Author's Note: Thanks to IamDoctorWholocked, Larahna Steadyblade, Hellscrimsonangel, and… Hellscrimsonangel! (For reviewing three times :D thanks!)
It's a bit alarming how on-track some of you are with this- I'll just say, some of the predictions are dead-on, and it's crazy how I've already written it and you all are on the same page!
The game is beginning this chapter, though the game won't become clear for a long while. It'll be complex, and great fun for Jim and less so but still fun for Sherlock. The setting will change, and will remain changed for the majority of the story, for multiple reasons- because England is an unfamiliar area for me and is therefore hard to write, because the game requires factors found in the new setting, and having characters with wings in London is very difficult as it is crowded and they have little opportunity to use them while maintaining discretion.
So yep!
Chapter Fourteen
"What was that about Jim? Jim who?"
"Good old Jimmy Moriarty, Molly's old mate from school."
"What?"
"Yes, he flew in her window and I found them snuggling, reminiscing, both of them all wrapped up in his wings-,"
"His-?"
"And apparently it was his idea for her to shove me out the window, because it would help me better access my instincts and achieve flight-,"
"Now, just hold on a minute, what the hell are you talking about?" Sherlock wandered into the kitchen and got a bottle of water out of the fridge. John followed, feeling a lot lost.
"I have wings. Courtesy of 'Jim', and the Americans, and a few dead babies." He wriggled his shoulders and released his wings, shook them once, and then let them hang in a relaxed manner down his back.
John grabbed for a chair and managed to get in it before his knees went. He sucked in a few breaths.
"Okay…" he said faintly. "Okay. Right. You… have wings. And, erm, since when have you had wings?"
Sherlock sighed. Explanation were such a bother, but he needed someone who knew. And who was on his side. Molly had most certainly lost that position. He felt a tickling of remorse. Probably because she made excellent coffee.
"I woke up about two weeks ago…"
MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH MH
The first thing I noticed was that my orientation had changed. My body was lying in a different direction. Second thing I noticed was a low sound grinding at my ears. It was a moan, long and drawn out, exhausted and pitiful sounding.
Oh. That was me. I quickly found the muscles that made it stop, and then went searching for my eyes. There they were. I opened them- and shut them again quickly. God, it was bright.
I had passed out. Or fainted, or whatever. That was new. I'd never fainted before. Why on earth had I fainted? I… I… oh…
Jim. Sherlock. I took it as a bad sign that I was in a bed. I groaned again, louder, and turned on my side, curling up.
"Molly! You're waking up. Good, good… You just need to stay relaxed, okay? Just focus on your breathing, and don't tighten up your muscles. It'll be over soon." That was Jim speaking. What-
My body. My body was on fire. I was being torn apart from the inside out, and the outside in- I was being torn, torn, ripped, I was breaking and burning and dying. Oh, God, what was happening- I was going to die. I needed to die, because there was fire and pain and I just couldn't take it. My chest. Going to explode. I couldn't… I just couldn't…
Think. What was going on? My brain refused to respond, it was flooded with fire and pain, every nerve ending in my entire body roaring and screaming.
"Just a few hours, Molls, you can do this. I'm right here."
My body rebelled against my organs, and they fought back viciously. My spine tightened and I uncurled, a high-pitched whine coming out of my throat that turned to ragged coughs. Something propped me up (my back was heavy, something was pulling me down like a backpack) and I retched, keeping my eyes closed, into what sounded like a bin placed in front of me. When that was over, the pain was a little less, but not much. I forced my eyes open as arms eased me back down.
"Why?" I managed to rasp, curling up on myself, feeling like I was imploding.
"Molly, don't be oblivious. Who deserves wings more than you, you lovely thing? And anyways… you're part of the game now."
I could hear him chomping on a piece of gum. The sound was familiar and comforting. I focused on that as I rode out the pain. Jim. Jim was with me.
SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH
.oOo.
.oOo.
THREE MONTHS LATER
.oOo.
.oOo.
"Sherlock!" John bellowed upon ending the call. He heaved himself to his feet and shouted again. "Sherlock!"
The pale man peered into the sitting room from his position in the kitchen, working on his most recent experiment (the dead flesh's ability to support the growth of various mushrooms).
"What are you shouting about now?" he grumbled, turning back to the toes he had on a dish. Since the events at Herefordshire, Molly hadn't returned to the morgue, and therefore he'd had a much harder time accessing body parts. John fretted about her disappearance, but Sherlock knew she wasn't dead in the same way he knew how Moriarty's mind worked.
"I've got to go, I've really got to go… I've just spoken with Harry, and her girlfriend was just murdered and she was mugged... She's a mess, and if I don't help her, she'll get back into the drink and never come out," he called, already getting on his laptop to find the soonest flight. "She's in America, she's been looking for a new start and things were starting to get okay again, and then this… I'll be gone for a week or so, could you let Bart's know?"
"I think I'll accompany you," Sherlock decided languidly, stretching his legs under the table.
"Yeah, okay. I'm leaving as soon as I can, I'll call a cab while I pack- wait, what?"
"I said I think I'll join you. Where in America?"
"I… you can… fine," John scoffed, heading upstairs to pack. "Let you know on the ride!"
Both of them threw their cases together quickly, and Sherlock put his projects in the freezer.
"Where are you boys headed off to now? Long trip, from the bags," Mrs. Hudson noted as the thundered down the stairs.
"New York," John panted. "Upstate, in the countryside up there."
