A/N And once again, I must apologize for the long wait between updates. All I can promise is that I will not abandon this story, Scout's honor. (I really was a Girl Scout once, so this promise is valid…but I digress.)
Warning Murder/suicidal ideation. Lots of mental wheel-spinning and some angst.
(There is also gratuitous Mycroft bashing herein. More action coming up in later chapters, Scout's honor).
Rated M for adult language and situations.
Chapter 14
John christened their newly purchased lorry the 'Bloody Rust Bucket from Hell'. The Bloody Rust Bucket bounded over the dusty, rutted road, rattling The World's Only Consulting Detective in the sprung driver's seat. He glanced down at his companion, who continued to snore in spite of the bone-jarring tremblers.
An articulated lorry passed, leaving a maelstrom of dust and smoke in its wake. This of course, blew in through the open windows. Sherlock choked and squinted his eyes, trying to see the road in the dark, dust storm. They blew past the storm and back into fresh air. The detective gasped for breath. John continued to snore, as if he had not a care in the world.
A harsh bark, which might have been a mirthless laugh, escaped from Sherlock lips. John's problems were so numerous and complex that even a consulting genius combined with the power of the British Government was at a loss. One way or another, it all came down to Colonel Sebastian Moran, and Sherlock couldn't even kill Moran because he was already dead. Bloody hell, as John would say. Bloody hell, indeed.
Sherlock sped up even though the increased rattling was liable to shake the old vehicle apart. Driving at this pace was reckless. Sherlock knew this, knew that John would be furious-if he were awake, which he was not. Sherlock lifted his chin. He didn't care if it was reckless; time was of the essence.
Although the detective didn't really trust this Chas person, this former Lieutenant Charles Kingsley, what choice did he have? He had to get John to the closest supernatural expert, and that was Kingsley.
At least, John's paranormal posse was certain that Kingsley could help. And if he couldn't trust the opinion of those ghosts, what could he trust? Nothing! Sherlock could trust nothing anymore. Nevertheless, he lifted his chin again, in grim determination.
At least they were moving; at least they were doing something to try to keep his blogger safe. As long as Sherlock didn't kill them both in some collision. And even that, thought the detective with a bitter grimace, would be better than letting John face Moran again. Because that encounter would leave John worse than dead, trapped in some macabre spiritual possession.
It didn't help that Sherlock's worldview had been turned on its head. The apocalypse was upon them. He could trust nothing, because nothing made sense anymore. Nothing!
The detective's logical scientific reasoning, which had worked for him all of his life, was rendered useless by John and his bloody supernatural phantoms. Phantoms were not supposed to exist. They could not be scientifically studied (Correction, they had not been properly subjected to scientific study-yet. Sherlock fully intended to correct this lapse, if he and John survived.) But really? Ghosts? Possession? Sherlock gripped the ragged, scarred steering wheel as if he could choke normality out of the lorry and bring everything back to the way it should be.
Good news, John Watson was not insane. Bad news, his blogger could actually see and talk to ghosts. More bad news, that meant that ghosts were real. Oh and by the way, Sherlock, one of the ghosts wants to take your bloggers body and mind, trapping John's soul in an unholy union for the rest of his life.
And it gets even better. His fat, secretive brother had known that ghosts were real all along. Indeed, once Sherlock, in desperation, had contacted his elder sibling, the British Government had calmly begun arrangements to extract Sherlock and the budding medium. His older brother had also referred Sherlock to a government-registered medium who was a consultant for Mycroft Holmes. A consulting paranormologist! (Sherlock had coined this term for Mycroft's very annoying paranormal minion.)
Sherlock sucked in his lip and struck the wheel with the flat of his hand. It was all too absurd.
Indeed, his thrice-damned bastard of a brother had arranged for this personal paranormal expert to advise John on supernatural self-defense. And just how long had Mycroft been aware of the supernatural world? Had he ever planned on sharing this information with his younger brother? That arrogant, secretive bastard!
