Disclaimer: Same as chapter 1

Chapter 4: The Geek Interpreter

-Scotland Yard-

'Well?' Lestrade demanded, leaning casually on the doorframe. 'What do you think?'

Jeff Hope, died from blood loss after being shot by Doctor Watson; his blood thinners meant that he just kept bleeding…

'I'd like to see the notes on the bullet that your people made' Holmes ignored him. Lestrade paused for a moment and consulted his notebook.

'This bullet is rather strange, half steel, half gold…some others are half steel, half bronze...who the hell uses gold and bronze in a bullet?' Lestrade said in confusion.

Holmes blinked and turned to Lestrade apologetically, still engrossed examining Hope's body. 'Sorry, what was that? Half gold and bronze bullet? May I see it?'

'Sure' Lestrade shrugged and passed him an evidence bag. Holmes' eyes flickered to the bag and widened slightly. For, to his senses, that bullet was practically saturated with divine power. Imperial gold? Celestial bronze? What is John doing with something like that? Is he a demigod? A legacy?

'Interesting….unfortunately, I can't tell you anything that you don't already know' Sherlock said regretfully. 'Pity.'

'Oh. OK' Lestrade said in surprise. Sherlock spun around and headed towards the receptionist desk.

'I need the paperwork for a paid consultant' he snapped to the receptionist, who scurried off to fetch his 'requested' papers. If John was going to be working alongside him in the future, and he desperately hoped that he would, he was damn well going to be paid, and paid fairly for his services, Sherlock thought to himself, nodding sharply.

'Thank you' he nodded at the receptionist before sweeping out the door to hail a taxi to Baker St; subconsciously, he turned the collar of his coat up.

-221B Baker St-

John glanced around the flat; in the week since he had moved in, Sherlock had tidied up 221B significantly- the living room had been emptied of boxes, the paperwork that had been spilling onto the floor was gone and neatly filed away or filled out. Sherlock had been rather courteous, if reserved. In the past week, he'd taken on and solved three cases with the doctor, raking in a tidy sum that he split evenly and subsequently invested. Speaking of money, I need a job John mused to himself. He flipped open his laptop and started searching for job vacancies – surely somewhere there had to be an opening for a locum. Half an hour after he started this, he heard Sherlock storming up the stairs; the man tossed him a folder. The doctor raised an eyebrow at his companion. What's inside?

Open it and find out his flatmate grinned. John shrugged and opened the file, blinking in surprise at the forms inside. 'Why am I staring at paperwork that would make me a paid consultant for Scotland Yard?' he demanded.

Sherlock shrugged and answered, 'Well, if you're going to do cases with me you might as well get paid for doing so. It's not great pay but it's a decent amount. You were looking for a job, weren't you?'

'Well, yes, but I was thinking of getting a job as a lo-'

'Locum, yes I know, I called Stamford and he's talking to a few of his contacts; he'll set that up for you' Holmes interrupted. 'But I need you to help me on cases – I took a look at your CV and your experience is quite extensive; I would like to make use of those services as I have in the past week on a more…permanent basis.'

John blinked and considered Sherlock's offer. 'You're- you're asking me to be your subordinate?'

'No, as my partner' Holmes corrected. 'Though…if you are willing, I would very much like to try to teach you the science of deduction – your deductive skills are not unworthy of further development.'

John stared at him blankly. 'You – you want me to be your partner' John repeated. 'Why?'

'Like I said, your deductive skills are not unworthy of further development, and I find your medical expertise is invaluable' Sherlock shrugged, looking directly into the doctor's eyes.

He looks sincere, John thought. He smiled up at the eccentric man in front of him. 'Well in that case, I'd very much like to take you up on that offer.'

'By the way, I forgot to mention this earlier, what with the shooting and all, but three days ago, a man offered me money to spy on you' John confessed.

His new colleague turned to him, looking - shockingly – completely amused by the confession. 'Did you take it?' said he. 'How much did he offer you?'

'No, of course not' Watson replied, a little offended that Holmes thought so little of him. 'Not enough, Sherlock – never enough. Though I didn't exactly let him mention any figures – I just told him to piss off' he admitted wryly.