"New York? Good lord, be careful, won't you? They're tough up there, all them Americans and their gangs," she fretted. "Be careful of the food, too, I've got a friend who's daughter got food poisoning-,"
"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, we'll be going now!" Sherlock announced, marching out and slamming the door behind them. The cab was already waiting to take them to the airport, and they piled in, John talking on his phone and making arrangements for their departure in London and arrival in New York.
Sherlock listened to the calls quietly, patching together the situation. It seemed bad- Harry hadn't made many friends other than her girlfriend, Lacy, so she didn't have much of anyone to turn to, as people usually did in times of distress. Hence he and John's flight to America. A small town in the northern area of New York, which he knew to be very rural.
He turned over a few ideas in his head. A crime, that was good. John told him that he wasn't very good around mourning people (his exact words were something like 'insensitive asperger priggish git') so he would make minimal contact with Harry. Rather, he would focus on the case. Meet the local force and make use of his collection of forgeries and pickpocketed loot.
Wings- would they give him a problem? He doubted it. The airport security searched for metal. His wings were most definitely organic material only. As long as they didn't decide to pat him down he would be fine. So- appear innocent. He was glad he wasn't wearing his jacket (for now it was late summer) because that would bring suspicion. Or he could just flash one of his badges.
They arrived at the airport with good time, and made their flight minutes before it took off, having to half-jog to the gate. Sherlock hadn't been on a plane since he'd faked his death and ensured his friends' safety. Since attaining his own wings, he hadn't been able to compare the sensations of normal wings to flying artificially. It was uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than he'd ever been on a plane. He'd never had a problem with flying until now, when he could fly easily (practicing at the top of high buildings on foggy days, far up enough that he was just a spot in the sky at best, invisible most of the time) which he found ironic. He found himself gripping the armrests at takeoff, a fact that didn't go unnoticed by his companion.
"I didn't think you had a problem with planes," John mused.
"I didn't think I did either. I presume it's the experience I've got with flying for real that's unsettling me," he said through gritted teeth. John frowned with sympathy.
"I could go ask one of the attendants if they have anything to help you sleep," he suggested, having had to mournfully leave his first aid pack at the flat.
Sherlock nodded jerkily and John departed and returned quickly with a small plastic cup with a pair of pills in the bottom. "One now, and one if you wake up," he said. Sherlock ignored him and downed both, to which John sighed and rolled his eyes. The nurse had offered three, but he'd expected Sherlock to respond this way. Two wouldn't hurt him.
New York. They landed in the city of New York, as it was one of the few flights they could find at such short notice, and planned on renting a car and driving almost five hours to where Harry lived. They managed to get a car (mercifully Sherlock was still too sleepy to be picky) and loaded their things. John drove, as he didn't trust Sherlock to drive in such a drowsy state. Worry about his sister, subdued for so long but now released in a flood, kept him wide awake.
By the time they arrived at the little town that she lived in (it had a grocery store, a small mall, a handful of restaurants and gas stations, a medium sized hospital, a school, a fire station, and only five intersections) Sherlock was awake again, awake enough to grill John about the details of Lacy's murder. John didn't know much.
"She was from Boston, a big city, like Harry was from London, another big city, and they became friends quickly. Lacy was a dental hygienist and got along well with everyone, except a few of the boys in town, who resented her, erm, 'sexual preference'. But all of them were well-to-do gentleman, according to Harry." He gave what he hoped were all the necessary details, knowing about Sherlock's short temper with 'ordinary people'.
"Good. And it's been how long since Lacy was murdered?"
"Almost a day."
"Damn," he scoffed, wrinkling his nose. "The crime scene will be tidied up. Let's hope the force here takes good photographs."
"Mmm."
"Did she say anything else? How she was killed, where?"
"She said they were walking back from the bar, and it was late. They walked down a narrow street and Lacy was grabbed and pulled into an alley. Harry was fairly incoherent from that point on- we'll ask her again, because I couldn't understand most of what she said."
They arrived at Harry's house, on the edge of the residential area of the city, almost in the countryside. A part of Sherlock's mind was entertaining the idea of taking the car out into the hills and going for a fly. He hadn't been flying in the wild since the Herefordshire incident.
John was right about Harry being incoherent. The woman looked awful when she opened the door for them.
She looked much like John, with her wavy brown hair, pulled up into a high ponytail. Her deep-set, round eyes had lines around them (though Sherlock noted that many of them were from crying) and she had the waifish look of someone who depended on chemicals, but her skin was clear and her stance was poised enough that it was obvious she hadn't been dependent in a while. Her hand, serving the dual purpose of holding the door open and holding herself up with the door, lacked the marks from twisting metal beer tops, and her nails were too long to be able to pop the tab on a can.
"John. And Sherlock, right? C'mon in," she said, voice dull and weak. John glanced at her with worry, then at Sherlock, who gave his head a minute shake, telling him that he was sure she hadn't started drinking. They followed her in. The house was fairly large, a combination of Lacy's fairly good income and Harry's money that she had extra (as in money that was usually spent on alcohol) paying for it, and she said she had two guest rooms, which was lucky, as neither wanted to sleep in dead Lacy's room. John thought it would be eerie. Sherlock disliked the lavender walls.
"What happened when Lacy was… stricken?" Sherlock asked delicately when they were unpacked and sitting at the table, having tea. John had kicked him, so he'd kept his language as passive and gentle as possible.