Sherlock hated not knowing something important. He hated that he had lived for decades, not knowing that there was a supernatural world while other people (Mycroft) had known all about it. Sherlock ground his teeth in fury.
Of course the British Government claimed that he had never suspected that John Watson had any 'talent'. Indeed, Mycroft admitted that he would have kept John Watson under lock and key if he even suspected that John Watson had any special ability . That last bit was no doubt true. Both Sherlock and John were certain that the politician would have had no compunction against dragging John off to some super-secret, supernatural training facility. It was probably, no scratch that, it was a virtual certainty that Mycroft already planned such a fate for John Watson, which infuriated the detective and truly worried his blogger.
"Well, I'd like to see you try it, Mycroft," snarled Sherlock, under his breath. Sherlock might not be capable of defending John from ghosts, but he could bloody well protect John from his pompous elder sibling.
On top of everything else, the British Government had duly informed John, that he, John Hamish Watson, had somehow let his side down. John Watson was a disappointment to friends, family and in fact his Queen and country, because he had the audacity to present as a medium at such an advanced aged. According to the supercilious politician, any self-respecting medium presented in their teens or early twenty's at the latest. "The entire affair," Mycroft had sniffed sanctimoniously, "is quite disreputable. Whatever will Mummy say?"
Naturally, John, who had no control over any of this, took all of Mycroft's words to heart anyway. John was left feeling like 'an old broken-down warhorse' (John's favorite self=deprecating phrase), 'a middle-aged failure' (dear God, now John would start in on his, "I'm too old for you, Sherlock,' refrain), if not an 'actual traitor.' (Which was a load of shite, but of course, John believed it.) The battered blond had sulked about this for hours, much to Sherlock's chagrin. After all, Sherlock was supposed to be the one who sulked, not John.
Sherlock would definitely repay Mycroft for upsetting his blogger. Ohhh, yes, you will pay for this, brother mine, thought the consulting detective, his lips curling in a silent snarl.
Unfortunately, there was precious little that Sherlock could do right now except act as a taxi driver, which was a waste of his genius. Unbidden he remembered his words to Jeff Hope, "you're wasted as a cabbie." Sherlock sighed in frustration; he had no choice but to keep driving and hope for the best. Hope, a stupid, illogical sentiment, and further reminder of the wretched cabbie.
Fortunately, the detective was not tired, not tired at all. In fact, his mind was racing. It was on fire, processing the whole new world of paranormal activity, parsing the problem of Sebastian Moran, analyzing the riddles of the lost weapons caches, trying to develop adequate protocols to protect John against every conceivable eventuality.
Sherlock's fingers drummed erratically on the wheel. He could actually handle everything, had been handling everything, except this cryptic supernatural crap. His fingers danced, and he needed a fix. He needed a cigarette, but didn't want to stop to dig them out of John's bag. He considered trying to wake the sleeping doctor, but no…John had been so ill before he passed out. No. The detective bit his lip and kept driving.
If only Sherlock had a handle on supernatural crap. Regrettably, he was forced to rely on an unreliable expert in London, the potential expert at the monastery and an untrained adept who was completely at the mercy of his new talent. He gazed sadly at his untrained adept and sighed.
Sherlock's fingers danced and itched, because the adept's long-distance lessons with Mycroft's 'expert' had not gone well. John could neither control nor even really sense his innate abilities. Dr. Weisman, the sorry excuse for an expert, had pushed John to 'explore and practice his skills', to 'feel his way', until the soldier developed a migraine and an accompanying inferiority complex. Then the so-called expert blithely announced that the pain was a good sign.