'Pity, we could have split the fee, think it through next time' Holmes replied, shaking his head at the doctor in mock disappointment. Inside, though, he was rather touched at the loyalty the doctor had shown towards him, despite them only having known each other for four days. I won't let you down, he promised his flatmate silently. 'Anyway, your schedule looks rather free today, so I'm going to start teaching you right now.'

-Two months later-

During the time that he had spent with Sherlock Holmes, Dr John H. Watson had learned more things than he ever had during his time at university in the pursuit of the study of criminology. Despite his flatmate's constant impatience and irritability, he proved to be an excellent instructor, particularly in his passion of science, particularly chemistry, but also in British and international law, as well as inane things such as how to distinguish between different soils and tobacco ashes at a glance. The man had also painstakingly taught him numerous other skills – how to pick locks, the art of disguise, dusting for fingerprints and parkour – for the occasional rooftop chase, his partner had explained, deep sea green eyes swirling with amusement. In his turn, the doctor had repaid Holmes by sharing with him snippets of his vast medical knowledge - mainly with rare diseases and other such medical conditions, something that Holmes found useful more often than not when they were investigating cases together. Though, John was astounded by his flatmate's own admittedly vast medical knowledge - it was almost as if he had been trained as a doctor himself...

Despite their rapidly flowering friendship, watered by the sheer amount of time that they spent in each other's presence, Holmes had barely shared any details of his life with Watson. He had learned only a few details about his flatmate- that he graduated Oxford as equal first of his class with Molly Hooper, one of the few friends he seemed to have, that he was a graduate chemist, and was fluent in at least three languages (English, Greek and Latin). On one of the few occasions that Holmes had decided to take on a case by himself, John had snuck into his colleague's bedroom in an attempt to deduce more about his partner's life before they had met. Sherlock's room was surprisingly Spartan- bare green walls, a queen sized bed, a bedside table, dressing table, a large working desk and a storage cabinet. He was disappointed though – even after rummaging through the drawers and checking for any false bottoms and hidden compartments, he still hadn't found anything personal; it was as if the man had no human attachments in the world apart from himself, Molly and Mrs Hudson.

If he's an orphan, that could explain the lack of photographs, but surely he would have some from his teenaged years and early adult life, John mused as he regarded Sherlock, who was peering curiously at some cultures of mould under a microscope in the kitchen. Even after spending two months together, Sherlock Holmes was still a mystery to him; if anything, he was even more of a mystery than when they had first started living together. The doorbell rang; the two of them turned to face the door eagerly.

'Single ring. Maximum pressure, just under half a second. Client!' they deduced in unison. Sherlock bounded over to the door eagerly, before blinking in surprise. Mycroft. What was he doing here?

'What are you doing here?' Sherlock asked in surprise, stepping back to allow his brother inside.

'Sherlock. That's him, that's the man I was talking to you about – your archenemy' John sputtered as he saw Mycroft, who merely smirked at him in response. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his brother – Really?, it seemed to be asking. Oh, it's been ages since I've had fun, let me have some amusement where I can, Mycroft's face twitched in reply.

'What are you doing here?' Sherlock demanded in what he hoped came across as a furious tone - if Mycroft wanted his fun, then he'd let him.

'As ever, I'm concerned about you' Mycroft replied pleasantly.

'Yes, I've been hearing about your, ah, "concern"' the younger Holmes said snidely.

'You've always been so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that we could work together?'

'Oddly enough, no!'

'We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... and you know how it always upset Mummy.'

The two Holmes siblings stifled their amusement at John's dumbfounded face. 'John, you might want to breathe' Sherlock commented as his partner's face began turning a little purple, jaw hanging open as he stared at them blankly.

'Y-you're brothers?' the doctor croaked out finally in shock.

'Yes, of course he's my brother – I thought that was fairly obvious' the younger Holmes replied.

'So – so he's not…'

'Not what?'

'…I don't know, a criminal mastermind?'

'Close enough.'

'For goodness' sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government' Mycroft broke in.

'Don't listen to him John, he is the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis' Sherlock denied. 'So brother dear, what are you doing here?'

