Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
WARNING: SEX. And Violence.
Read on, enjoy, and review!
Chapter Twenty Five
"The Things We do For Love"
Something was wrong. The world felt different. His city was gone, the terrain foreign, alien. There was a weight, a pressure, heat and pain. He could not find the path, the road beneath his feet hidden under a white blanket of nothingness. This wasn't right, and he fought back, striking at the fog surrounding him. It came for him, threatening to pull him under again, fingers of white, snakelike tendrils grasping, tearing away at his thoughts. He struggled, anger rising up in him, shouting his defiance. The fog retreated, light shining through, bright cracks in the ceiling of the sunless sky.
Sherlock breathed in deep, the air chasing away the fog, and he clenched his fists, pushing against the weight that pressed down on him. Pain shot through him, and he screamed, determined to win.
"Sherlock! You're okay! Wake up!" That sound, it was a beacon, familiar and vital. He needed it, and he fought harder, reaching for the light.
I know that voice… who….. NO! John!
Sherlock woke so quickly the sunlight seared his eyes, the world spinning as it centered itself, and his head hurt as he fought back against the strangle-hold the drugs had on him. John was holding him down, both of them in bed, John's hands firmly planted on his shoulders, as Sherlock strained against him.
"John?" Sherlock gasped, and he dropped his arms, his hands falling to the pillow. One of his hands hurt, and he turned to look, and saw his hand wrapped up, a white bandage swiftly being stained red with blood. "John?"
"It's ok, I swear you're ok. Just breathe, love. Take it easy, relax." John eased up his hold, sitting back slightly, rubbing his hands soothingly on Sherlock's chest. "I'll tell you everything, just relax."
John kept rubbing him, as Sherlock panted, eyes slightly wild, as he searched the room, picking up details from the night before out of pure habit, and recognizing the telltale hangover like symptoms he was experiencing. He was accustomed to the side effects of the drug, and he adapted swiftly. He hadn't used it for a long time, but his body remembered. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his doctor, and John swallowed nervously at the look Sherlock was giving him.
"Did you dose me with morphine last night?" Sherlock demanded.
"Yes." John said, determined not to cave under the glinting fire in his detective's eyes.
Sherlock eyed John, and saw the fear, exhaustion, the worry written in the lines around John's eyes. His hands were still touching him, gentle slides across his chest and stomach. Whatever had happened last night after the snipers freed them had left its mark on the doctor. Sherlock felt a gnawing worry spiral up from his gut, and he felt the blood drain from his face in apprehension.
"Did I hurt you?" Sherlock asked, afraid to hear the answer.
"No! God no, why would you think so?" John said, lifting a hand to push back a wayward curl from Sherlock's eyes. His finger felt amazing on Sherlock's skin, and he leaned into the touch.
Sherlock cast a look at his bloody hand, and then back to John. Something had happened last night, something bad enough that John had felt it important to dose a recovering addict with his personal poison of choice. Sherlock knew he hadn't taken the drugs the night before; the flat was clean, totally. He hadn't gotten anything new since his return, and it had been empty before the Fall.
"Oh, Christ. You don't remember last night do you?" John asked, and he rubbed at his face, looking frustrated. Sherlock shook his head, and got even more confused when John flung himself back down on the bed, snuggling up to his shoulder, being careful not to jolt his hurt hand.
"The snipers freaked you out, you had a small mental break of some kind, dragged me in here, screamed and shouted about feeling helpless, then smashed that specimen case, twice, and the last time you stabbed your hand, which I then fixed up with some help from Lestrade." John stated it all so calmly, as if things like that happened every day. "Oh, and Lestrade and Mycroft came over. I said hi, they secured the flat and apparently the whole of Westminster, and Mrs. Hudson made sandwiches. And yes, I gave you morphine, to keep you under. You passed out once I started fixing your hand."
"Oh." Sherlock let the warmth and touch of a very naked doctor relax him, dropping an arm around John, pulling him closer. Sherlock went over everything John said, and he was annoyed that he didn't remember any of it, nothing after shutting the door to the bedroom. "You sure I didn't hurt you?"
"You didn't hurt me at all. All you did was hurt yourself, and we can finally say goodbye to that disgusting spider display that was in the case." John said, calm as can be. "You had some kind of break, and passed out as Greg and I patched you up."
"Who?" Sherlock asked absently, sniffing at the wonderful scent coming from John's hair. His doctor was naked, and so was he, and Sherlock felt his body take notice, rather urgently.