Oh yes, once John sat crumpled, dizzy and wrung out in the passenger seat of the four-wheeled Rust Bucket from Hell, that fool Weisman had told Sherlock that John's headache meant that he was, in fact, accessing his talents. Oh joy, the sicker John got, the better it was. Brilliant, it was only a matter of time and John accessing his 'feelings' (feelings, bah!), and then John would eventually gain the strength and control that he needed. John too could become a medium; he too could contact benign spirits and defend himself from hostile poltergeists. Sadly, John was not likely to have any time to train up. John was not likely to have even a few days before Colonel Moran tried was not likely to survive unless one counted possession as a form of survival. Weisman had actually said as much to the consulting detective before the British Government cut him off.
Sherlock smacked the wheel and utilized some of his blogger's favorite curses.
It did not help that Dr. Yusuf Weisman had blamed Sherlock for not contacting them sooner. If only Sherlock had notified the British Government about John earlier, then a team of experts would already be on the ground, working with the nascent medium. This verbal attack was likely orchestrated by Mycroft; he would pay for that too, thought Sherlock with dangerously narrowed eyes.
For now, they had to rely on the tele-instructions and, in a few hours, John's friend, a half-trained journeyman medium, who was still several hours away by lorry. Of course there was no guarantee that Kingsley could even help. And as Weisman snidely pointed out, Kingsley wasn't even registered (which was actually one point in Kingsley's favor, as far as both Sherlock and John were concerned). The problems were circuitous, intertwined and endlessly frustrating. It was deathly frustrating, and the stakes in this puzzle were John, his John…
Sherlock slammed his hand into the side of the door. He had never been so frustrated, so out of his depth, so…
He slammed his fist against the door again. Startled, John bolted upright; he was only half awake, looking around in confusion and reaching for his gun.
"John," said Sherlock, his deep voice rusty, "John, it's fine. Just a bump in the road; it's fine."
John didn't answer; he just rubbed his obviously still aching head.
Sherlock gently pulled the blinking, owl-eyed man towards him, so that his sleep tousled head rested against Sherlock's shoulder. In only a few minutes, John was sleeping again, his sonorous snores actually relaxed Sherlock slightly. They reassured the younger man that John was safe, at least for now.
And at least, no one had seen Moran recently. Of course no one felt that this would last, not John, not his spirit friends and certainly not Sherlock.
Naturally, as fate would have it, Sherlock was not a medium, and thus he was unlikely to ever see Moran or any one of these bloody phantasms. And this left Sherlock powerless to protect John against Moran.
Apparently, he could not train himself to become a medium either. This ability to act as a medium, appeared to be some rare, inherited trait, according to Dr. Weisman. The expert insisted that John's family probably harbored mediums, who had remained hidden from a less than understanding society. And, according to the expert, John was likely to be a fairly strong medium since he could see and speak to spirits so readily after his initial presentation. Then too, the army doctor had resisted two possession attempts already. Again, JOY! John would be a strong, successful medium, if he didn't die first (or worse).
In spite of Weisman's warning, Sherlock had attempted to develop the ability within himself. He practiced every exercise given to John. Sherlock opened and closed the doors to his mind palace, which was his (no doubt correct) interpretation of Weisman's instructions to John. Sherlock opened the doors and NOTHING happened. No specters manifested in front of him; none of John's pet ghosts heard Sherlock calling them-NOTHING. He was a genius; he should be able to train himself to be a medium, just like John. It would appear that sometimes genius just wasn't enough
Even if Sherlock could not become a medium, he still soaked up all of Weisman's teachings. John was just too slow and stupid sometimes, even if he was the best man Sherlock had ever or will ever meet. Therefore Sherlock would be John's permanent instructor, trainer and his walking encyclopedia of paranormal knowledge. At least Sherlock could do this much for John. But it was it enough? No, of course not, because Moran could attack at any time and John was just not ready.
The desperate detective pounded the door several more times, bruising his damn hand and denting the already damaged door. His lips pressed tight together, and he checked to see that John still slept. John seemed alright, but his forehead was still slightly crumpled in discomfort, from the headache, no doubt.
The last twelve hours had been an exercise in futility for John too. While Sherlock drove and encouraged John, Weisman droned on and on. The paranormologist lectured the same points over and over, then offered false cheer and platitudes,when the army doctor became more and more upset.