'I have a case for you' the elder Holmes said before stepping aside, revealing a slightly pudgy teenager. 'Might I introduce you to Mr Chris Melas, son of Richard Melas, an official in the British government? I have put my personal assurances that you'll be on this case little brother' he introduced, before turning away to leave.

'Congratulations on becoming my brother's protégé by the way Doctor Watson – Sherlock speaks rather highly of you' he added over his shoulder before sauntering down the stairs, spinning his black umbrella.

-Five minutes later, 221B Baker St-

Sherlock stared at Chris Melas over his steepled fingertips. The nervous youth was awkwardly shifting around in his chair, unable to meet his penetrating gaze. I'm not that scary, am I? he wondered to himself. 'Right, so Chris, Mycroft said that you had a case for us?' John prodded gently.

'Y-yes' he squeaked out. 'I-I have a website; it's to do with graphic novels -'

'Comic books?' Sherlock scoffed.

'Graphic novels, Mr Holmes' Melas said firmly in an unexpected show of defiance before rearing back slightly as Holmes levelled his gaze at him. 'A-anyway, I have a website t-that explains the true meaning of comic books, b-because people miss a lot of the themes…' the teen trailed off as he realised Sherlock was already walking away in disinterest. 'B-but then all there was this comic book that started coming true!' he added hastily. Sherlock paused and turned back, curiosity aroused.

'Interesting' he allowed, taking his armchair. 'Do continue, Mr Melas, and try not to be boring' he said, offering the teen a ghastly grimace that was probably meant to be a smile.

'R-right' the teen stammered out, taking a moment to recompose himself. 'T-there's this series of graphic novels that are centred around a group of superheros called KRATIDES-'

'Yes, yes, but skipping forward to the part where these comic books are coming true' Sherlock cut in.

'R-right' Melas fidgeted around and fished around in his pockets. After a few seconds of rummaging around, he took out a digital camera. 'It started a few weeks ago – the, the characters in these comics started coming to life – I have pictures on this camera' he continued, passing said camera to John for inspection. John deftly manoeuvred his way around the camera and checked the photographs before nodding at Sherlock to confirm the authenticity of the photographs. Unconsciously, the doctor-turned-consulting-detective leaned forward. This case seemed rather interesting.

'The- the KRATIDES members were enacting events from the graphic novels Mr Holmes' Chris persisted. 'I saw Sophy, the Wolflady, disposing of some unattended luggage in New Cross Station; The Flying Bludgeon tackling a mugger on Wandsworth Common; and Professor Davenport, the leader of KRATIDES, in Beckenham. I-I think I'm going out of my mind Mr Holmes' he said tearfully towards the end.

Sherlock shot a look at John. You're a doctor, aren't you meant to, to, comfort him or something?

'Well, there are three possibilities that I can think of' Holmes the younger said eventually after the teen had recomposed himself. 'One- this KRATIDES actually exists' he declared, seriously contemplating the notion. It didn't seem that far-fetched, really, when Melas had broken down he'd checked out KRATIDES on his phone and whilst they were 'heroes', they didn't seem to possess any superhuman powers, relying entirely on hand to hand combat and weapons. Yes, it was definitely possible….Watson didn't seem to share the same enthusiasm for this idea, though.

'Two – you're suffering from psychological delusions' John added. Admittedly, he thought that this entire case seemed rather ludicrous, but he couldn't ignore the evidence of his own eyes staring back at him from the camera's display. 'Or three, all this is being done for your benefit' he continued. 'Which is not very likely, since I can tell you're starting to lose it from here. But there's more, isn't there Mr Melas?' he continued to prod.

'Y-yes' Chris stammered out. 'I- someone contacted me on my website, a week ago. A man called Kemp. He- he told me that he believed in me, t-that I should-'

Sherlock, shut up, John flashed a scowl at his flatmate as he began to open his mouth, probably to shout at their client to get to the point.

'-spread the word about KRATIDES, that, that they existed and were real.'

'Do you know this man personally?' John questioned.

'No, his display picture is just a smiley face' Melas responded.

'I see….so what did you do after this Kemp got into contact with you?' the doctor continued prodding.

