first. Back to the death bit. How do I beat you, Jim, when you are not here? I need to see you. This anonymously making educated guesses on your next move is useless. How do I tempt you to come out to play with me in person? What do you want the most? You want to watch me fall. In what way? Fall for what? Fall from grace? Damned like you are?
Am I meant to be killed escaping or will it take place alone in my cell? Hanging never appealed to me much. You know you'll have to be quick, to fake my suicide while in custody, because you have all seen Mycroft's ability to disentangle things. So, what flavor shall I choose?
John is suddenly slammed painfully into the side of the cruiser, left next to Sherlock as the older man is searched. Well, that settles that. "Joining me then?"
"Apparently it is against the law to punch Chief Superintendents in the nose." John patiently lets the officer handcuff them together.
"Funny that. Shouldn't make it so tempting." They share a smile. Sherlock bursts out a real chuckle as his eyes track the wandering walk of injury, despite the guidance of the two officers at the Chief's side. Lestrade glares at Sherlock who slides his eyes to John, with a little grin of pride. Poor Greg, turns his back in defeat at the implications and paperwork this will involve. His shoulders sag, but there is just the slightest shutter indicating suppressed mirth.
Well that should keep Mycroft entertained for a moment or two. Whimpy oaf, should have observed Doctor Watson's body posture more closely. He had a wicked throttle for such a seemingly mild mannered man. But that weight shift and shoulder drop never reaches his eyes, so there isn't the normal posturing and bluff to go by. Weight shift, shoulder drop, pain. That is his John. He doesn't pretend to be tough. He is tough, and only pretends he's harmless.
"Yeah. No one to bail us." His career is flashing before his eyes. He doesn't regret the action, but he is not as settled with the consequences.
Sherlock looks at him, the question in his eyes. John's eyes are steady. "Actually I was planning something more along the lines of an escape."
"Not surprised. Not leaving me behind, you know?"
"Wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock says, noting the relief on his flat-mate's face.
The night goes by in a blur. They sit in the darkness on the tiny fold out lilo. John and Sherlock, facing the ultimate darkness, chained to each other with binds much more restricting than the pair of handcuffs. Sherlock doesn't have his lock-picks; those disappeared into Lestrade's pocket when the others were not looking.
"Why are you afraid, Sherlock." Johns voice is so quiet, and conveys something hopeless.
"I'm not. Afraid."
"Don't. Just don't. I just want to help."
"I know. I do know that. I just can't have you in the way."
"In the way of what? Bullets? You don't mean that. I know. Alright? I know. The assassins. What you were trying to say back at the flat."
"You still don't see. You must not." Sherlock whispers the last part and struggles to not sniffle.
"Not without me. Do you underst—"
"Yes."
"I mean it."
"Yes."
"Sherlock? I would never forgive you."
"I know that."
"Good. Because, I am a little scared."
"Don't be. I will win. I always do."
"Ok, then. Yes. We will be fine then? It's going to work out. Somehow," John is asking to be let in on the plan, but when no response comes in the dark, he accepts. "Fine. All fine." His breathing says otherwise.
Kitty Reily, Richard Brook and again he's leaving John. He must. If he can't control the end, he can't stop it's fated outcome. He must see Molly.