Finally, John had blurted out that he would greatly appreciate it if Weisman could stop nagging him and it would help if Sherlock would stop badgering him. John had then deflated with embarrassment over his rude outburst.
The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up for in a ghost of a smile, remembering the giggling that followed. He and John couldn't stop laughing, as Weisman sputtered vapidly over the phone. Then the detective frowned again, as he replayed Weisman's condescending voice in his head.
"Now, now Doctor Watson" Dr. Weisman had said, "That is very droll. Yes, it seems to you that I am nagging. Very droll. Now back to the beginning. Your mind is open, open to the spirits. You are wide open…"
"How? How can you possibly know, from a thousand miles away whether my mind is open," John had demanded, rubbing his pounding head.
Of course, Sherlock already knew the answer to John's question, but Sherlock had, unusually, held his tongue. The consulting detective had noticed, over the last day, that John had become overly sensitive when Sherlock easily grasped these concepts while the soldier struggled with the simplest of ideas.
Sherlock's understanding had taken time to evolve, of course. Sherlock had finally caught on to his blogger's distress, when John chucked the mobile at Sherlock's head. The phone had sailed out the open window, and it had taken five minutes to find it lying in the road. After a brief but bitter argument, they had laughed about that, too. Still, it had been unfair; Sherlock was supposed to be the one who threw phones and tantrums, not John.
Sherlock had learned from this episode and developed a new, patient and empathic protocol to deal with John. In other words, he would try not to rub his superior mind in John's face.
"I know your mind is open, because you can see and talk to your late friends, of course," the idiot expert had crooned in his patronizing voice. "Now that your talent has manifested, you will always be a bit open. When you learn to close yourself off, you will be 'incommunicado' as we say." The pompous arse had chuckled at his own feeble joke, making John cringe."When you are fully closed off, you will be safe from possession. Of course even when closed off, you will be more sensitive than normal people" (Sherlock's mind had cringed at the implied insult. He, Sherlock Holmes, was now lumped with normal people-at least when it came to paranormal activity. It was vaguely humiliating.)
"…Yes, Doctor Watson," continued Mycroft's pet medium, answering a question that Sherlock had missed. "Even normal people," Sherlock steeled his normal self and listened, "or as we call them, the sensory limited, well they still sense spirits. The sensory limited can sometimes hear echoes of ghosts, they may see a spirit's shadow…"
"They don't cast shadows," snapped John. "I noticed this the other day, in the sun. I saw the ghosts quite clearly, and they had no shadows. Nope, none."
"Doctor Watson, I meant mental shadows, or shadows in the aether, of course," said the fatuous fool sitting comfortably in London and probably sharing cake with Mycroft, Sherlock had thought.
"Bloody hell," John had muttered, scowling at his impotent fists and at his own stupidity.
"Yes, as I say, even when you are closed, you will still sense the spirits," the expert nattered on. "Now you will have to learn to tell the difference between open and closed. Then you will learn to close yourself, firmly and persistently. We begin again, you see your friendly spirits, yes?"
"Yeah," agreed John wearily. "Me and my fucking friendly ghosts. All we need is Casper, yeah?" he muttered to Sherlock and whichever ghost was in residence right now.
"How original, Doctor Watson," said Weisman, with unusual asperity. "We never hear jokes about Casper in our profession." Must be another pop-culture reference, Sherlock had deduced. John had shared a weak grin with one of his late friends, which Sherlock immediately resented.
"We have established that you are wide open, Doctor Watson. So feel this; explore this. This is how open feels." John had sighed and let his head fall back against the seat. He clearly did not 'feel this'. "You must learn how open feels so that you can learn how closed feels. Remember, in this open state, Doctor Watson, almost any ghost that is nearby will manifest to you, and you will be able to converse with them. Unfortunately, being so open, you are also vulnerable to attack by stronger, predatory spirits, who might attempt to use you or even take up residence in your mind. No doubt, this is why your Colonel has targeted you. You are the perfect host, really. A strong, receptive medium who has no way to defend himself is the ideal candidate for a spirit looking to take over. Truly ideal. I should tell you, that except in the very earliest stages, this possession becomes irreversible, so it is best to avoid it."