'Well, I've been spreading the word on social media – Twitter, Facebook, Google +,' Chris answered, 'as well as on my own website. B-but they keep harassing me and telling me I'm wrong….please Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, you have to help me!'. As he started pleading his voice began to escalate to near hysterical heights.

'It's OK, Chris, we're definitely going to get to the bottom of this' John assured. Someone's playing a cruel joke on him aren't they? his face twitched at Sherlock.

There's always the possibility that this superhero organisation does in fact exist, Sherlock's raised eyebrow responded.

After repeated assurances from John that they would get to the bottom of the matter, Chris left for home – 'About time, I was barely able to stop myself from telling him to leave myself' commented Sherlock – while John busied himself by digging into sales figures of KRATIDES. As expected, sales of the graphic novel were going through the roof – people seemed to be rushing out to buy the comic to see if the events in them did seem to come true. Meanwhile, Chris Melas' grip on reality seemed to weaken as the days passed by and the ridicule from online traffic continued to escalate. 'Sherlock, I need to get in touch with one of your computer contacts' John called out. 'I have a sneaking suspicion as to what's going on, but first, I need a tech-wizard to find out for me who exactly Kemp is.'

John stared blankly at Sherlock's back after he silently texted the details of one of his contacts. Did he really just text me when we're in the same room? He shook his head; of course he did, he's Sherlock.

'You're staring at me' Sherlock stated, back facing John. 'It occurs to me, Watson, that while you have been fairly open with me about your past, I have not been nearly so open. It is behaviour unbefitting between partners, and as such, in the spirit of cooperation, I am willing to share with you a little of my past.'

He let his mind drift back to how he had joined Scotland Yard, the memory sharp as if it had just occurred yesterday – one of the benefits he enjoyed from maintaining a mind palace. And then he began to speak.

*Flashback*

Sherlock blearily stared up at the bland grey ceiling and started hiccupping uncontrollably. He had just been forced to put down Redbeard, his most faithful companion since he had arrived in Britain. He had raised him, nurtured him from the tiny puppy gifted to him by Mr and Mrs Holmes into a strong healthy dog – apart from Molly Hooper, and perhaps Mycroft, his only real close friend in the UK. Recently though, the dog had begun experiencing extreme behavioural changes, and even something that he supposed was the canine equivalent of a seizure. Naturally concerned, he had taken Redbeard to the vet, where he had heard the words that had shattered his heart for the second time. Brain tumour. Inoperable and in terminal stages.

Since then, Sherlock had retreated inside himself, treating most people with a cold, clinical disdain, even pushing away Molly and Mycroft when they checked up on him. He heard a knock at the door. 'Sherlock, I know you're in there' Molly called out. 'I'm coming in now; I've brought you some food.'

Sherlock growled and wrapped himself up in his sheets again, determinedly facing away from the door. After a few moments, the lock clicked and the door swung open; the stench of a body unwashed for several days, along with mouldy food and opened, half-filled beer bottles that pervaded the apartment rushed out and hit Molly with a vengeance.

'Oh, Sherlock' she sighed, holding her nose delicately as she opened the windows. 'You-', she paused, before leaning forward to take a closer glance at his bedside table – on it rested a small syringe, a sheet of paper with what appeared to be a half-finished note scrawled across it. Molly gasped and with an effort, flipped over Sherlock – bloodshot eyes, dilated, glazed over pupils, too-gaunt face- classic symptoms of drug use, she realised. She checked his arm- thin white perforations pockmarked his arm.

When Sherlock Holmes woke up, for a moment he thought he was gazing into deep silver pools, but then they vanished, and he saw only the faces of Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper, the two of them quietly standing in the kitchen, talking furiously and pointing at him. Molly, being the medical student that she was, noticed he was awake first and approached him with a relieved smile. She promptly slapped him in the face. Three times, to be precise.

'How dare you try to throw away the beautiful gift you were born with' she said in that too-calm-and-even voice that made Sherlock know that she was furious at him. 'And how dare you betray the love of your friends! Say you're sorry.'

'I'm sorry' he repeated dutifully, earning himself another meaty smack. 'I said I'm sorry, is that what you're supposed to do?'

