Chapter 21
Aut Viam Inveniam aut Faciam
(Either find a way or make one)
Sherlock
Sherlock pulled the vial from his pocket and drank quickly. The bitter taste exploded in his mouth, but the healing effect was instantaneous. The panacea was a product of years of trial and error. Though few knew it, Sherlock was quite an accomplished alchemist. The flesh wound began to mend and the dizziness and disorientation lessened. John, oh God. Sherlock ran to his still form. His body lay supine on the cool tile beside the pool. His lips were stained with blood and puncture wounds from the vampire's fangs had already healed leaving two small scars. Sherlock felt for a pulse and the slow irregular heartbeat incompatible with life was present. Turning, John was turning and by sunset tomorrow he would be a fully turned vampire.
Sherlock's stomach tightened painfully. He knew what he should do. Stake him. End it now, before John rose. Newly turned vampires were feral, ruled only by their insatiable hunger. Many were willing to attack anything, even other vampires, in their search for blood. It was why they were isolated and caged in the beginning, often by their own sires and fed until they were able to learn more control. It took time and coaching for them to learn to control their instincts. The thought of seeing John like that made Sherlock sick. He knew what he needed to do, but as he looked into John's slumbering face, he knew couldn't do it. He picked up his phone and dialed. "Brother mine…I need your help." Sherlock begged unable to stop his voice from breaking as the tears ran down his face.
"Oh Sherlock, what have you done?" Mycroft murmured. "Where are you? What's happened?"
"John, he's been bitten. He'll rise a fully turned vampire by sunset tomorrow. I can't do it Mycroft…I know I should kill him, but I can't." Sherlock choked out. "We're at the pool where Carl Power's died. It was Moriarty." Sherlock didn't bother to explain that it had been Moriarty who had been responsible for Carl's death as well as John.
"Stay where you are. I'll come collect you, then we can go from there." Mycroft ordered cutting the call. Sherlock took a deep shuddering breath. He closed his eyes and slipped deep into his mind palace shifting quickly through every piece of myth and lore on vampires that he had gathered in his many years of hunting. Nothing, there was nothing to stop this. Over, it was over. Then something Moriarty had said made him pause. Fallen. Sherlock had assumed that he was speaking metaphorically, simply a bit of taunting soliloquy, but what if the vampire had been serious? Sherlock needed to know. He stripped John of his jacket and that hateful explosive filled vest, then of his shirt exposing his bare chest. His eyes were immediately drawn to the scar on his left shoulder shaped in a distinctive starburst pattern. He turned John over carefully in order to expose his back and he could not hold back the startled gasp that escaped.
Wings. An enchanted tattoo in a perfect rendition of angelic wings spanned the entire length of John's back. They were so lifelike that Sherlock touched them just to be sure, feeling only the smooth warmth of John's skin followed by a feeling of safety and contentment. In response to Sherlock's touch, the white feathers pulsed weakly causing them to shimmer and flutter ever so slightly. Sherlock stared, transfixed. Angels. Sherlock knew they existed, but not like this; never like this. There were tales of fallen angels, but in all of his years, Sherlock had never once come upon one and had assumed that they were nothing more than biblical myths, which had long ago fallen into legend. Sherlock felt, rather than saw, the veil slip over them hiding them from sight. Whispers echoed in Sherlock's ears, they spoke a language that he couldn't understand. There was something familiar about it, though. Then it came to him, it was the same language that John had spoken in the church. Angelic, the language of angels was unheard by man, Sherlock had no hope of understanding it. "Lestrade…" Sherlock murmured. The priest would no doubt be a wealth of information, perhaps more useful than Mycroft in this case. Sherlock paused for a moment and then made a second call.
"Lestrade," the priest answered in a rough voice. Sherlock took a deep breath and began his tale. Once the whole story fell from his lips, he was greeted by silence, which was never a good sign.
"Lestrade?" He called as he looked at John feeling his chest tighten painfully. Lestrade sighed and finally answered after a weary sigh.
"Stake him." He insisted causing Sherlock's blood to run cold. No, there had to be something. Anything. He would try anything.
"No…Please…Greg. I can't. Isn't there something, anything, which you could try? If it doesn't work, then Mycroft will do it. You have my word." Sherlock pleaded.
"He's Fallen. There was a reason he was cast out. There will be no grace left by the end of it. Do it before he turns fully. It's kinder that way." Greg advised in a pained voice. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."
"Greg, I'm begging you. Please try. After everything we've been through together, please, do this for me." Sherlock choked out in a hoarse voice. Greg growled and cursed roughly under his breath before answering.
"Bring him to Westminster Cathedral. Come with Mycroft and Anthea, bring stakes, silver, and anything else magical which has not been tainted by darkness. I'll need all the help that I can get. There is a ritual, which may strengthen his grace enough to resist the darkness. I have never seen it attempted. It may not work. No promises, Sherlock." Lestrade insisted as he cut the call. Sherlock let out a relieved sigh. Now all he had to do was convince Mycroft, which ironically, may prove harder than convincing Lestrade.