Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.
Chapter 35: Admitting things
"Are you sure you're fine?" John queried, hands going automatically to the recently restored legs, to touch and grip and assess.
Sherlock was tempted to do the same, incredulous as he was that they'd been destroyed and remade – if partially so – at a nod. It certainly put the god's power in perspective. If the sleuth had always secretly thought it was not so great, because he himself could mess with the blogs (and didn't that have a depressing explanation now?), this latest trauma made it feel more godly indeed.
He just nodded, but didn't protest John's touch – certainly not. (If only these hands would slip upwards…no, stop right now, he didn't need this kind of thoughts now, John would be disgusted by him.)
"What did you do to piss off Dyaus so much, anyway?" the doctor asked, fond and just a tiny bit exasperated – as if he wanted to scold the detective for provoking the deity. Why was he assuming it was Sherlock's fault, at that? It wasn't fair.
"I didn't. I did nothing at all except for being born," he replied, pouting.
"Really? I knew he was a bit insane – the sheer fact He has been a legit god until now is worrying, honestly, wonder how the world managed to make sense despite him being in charge. But he always has some flimsy sort of excuse, and being born….well, that seems particularly stupid," the doctor huffed, stopping examining his legs keenly but not touching them.
The sleuth didn't want to admit the truth, but at the same time he yearned for reassurance. "Am I human?" he queried, looking intently at his friend. If John lied, he needed to notice it.
"Of course you are! You're a madman, true. But you're the most human human being I've ever met. Don't let anyone tell you differently. Even a dying fucking god," John stated earnestly, almost angrily – but clearly not at him.
"Even if Dyaus had been rather more involved in my birth than usual, and my talent for observation was actually a gift of his?" Sherlock asked, unsure. He'd wanted to be a man. Fought to be a man against Dyaus' plans. Still, he needed John's confirmation. He supposed he needed the seal of approval from the one God he would ever recognise.
"Sure," John said vehemently, squeezing his calves. "I mean, not to boast but I have a rather good aim. If this ended up being Dyaus' gift, or that he'd bothered to have a hand in my birth, I would certainly not doubt my own humanity, and neither should you."
Sherlock bit back a moan. This was…not good. John was just trying to be comforting. "Even if he took pains to give you your aim because he needed people killed?" he gritted out.
John chuckled. "Well, that would make him a psycho – and I'm not so sure we aren't right in suspecting that, just look at the whole game – but it certainly would not dehumanise me. Know what, I'm tempted to go get him and beat him up for what he said to you. What do you think? Is he weakened enough I could do that?"
The sleuth's heart felt about to burst. His friend was planning a blasphemous rebellion for his sake. Nobody had bothered to defend him before, much less against a near all-powerful being. At the same time, fear froze him. Dyaus might not want to interfere with players, but he was clearly whimsical. If he took offense at John's bold words and decided to smite the heretic, after all, the consulting detective would have regretted not letting himself be destroyed even after his own inevitably swift death. "I wouldn't suggest it," he croaked, "You don't want God angry at you."
He almost added, "I'm not worth it, after all," but didn't. Like him, John was stubborn and loved proving people wrong. The former army captain could have embarked on an all-out war against Dyaus out of principle, to prove his friend worth it (as he didn't say things he didn't believe), and that could only have a tragic end… and it would have been all Sherlock's fault.
"Probably safer, yes," John agreed, shrugging. "And anyway he is dying all on his own, so giving him a lesson now would probably be overkill. Might be more useful to ensure that whoever will take his place has his head straight."
"Well, that's a moot point, since it's going to be you," the detective quipped, smiling.
"Still serious about it, are you?" John wondered, finally letting him go…or rather, forcing himself to do so before it became too awkward.
"Of course I am. There's no way I'm letting another possibly insane god – or goddess – take over. The current one is bad enough," Sherlock huffed. "Who knows how much damage which could have easily been avoided was allowed because he just didn't care, or thought it was funny to watch. Not that I don't sympathise with being bored, but there should be a limit."
Unless it was for a case – then, any ethical limit vanished, when faced with the need to stop more crimes from being committed – his experiments were limited to dead things. Being purposefully cruel to live, sensitive and somehow-conscious creatures repelled him, possibly because he'd been too many times in the victim's shoes. Not that he would ever admit as much aloud.
The doctor nodded eagerly. "Sure. And whoever replaces Dyaus, I want you to make sure they do respect it," he declared. "Seriously, Sherlock. Take care of yourself so you can save the world. I'm starting to think you're getting too involved – that I am getting you too involved. You weren't supposed to ever be in so much danger," he sighed, looking down to hide a sudden wave of guilt.
"Have you heard me at all?" Sherlock growled. "You didn't involve me in the game. Dyaus made me to be sure I meddled with it. and whatever action I've taken was my choice, very much not me going along with your requests. If you truly recognise me as a human being, you need to give me the right to be nosy and interfere when I'm unneeded and maybe even undesired."
"Right, sorry. I can be daft. Just… never undesired, Sherlock. I wish I was able to protect you better. Mine is a dangerous path. But I'd never want you to stay away from me, if not for your sake," John replied, voice soft.