'Stop it,' she whispered tearfully, 'just stop it.'

The newly minted doctor turned to Mycroft. 'What- what can I do to help?'

'I'm going to send him into rehab' Mycroft replied, determinedly not looking at the man he had almost unconsciously adopted as his little brother. 'When he comes out, I would like you to monitor him as often as possible – I know that you'll be quite busy with your rotations, but there just isn't anybody else' he added regretfully.

'He's my best friend – of course I'll do it' Molly said firmly.

-Six months later-

Holmes looked around warily. After having been confined inside the quiet, placid, sterile rehabilitation facility for six months, the outside world was a cacophony to his senses – all the sounds of vehicles honking their horns, driving, or simply idling – the bright splash of colours of said vehicles – the scents of all those people commuting about, food, smoke from vehicle exhausts –

Holmes wrenched his mind away from that path and firmly grounded it back into the here and now. If you start using again, you could drown those sounds out, a soft, seductive voice in the back of his mind whispered. You could drown everything out. Go on Sherlock. One more push into sweet oblivion…

'Sherlock?' a timid voice broke into his thoughts – Molly's, he realised. She looked…well – still wearing one of those baggy jumpers she had always favoured, he noticed.

'Molly' he nodded stiffly. His composure was broken when she threw herself into his arms and hugged him firmly.

'This is the part where you hug me back' she mumbled into his chest, pale cheeks burning with embarrassment. Tentatively, he wrapped his own arms around here. 'I missed you' she breathed out.

'And I you' he admitted. Shuffling his feet awkwardly at the overt display of sentiment, he decided to change the topic at once. 'I'm hungry, let's go eat in that pub' he told her, already striding away.

'S-Sherlock wait up!' she called out.

As the two of them finished clearing their plates and turned their attention to the TV, which was displaying a live football game, a pair of policemen, male and female, walked in and arrested a man watching the telly – a Mr Angelo, from what Sherlock could hear. As the male- a Detective Inspector, judging from his ID, began handcuffing Angelo, the other woman with frizzy hair slid over next to him. 'Hey there, handsome' she smiled and gave him what he supposed was meant to be an alluring look.

'Not interested, go away' he told her without so much as a sidelong glance.

Molly stifled a chuckle as the woman sniffed and said 'Well I never!'

Holmes turned in his seat as the detective inspector's boisterous voice rose above the clamour of chanting football fans. 'Donovan! Stop flirting with the civilian and help me escort this man to the station!'

Sherlock glanced at Mr Angelo, taking a few moments to deduce him, and did a double take. He's not guilty, he realised. Suddenly full of energy, Sherlock shot up from his seat and ran over to the man. 'Detective Inspector! You're making a mistake, this man simply isn't guilty,' he called out.

'Who the hell are you?' the detective inspector replied. 'What do you think you're-'

'My name is Sherlock Holmes. No, what's your problem Detective Inspector' he shouted back. 'Mr Angelo simply can't be guilty of those murders because at the time of those murders, he was on the other side of London stealing a car!'

After a ten minute rant on precisely why Angelo couldn't have committed the murder, the DI dropped the murder charges and slapped him with one for robbery instead. Impressed by the mysterious man's deductive skills, he had asked him to be a consultant with Scotland Yard right then and there. Sherlock would later discover that DI's name to be a G. Lestrade.

*End flashback*

John looked at his companion and was surprised to see his flatmate, mentor, friend's eyes were overbright, determinedly looking away from him. 'I'm sorry for your loss' he said eventually. 'I'm glad you feel that you can trust me with something like that though.'

Sherlock completely ignored him and started to tap away at his phone's screen again. As a comfortable silence fell, John's phone buzzed.

Kemp is a man called Harold Latimer; Latimer works for the publishers of KRATIDES.

John relayed this information to Holmes out loud and waited for his response. Their thoughts were running along the same paths: if Kemp is working for the publishers of KRATIDES, then it goes without saying that they're exploiting the boy for free publicity, leading to more sales in the hopes that they'll see the events come true themselves!