"Really? You think?" John had muttered. "Bloody hell."
The soldier had rubbed his head, suddenly seeming on the verge of tears from exhaustion, fear and pain. Sherlock had bit his lip. He pretended not to see John's distress, and then reached his large hand to close over John's fist.
Seeing John suffer was becoming much too commonplace; Sherlock didn't think he could stand it much longer. He'd prefer to die and take John with him, rather than watch the man suffer anymore. And if Moran succeeded and possessed John…well Sherlock already had a protocol in place that. He wanted to tell John about it, so that John would be prepared. Sherlock wanted to tell his blogger that if worse came to worse, the detective would kill the Sebastian possessed body of John Watson and then of course, Sherlock would kill himself. And the detective wanted John's spirit to wait for him, that they could face death or afterlife or whatever together. Yet somehow, Sherlock was afraid that John might not agree with this plan…
"Yes, it would be bloody hell, exactly!" exclaimed the so-called expert, cheerfully interrupting Sherlock's grim thoughts and forcing John to raise his head. "We want to prevent you from that bloody hell on earth, yes? That is why you must control your mind. You must be able to open your mind or shut it, at your command. Now, according to my notes, your friend Stewart Collins said that you were able to shut yourself off from him, at least eleven times today. Now granted, they were for short periods of time, but Rome wasn't built in a day. I do think you had a sense of it there, the feeling of openness and closedness, yes? Did you not, the last couple of times?"
John had looked at Sherlock and mouthed, "Closedness?"
Then he answered Weisman, "Yeah, maybe. God! I'm really just not sure," admitted John. "And, Stew left awhile ago; Cam's here now. He seems to be a bit easier to work with. I think I might have locked Cam out the last time but…we're not positive…Look here, Moran always runs off when Sherlock is about, maybe that means…"
"What that means, Doctor Watson, is that you are too open. It all comes back to the same problem. You are so receptive, that you even connect with a living person, just like you would with a spirit," chided Doctor Weisman. "Your contact with Mister Holmes focuses your ability towards him, and so you temporarily block your Colonel."
"He's not my Colonel," muttered John sullenly.
"So in effect," Sherlock had said, barging into the conversation, "when John concentrates on me, he closes the door to Moran. Well the solution is obvious," Sherlock had said, smiling victoriously, "I'll stay with John at all times. He'll be safe with me. I don't know why we couldn't come to this decision twelve hours ago…"
"Because it is not a solution, Mister Holmes. This connection with you is NOT the same as closing himself off. It is keeping himself wide open, but only to you, Mr. Holmes. Laudable, but impractical. Doctor Watson must learn to close himself off, or else a time will come when you, Mr. Holmes are not there. Then your friend will be open, receptive to all spirits. And while he is open, his Col… well that is to say, Colonel Moran will attack and possess our friend."
Sherlock and John shared a grimace; both knew that John did not consider Weisman a friend. Sherlock could actually hear the mental snort of derision from John.
"Now we will start again, Dr. Watson. You will imagine that you are in a cozy, little cottage…"
"Fortress, I'm in a fortress," interrupted John, with his eyes closed. Still, Sherlock had nodded approvingly. A fortress suited his soldier much better than a stupid cottage.
"No, no not a fortress, imagine a cottage, Dr. Watson. It is so much simpler, yes? Easier to imagine? A fortress is too complex…"
"Nope, I have the fortress in my head. I'm just repairing the walls," John had said emphatically.