"I don't need to be coddled, John," the detective sniffed, finally righting himself. He couldn't appear weak, and since John was not going to jump his bones (a man could dream) staying supine was counterproductive.
"Of course you don't," his friend agreed promptly. "It doesn't mean that I don't want to protect you. I'm afraid I'm built like that." He chuckled softly. "Then again, can you blame me for not wanting the people I care for hurt? Aren't you just the same?"
"Not at all," the sleuth stated coldly.
A disappointed, wounded look painted itself for a second on John's face, before giving way to a puzzled frown. The consulting detective had protected and saved him time and again, with considerable danger and all around trouble for himself. If it wasn't done out of affection, what the hell had possessed him? It wasn't like John had begged for his help and he didn't find a way to politely refuse. The doctor was pretty sure politeness or hurting his feelings wouldn't rate very high among his friend's priorities anyway. They were friends…or weren't they?
For all that he wasn't a genius, all these thoughts took John maybe five seconds, during which Sherlock waited patiently for a reply – and observed him carefully. Finally, deciding he'd shown the man enough courtesy, the detective smirked and stated proudly, "Confusing things like emotions have never motivated my actions, John. I revere and follow logic, and any risk I assumed in the protection of another was chosen after a careful calculation of both probabilities of damage and the worth of the people who would die or otherwise suffer."
Fine, it was a lie. No, not a lie. It really was obvious – logical – to protect your beloved. To your very last breath, if necessary. But downplaying his feelings – and their importance – seemed the safer option. John already had to deal with one stalker. If he was too forward, the doctor would cut all ties with him…and that would be a sensible choice. Commendable, even.
But oh, John was smarter than the sleuth gave him credit for. After Sherlock's proclaim, the doctor looked at his friend and laughed. Heartily. "I'm not sure if you believe all that tirade or if it is for my benefit," he remarked, when he got his breath back. "But just in case, I've got a newsflash for you, Sherlock. The sheer fact that someone's life, or happiness…or anything, really, is 'obviously' or 'logically' worth more than your own, already means that choice is rooted in feelings. Not that I'd object, mind – this is not a critique."
Oh. Busted. He already knew his friend was smart – John was a doctor after all – but realising that was much smarter than the consulting detective had expected. Then again, not everyone had the difficulties the detective experienced with the emotional side of life. He blushed and shrugged, not knowing quite how to react. "Now, Lestrade," he announced. "We really should have warned him before, but your god decided to meddle." Changing subject seemed like a good tactic.
He took out his phone and started texting, when his friend protested, "I'll do it, Sherlock. The man deserves at least a call, not just a text. I'm not asking you to call him. Lestrade might actually be spooked if you call him."
"Fine," the sleuth agreed with a put upon sigh.
"I was thinking….do I tell him everything? Or do we keep our part in it a secret for the moment?" the doctor queried. It could be instinctive to say it, but what if Lestrade's calls at work were somehow recorded? Would someone require them to see a shrink?
"He won't believe I'm able to do what I claim anyway, unless he sees it. You might as well just mention that Donovan and Anderson have disappeared," the detective replied.
So John did, emphasizing the verb to let Lestrade understand this was business regarding Dyaus' game, and it would be at the very least unwise to bring along the whole cavalry.
The detective inspector agreed to come as soon as he could, but his voice was clipped, and he cut the call short as soon as he understood the message, not even allowing him to politely say goodbye.
"Either he's in a mood or he's really busy," the doctor huffed. He already had to deal with two very moody geniuses. Couldn't someone have some manners for a change?
Probably busy, John decided when minutes went on without the inspector appearing yet. Probably the inspector figured out that everything happened already and he was only supposed to provide an official cover up , so there was no reason to hurry up.
Not that it would have bothered the doctor normally, but after the emotional conversation, someone else's presence would have been welcomed. He'd been the one to corner Sherlock about being fond of him, and of course it was patent, and reciprocal, but… To be honest, he might be getting more than fond of the man. The bloody apocalypse wasn't the time to lie, was it? At least to himself. It would have been new, confusing, and a bit terrifying on its own even without adding the whole world is ending clause, but no pressure, uh?
"Tea?" he blurted out, when they got tired of trying to bring the house back to a semblance of order (don't think about how well you both work out as a couple, because your brain is about to derail to parts unknown). Tea was the magic fix it all…and judging from Sherlock's nod and vague hum, his friend agreed.
They went back to the kitchen, which luckily was one of the less devastated rooms. "Want to know something?" John asked, tongue loosened by the domestic comfort of it all after so much adrenaline.
"Of course," the detective replied, eyes shining with curiosity "I always do."
"I enlisted because normal routine bored me out of my skull I wanted an adventure, I guess. To feel alive. And well, war was horrible, but I fit right in. And life made sense, somehow. But then I've been pulled out of it and into this game, and yep, I get all the adrenaline I can wish for and then some, but I want this to end. This shouldn't happen. It's not like a god selection should be. My karma is…careful what you wish for, I suppose?" John confessed.
Before Sherlock could answer in any way, a sudden shot echoed and a bullet embedded itself in the cabinet behind John. Fuck. Where was Lestrade?