'Well, they didn't technically do anything illegal, right?' John spoke as he realised Sherlock was patiently waiting for his take on the problem. 'Or rather, we can't prove that they're behind inflicting a mental health breakdown on a teenager given that we ourselves used a rather illegal method to prove it…so we need to catch the perpetrators in the act.'

'As ever John, you cut straight to the heart of the matter' his mentor smiled – a genuine smile, not one of those ghastly, superficial grimaces. 'We'll have to tell Mr Melas the truth, of course, then we're going to need to follow him around until another costumed crusader arrives. Then as they're making their way from the scene, we'll approach them. Sounds a bit dull.'

'Sherlock, these people are trying to make profits off the suffering of a teenager, you could have a little more sympathy for our client you know' John sighed.

'Whatever for?' Sherlock argued. 'Will caring about him solve the case?'

'Well, no.'

'Then I'll continue not to make that mistake.'

'And you find that easy, do you?'

'Yes, very. Is that news to you?' Sherlock shot back, before noticing his friend's face. 'I've … disappointed you' he said in realisation.

'Brilliant deduction there old boy' John replied.

-Three days later-

After three days of following Chris Melas around, Sherlock was more bored than ever. Arguing that since John was so invested in the case, he should take on all of the stakeout shifts, Sherlock had promptly then busied himself by typing away on his phone and ignoring his partner in general. 'Sherlock' John called out. 'We have a costumed crusader here, time to go.'

'Yes, let's go' Holmes replied, slipping his phone neatly inside his coat. As the pair started discreetly trailing the 'superhero', Sherlock glanced at John as his hand dipped inside his own coat pocket – no doubt reaching for his extendable baton. John had taken rather quickly to the baton – perhaps a little too quickly, Holmes thought – it was as if he had already had some rudimentary experience with a similar weapon – he took to it far too quickly not to have. Shaking away the idle thought, Sherlock glanced around, taking in what had happened in the few minutes since he had first descended into his ruminations; after his appearance, Latimer had managed to run away and exchange his costume for simple casual clothes, before attempting to meld away in the streets of London. Absolutely ridiculous, he scoffed to himself, how can he not notice that part of his costume – his flaring, neon orange costume, is poking out of his bag? Stupid, stupid, stupid…

As Sherlock rounded the corner, intending to confront Latimer at last – isolated street, very little incoming traffic, his mind noted – something cracked over his head, and Sherlock Holmes fell into oblivion.

John screamed as he saw Sherlock – sarcastic, cold, clinical, Sherlock fall to the ground, bludgeoned by the very man they were trailing, Harold Latimer. 'Did you really think that I wouldn't notice myself being trailed?' he snarled out, swinging his bludgeon around in a wide arc at Sherlock's torso; it connected with a meaty smack. 'It's nothing personal, but you two know too much' he said almost sadly as he drew his arm back again – this time aiming for Sherlock's head.

'NO!' John bellowed out. When Sherlock later asked him about what he did next, he could never explain how he managed it. Nor, he felt, could he have replicated the feat. The doctor acted on pure instinct, in an unbelievably sublime union between mind and body. John threw himself forward, moving faster than he had ever gone before – not even when he was being shot at in Afghanistan had he moved so quickly. As Latimer's baton fell towards Sherlock's head, John's own baton swung out and shattered it. As Latimer howled from the shock that reverberated through his entire body, John swung at him again, knocking him out cold. Sparing a brief moment to apply hand and leg cuffs to their attacker, John knelt beside his flatmate and gently cradled his head to examine the damage.

'Oh god, Sherlock' he whispered as he saw an ugly purple blotch spreading across his companion's face. He reached within himself and tapped inside the power that had been with him since his conception, the power that had been bestowed upon him by divine authority, his birthright. For the few moments that he drew on this power, his thoughts settled into a preternatural clarity as he studied his friend's head. Concussion, no brain damage or internal bleeding it seems….Sherlock got lucky, he thought to himself. He took out the first aid kit Holmes had insisted he carry and quickly dressed the wound. John glared down at Latimer and called the police.

-221B Baker St-

'Right, thanks Greg' he spoke into his phone. 'Yes, I'll let you know when Sherlock wakes up, ASAP.'