Weisman had begun to protest again, but was cut off. Sherlock and John overheard a whispered argument over the mobile, which was on speaker-at Sherlock's insistence. The consulting detective was certain that Mycroft was correcting Weisman. For once, Sherlock approved of Mycroft's interference, just as long as Weisman stopped his pointless arguing. Cottage indeed, the idiot! Of course John would build himself a mental fortress and not a stupid, dull mental cottage.
"Very well, Doctor Watson. You will imagine that you are in your…your fortress and the door is open, obviously…"
"It's not obvious to me," said John.
"Of course it's open John!" Sherlock had snapped, forgetting his own empathy protocol. Instead the brunet glared at his reason for living and caused their lorry to swerve into the middle of the road. "Because your mind is open; and this fortress is just a mental construct, the open door allows you to visualize that sense of openness. Open door equals open mind. Think, John, try to use your tiny brain…"
"Sherlock, shut up, and let Doctor Weisman instruct Doctor Watson," murmured Mycroft whose interference this time was insufferable.
"Doctor Weisman?" scoffed the World's Only Consulting Detective, "Doctor of what? What kind of degree…"
"Sherlock!" said Mycroft sharply.
"Sherlock, shut it," snapped John, rubbing his permanently furrowed brow. "Please, Sherlock. There's no need to be rude to Dr. Weisman. He's only trying to help. But," continued John loudly, with a hint of his Captain's voice, "since we are less than a day away from meeting up with Chas, maybe we could stop for now. My head really hurts; I can barely see straight…"
Both Mycroft and Dr. Weisman erupted with loud "No's" over the mobile, which in turn were completely drowned out by Sherlock's violent dissent. The little blond dropped his face in his hands during the ensuing verbal fracas, and Sherlock nearly drove off the road again.
"To begin with, Mr. Kingsley is only a journeyman and not even registered," protested Weisman.
"We don't even know if this Chas will be there," interrupted Sherlock. "You must learn to defend yourself now!"
"The danger is too great, much too great," said Mycroft, as if anyone cared for his opinion.
"You must learn control almost immediately," exclaimed Weisman. "Or else you'll surely suff…" his voice was muffled as Sherlock clamped his hand over the phone, and someone (Mycroft) hushed him up. Clearly, both Holmes brothers thought that there was no reason to upset the army doctor any more than he already was.
John, looked exhausted and browbeaten , but he tried to forge ahead. And the interminable lessons continued…
"Yes, you see the open door in your fort, and now you close hit again, and you close the door in dis Cameron's face. And so you close off your mind, yes?" apparently Weisman had a slight accent, which was only revealed when the paranormal expert became tired. "And so, Doctor Watson, you will tell me what you see?"
"Please, God, not again," muttered John. He sighed deeply and massaged his wrinkled forehead with his right hand. By this point, John's left hand trembled like a leaf. "Right. Okay. I see the fortress and the scaffolding…"
"Scaffolding? What scaffolding?" demanded Sherlock. "Why do you need scaffolding? That really is taking visualization to an absurd extreme."
"Says the man with an Anderson Memorial Broom Closet in the subbasement of his Mind Palace," John returned with a smile.
Sherlock pressed on undeterred, "Come to think of it, John, you mentioned this fortress the other day. How long have you had this mind fortress? What do you use it for?"
John had hesitated in answering, and he bit his lip. For some reason, John had been reluctant to answer. At least John's head didn't seem to be bothering him as much.
"No, NO! You do not interrupt us, Holmes!" demanded Weisman, who was so tired that he forgot to say Mister.
"Evidently, I do interrupt," Sherlock had snarkily responded. The detective and his blogger exchanged matching grins.
"Not now, Sherlock," whispered John. Then he continued briskly, "So Doctor, I see the walls and the scaffolding, which is necessary for the repairs, obviously. The very thick steel doors are shut and locked, and of course the new drawbridge is up." John ignored Sherlock who stirred with more questions. "I cannot see Cam right now, even with the better lighting," continued the army doctor, "but I can hear his voice coming from beyond the walls. He's shouting stupid insults that he thinks are funny," John's voice became a bit sharper. No doubt Cam, the late, un-lamented oaf, (not lamented by Sherlock anyway) was being particularly annoying, which had the paradoxical effect of cheering and encouraging John.