In the few hours that had passed since the attack on Sherlock, he had managed to get Latimer arrested and thrown into jail; with his baton having Sherlock's blood on it as well as an eyewitness account from a passer-by, it was a fairly clear-cut case, Greg had assured him. He had then simply taken Sherlock home, where he cleaned and dressed the wound properly. Now all he had to do was wait for Sherlock to awaken. He hoped that it didn't take too long – the way that he was moving about, it was likely that he'd hurt himself if he was unconscious like this for much longer.

-Sherlock's dream-

Percy gasped and was forced to his knees as Gaea's presence in the world continued to increase. She was laughing at him. 'How does it feel Jackson? How does it feel to watch everything you worked for die, right in front of your eyes, knowing that you couldn't stop it?'. As Chase continued to giggle, she fell onto her knees and began retching.

Percy could barely keep from retching himself as he felt the power emanating from Gaea's avatar continue spiking, judging from the whirlwind around her, before her presence suddenly disappeared. Did her revival…fail?, he wondered to himself, before dismissing the notion. Rarely is the universe so kind. The swirling maelstrom of dust and dirt that surrounded her for the past few minutes abruptly began to die down and settle, revealing Gaea's form to the world for the first time in over three millennia. She was beautiful, Percy supposed, with smooth tanned skin and black hair eerily similar to his own. But her eyes…her eyes were what really captured him; deep, black pits shot through with shades of green like the earth, cold and distant, as if to match that otherworldly, beatific smile. Gazing upon her face, he sensed that she could watch the world's destruction and that smile would not waver one iota. Probably because the world IS ending right now, his mind supplied him helpfully.

'This place…this earth is my precious nursery' Gaea's voice rang out over Olympus. 'I cannot allow you Olympians to tarnish its sanctity anymore…Let us end this battle. For the crime of killing my children, I shall erase you all from existence right now, starting with you, Perseus Jackson' she declared. As she waved her hand, the earth itself began to rumble, until finally a black blade shot out of the ground, gleaming like obsidian. She tilted her head to the side, enigmatic smile growing across her face until finally she let out a laugh as she saw Percy slowly rising back to his feet. 'You've exceeded my every expectation, Perseus Jackson' she praised. 'Good. Ours is a battle that should be ended face to face.'

'I will stop you' he promised.

'Don't use such strong words, it only makes your weakness more apparent' she replied cordially. 'Now then. Time to die.'

Percy felt a preternatural calm settle over him, his mind clearer than it had ever been before. To storm or fire, the world must fall, his mind whispered to him. You must not fail. Percy Jackson, Son of Poseidon, did what was probably the most stupid thing in his entire life. Alone, without backup, he charged Gaea.

As the two of them danced and interlocked blades, the calm in the storm that was usually Percy's mind deepened, his focus sharpening as they moved ever faster, their bodies gracefully floating through the air as they slashed and stabbed at each other. He grinned fiercely as he smashed Riptide into her blade and knocked it away, before lunging forward to stab at her body.

I feel…so alive…what's going on?, he wondered to himself. Everything's so…so clear…so different….ah, I see…I've finally awoken my true power…

As she twisted away, there was a momentary lull, as both combatants took the chance to reassess their opponent. 'Gaea…,' Percy whispered, 'you have my eternal thanks…for finally opening my eyes….'. He started laughing hysterically, 'This is…this is FIGHTING!'. As he spoke, subconsciously, he began forming a hurricane around himself, buffeting the primordial in front of him relentlessly, knocking her backwards with his sheer presence. Oh dear gods, I'm an adrenaline junkie, he thought to himself wryly as he launched himself forward at the primordial goddess once more. And then, oh dear, I'm turning into Ares. He shuddered – mentally, of course.