Sherlock was instantly jealous that someone knew his partner well enough to manipulate him like that. The detective and the soldier wore matching pursed lips, though for very different reasons.
"Yes, very, very good Doctor Watson," said the persistent paranormologist. "Yes, you are doing quite well. A very good first effort." John's head dropped back at the damning faint praise. "Now, Doctor Watson I'm sure your head is aching. No doubt you feel ill, but these symptoms are a good sign. They mean that you are succeeding…"
"Nope. I'm good. My head is fine," said John, his eyes shining. "It stopped hurting when it stopped being so fuckin' cold…sorry, I mean so, umm…darned cold, umm, yeah."
"No. No. No, dis can not be richt, not correct,"Weisman had said, getting into a strop. Personally, Sherlock was relieved to see John smiling again, and damn if the little blond wasn't glowing.
"Well, sorry," said John sarcastically. "Ever since the sun came out from behind the clouds, it's much nicer in the fortress. It's brighter and definitely much warmer and much more cheerful. And that makes me feel better. Actually, Cam agrees with me…"
And then, using John's vernacular, Weisman had gone ballistic.
"No, no, no. Not the light. You are not ready for the light," he shouted. "You are not ready for dis, Docktor. Dis light, if you follow it; swallow you, it will."
And then John became hysterical. Between bouts of giggling, John had tried to explain that Weisman sounded like someone called Yoda, which proved to be an imaginary character from cinema. Judging from John's once sided conversation, Cam at least appreciated John's puerile humor. Sherlock had to admit that he was jealous of a dead man.
After sharing several more bizarre and possibly unsavory pop culture references with the unseen spirit, John settled down. Just in time for Weisman's apocryphal tirade.
"Yes, yes, laugh all you want, Jowhn Watson. Keep this up, and it will be your last laugh. Yes, make all de jokes about your Jaydi Masters. Dis is de light that takes spirits to higher plane. Dis is de gateway that will take you too, if you not… if you are not so very careful. Dis is…it is the light, that, if you were a trained medium, you could maybe send your Colonel into it. But now, No! You are not strong enough. You are nicht…not ready. The light is not for you. Not until you are fully trained by an expert. No! If you do not listen, you will die. You will practice as I have instructed you, Docktor. And you will not stand in the light. You will hide from the light and send it away. It will eat you up and your friend Cameron too. It will take you and any spirits near you. Yes, you must block the light and only will you practice the open and shutting of the gate. Practice you will," John dissolved into high-pitched giggles again, but for once, Sherlock was not tempted to join in. Sherlock was too worried about the light that would devour his blogger. Weisman's hoarse voice continued," I say PRACTICE YOU WILL, until you tink your head will exsplode. Now I am very tired; I am too tired, and we will talk tomorrow. Practice you will!" was Weisman's parting shot.
John had looked at Sherlock, still giggling, when the mobile connection ended.
"Practice I will not," said John with an odd, put upon accent. The little blond was glowing with newfound energy. This was good, great even, but the light (What light? John hadn't mentioned any light until now.) The light was clearly a great danger to John and thus must be avoided.
"He's an idiot," Sherlock had said. "But until we get to your friend, Chas, you must follow the idiot's advice. You must turn off the light. Is it really a light? Can you really see it?…never mind. Just do it; turn it off.
"I'm not really sure how…" John had begun.
"John, I want you to concentrate on me, not the light," instructed the consulting paranormal instructor. "Focus. On. Me."
Weisman's words had frightened the World's Only Consulting Detective. He clearly said that the light was dangerous and would take JOhn away. This information corroborated testimony that Stewart had given John yesterday. John was messing about with some bright, light-filled, inter-dimensional gateway, and he was liable to fall through it.
It went without saying, if there was any danger about, John Watson was sure to fall into it.
While John scrunched his face in his "concentration pose", Sherlock had found himself missing Stewart Collins. The genius appreciated Stewart's rational, scientific reasoning and his careful, considered approach to danger.
Sherlock had wished that Captain Collins was working with John now, instead of Cameron Forrester. Cameron was obviously an idiot, who encouraged John to play with fire and who wasted time with foolish jokes and off-color remarks. Cameron also made John Watson smile too much.
John had sighed and rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder.
"Are you concentrating on me?" asked Sherlock sternly.
"Yep," said John, He had looked up at Sherlock with incandescent adoration.
"Can you still see the light? How about Cameron?"
"Uh, Cam. He hates to be called Cameron. And I cannot see Cam but yep, the light is still there," replied John.
John did not take the threat seriously enough, decided the consulting detective.
"Concentrate, harder. THINK!" roared Sherlock. "Use that tiny brain of yours and think! I want ME to be the only thing you see, hear and think about. Is that clear!"
John pulled back sharply as if struck. His look of adoration died and he grimaced. Then it was as if John had flipped a switch. The light went out of his face, and all his muscles suddenly sagged.
"Only me, John. Only me!" Sherlock had demanded, just to be certain.
"Only you, Sherlock," agreed John in a hesitant voice.
"And where is that damned light now, John," asked the detective.
"Um…gone," said John holding his head again. He groaned in pain. "Um, um, Sherlock?"
"And Cameron?"
"What? um. Um. Sherl, I don't feel so good…" John had swallowed convulsively. His eyes began to water, they widened desperately. John did not look well at all. Sherlock swerved to the side of the road.
"Concentrate, John. Where is Cam?" Sherlock had asked insistently. He stopped the lorry abruptly.
"Gone…no over there…I can't see him but he's…" John had wrenched the door open the door and fallen to the ground, retching. He'd eaten very little that day, but it was all coming back now.
The younger man hurried over to his partner. In the end Sherlock was forced to hold his incapacitated blogger up, while spasms of nausea tore through the small blond.
When it was finally done, the detective braced a barely conscious John up against a tire. Then Sherlock found some water. Sherlock had wiped John's sweaty, clammy face off. John had moaned in complaint but finally rinsed his mouth for the demanding detective.
John Watson shivered. He had complained that his head was exploding, as per Weisman and asked Sherlock to let him die in peace. Sherlock worried that his blogger's request was in earnest.
Sherlock got his blogger into the lorry by main force and then started the truck, heading back onto the road.
"Now we should try that blocking exercise again, John," Sherlock had suggested.
The army doctor had weakly protested and avoided argument by passing out. When Sherlock tried to rouse him after a brief nap, John groaned and tried to cuff his partner. Luckily, John was too disoriented to land a punch. When Sherlock tried again a half hour later. John began to snuffle tearfully. Heartbroken, Sherlock had given up and let the man sleep.
Sherlock sighed as the miles past by. Kingsley might be able to help. Surely, he would want to help John. They were army mates after all. Sherlock would not even be jealous if Kingsley could help John. Sherlock was even willing to coöperate with Mycroft's extraction plan, if it would help John.
Sherlock gripped the wheel of the Rust Bucket from Hell, as if he could choke a miracle out of it. Just one more miracle, for John.
A/N Belated Happy Thanksgiving
My thanks to all of you who keep reading my story even though I cannot update it as often as I would like to. I am glad that so many of you like it enough to follow and/or consider it a favorite. Thank you, thank you.
Special Thanks to those of you who also review. I truly appreciate the time that you take to send me your impressions, your questions, your con-crit...just everything. Your reviews really help me and motivate me to keep on writing. So THANK YOU VERY MUCH to: EJ 12212012, SamuelE8688, QuietTime, dana-san, foxeeflame, I'm Nova, silveryuki061.
Disclaimer In the interest of honesty, I do not own the rights to Sherlock.