Percy blinked in confusion – was Gaea getting slower? How could she be tiring already, while he was continuing to accelerate in speed, felt better than he ever had? She's still weak, unused to having an actual form, he realised. This must end now. But even in this weakened state, she's good – too good for me to wear down and defeat in time. I see…

Percy steeled himself and tackled Gaea in a kamikaze style charge, before stabbing her in the head with Riptide. In turn, she pushed her obsidian blade through Percy's torso, heedless of the golden ichor that poured from her rapidly regenerating head. 'Fool!' she mocked, even as her head restored itself. 'I am the Earth itself! I am Gaea! I am eternal! I am…'

'You're dead' Percy hissed out, before he drew deep inside himself and pulled. Gaea's mocking laughter abruptly ceased and her tanned features began to pale as ichor exploded out of her head in great gushing jets.

'W-what did you do?' she gasped out.

'Goodbye, Gaea' he said in response, holding a hand to his bleeding chest to stem the blood flowing out. As he focused, the gushing fountain rapidly reduced to a slow ebb.

'You- you ripped the ichor out of me' she said in wonder. 'My ichor…my essence!'

As Gaea's avatar crumbled into black, freshly tilled soil, Percy turned his attention to Chase. She was studying him curiously, with perhaps a tint of fear. Wisely, she decided that it was best for her to make her escape now, whilst the gods were incapacitated and he was weakened.

'We shall meet again, my dearest Seaweed Brain' she promised.

-221B Baker St-

John looked sharply at Sherlock as he continued tossing and turning, mumbling something into the depths of his pillow. He leaned in closer, curious as to see what the man he had come to regard as a friend was saying. 'Gaea…storm or fire….world must fall' the man muttered. John felt his eyes widening and jaw dropping, as a single thought raced through his mind. Sherlock…is a demigod? Deciding that he needed to get his answers immediately, he gently shook Sherlock awake.

'How long?' Sherlock asked, wincing as his head moved slightly and a dull roar filled his ears. For a moment, just like every other time he woke up since leaving ten years ago, he saw deep silver pools glaring down at him – betrayed, angry, accusing. Then he blinked and those phantom eyes were gone. 'I feel like I've been hit with a sledgehammer.'

'Baton, actually' John informed him. He got up and went for the kitchen, calling over his shoulder 'I'll fix you something and get you some aspirin.'

As Sherlock sighed in satisfaction and pushed away his tray, John decided to make his move. 'You're a demigod, aren't you?' he challenged.

'Yes' his friend confessed. 'And, so are you.'

Said friend steepled his fingers and looked at him measuringly before coming to a decision. 'Since you're going to nag at me until I tell you, and in light of my resolve for a renewed spirit of collaboration between us, I might as well tell you a bit about myself to get it out of the way' he sighed. 'My real name is Perseus…'

Author's note: Hello everyone, ApocalypticPhoenix here with another instalment of The Rise of the Consultant Hero :). So Percy's secret is now blown...I wonder what happens next between these two partners? I'd just like to thank you all for your unwavering support and suggestions, they have been rather inspiring in their own right and quite invaluable. Some things for all you readers:

1. What god should John be descended from? Should he be a legacy or a demigod? I will be taking on board any suggestions (within reason, so not Artemis/Hera/Hestia, for example). Should he be a Greek or Roman demigod?

2. Do you think I'm doing the original two series justice?

3. I'm still accepting suggestions for other cases, EXcluding the following: A Study in Scarlet, The Final Problem, The Empty House, The Sign of Four, The Hounds of the Baskervilles, A Scandal in Bohemia, The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton. I only have space for two or three cases now so pick wisely!

4. As always, constructive critique is appreciated.

Response to reviews:

Guest: I hope that this chapter proves a little more enlightening as to why Percy is a colder and more reserved than he used to be.

Guest: Perhaps Annabeth is Moriarty, perhaps not :). And yes, I am in fact intending to involve the demigods into Percy/Sherlock's cases soon enough- quite soon in fact. Thanks for your recommendation, I will read The Adventure of the Speckled Band and see if it's suitable for my purposes.

The forbidden Olympian: If I may, I suggest taking a quick glance back at chapter 3, more specifically, Sherlock's conversation with the cabbie regarding his sponsor :).

Stetsonbennett: I'm not sure about women 'fawning' over Percy, but Artemis will be the only one for him. I don't intend to bring Artemis (and the Greek mythological world in general) back for at least 3 or so chapters, but I'll be sure to make it worth the wait :).