"Lestrade, you loon." John said, and threw a leg over Sherlock's hip. John noticed the state Sherlock was in, and chuckled. Sherlock grinned, and figured everything must be all right, as John's hand had started to wander down his chest, over his stomach. Sherlock knew where John was going, and he felt his heart race in anticipation.
John moved his leg, and let his hand wrap around Sherlock's cock, stroking it slowly. Sherlock groaned, and lifted his hips, tightening his arm around John. Sherlock closed his eyes, as John got him harder, and he lifted his hips just slightly, in time with his doctor's clever hands. John was moving down, pushing off the covers. Sherlock smiled, and opened his eyes just in time to see John slip his mouth over his cock. John looped an arm over his thighs, holding him down, and lifted his head, mouth sucking hard. He caught Sherlock's eye, and held his gaze as he swallowed Sherlock all the way, the head of his cock nudging the back of John's throat.
Sherlock let out a low moan, determined not to close his eyes. He wanted to watch this, needed to watch John please him. The doctor wrapped two fingers around the base of his cock, and as his mouth would lift away, sucking hard up towards the head, his fingers would follow close behind. Mouth and fingers tight, John stroked back down, swallowing, tongue licking inside his mouth along the underside of his lover's cock.
Sherlock let a hand float down, and he grasped the back of John's neck, squeezing gently in approval, encouraging John to keep going. John deep-throated him again, eyes burning brightly in satisfaction as Sherlock moaned each time. Again and again John tortured him, finding the perfect pace. Sherlock felt that glorious sensation start to build in him, and his toes began to curl. His skin shivered in the cool morning air, and he got bigger, harder. John's wet, hot, wonderful mouth was the best thing in the entire world. He twitched, in response to John's hand working its way under him, fingers sliding around his ass. Sherlock knew where John was going, and lifted his hips, letting John press a finger firmly to him. John just held the pressure there, waiting on something. His finger felt wonderful, and Sherlock couldn't stop himself, his eyes drifted shut, and he let John touch him, however he wanted. John was in control of him, totally holding him under his spell. Mouth, hands, that one strong finger working into his ass, Sherlock was helpless to them all.
He felt it, as it started to build, calming just before it crashed over him; that sensation he knew was an orgasm. He had no control, no experience in how to encourage it to fill him up, to make it happen faster. All he could do was trust John, that his love would know what he needed, how to give it to him. John's mouth was a miracle, and the wet sliding of his strong tongue over the head of his cock made Sherlock jerk. John pushed his finger in deep, and Sherlock knew it was happening. His finger touched a spot inside him, a place that lit the dynamite that destroyed the dam. Sherlock screamed, the sound bouncing off the bedroom walls.
The wave spilled free, and Sherlock was drowning under it, uncaring, as his body spasmed, John sucking deeply as Sherlock came in his mouth. John groaned, and thrust that finger into Sherlock again, making his detective jerk in response, another thick shot filling his mouth. Sherlock was lost, tumbled under the waves of pleasure that crashed into his mind. Every suck and lick of John's mouth made him spasm, and John pulled his hand away, moving his mouth carefully, easily. Soothing his love, as Sherlock swam back to reality.
John licked up every drop, the taste of his detective strong on his tongue. John lifted away, and rested against Sherlock's hip. Sherlock could do nothing but lay there, trembling in the morning light from the window, trying to get air back into his body. John crawled back up to him, and Sherlock hugged him to his chest, finding his lips, eyes still shut. Sherlock kissed John, tasting traces of his release in his lover's mouth, thanking John as best he could with his tongue and lips.
John kissed him back, hands holding tight to Sherlock's shoulders, laying on top of his detective. John pulled back, and Sherlock could just manage to crack his eyes open enough to see the smug satisfaction on John's face. Sherlock smiled, fighting off the urge to sleep. His eyes were heavy, and John smiled at him, knowingly. He reached down for the blankets, and Sherlock held him tight, keeping John resting on top of him. The blankets fell over them both, and John tucked his head under Sherlock's chin, snuggling beneath the covers. The warm weight of his doctor in his arms swayed Sherlock under, and a part of him knew John was smiling as he fell back asleep.
….
This time when he woke up, he knew where he was, and that John was wrapped up in his arms. The sun had shifted, the light angled away from the bed, no longer shining in his eyes. Sherlock looked at the man still laying half on him, his solid weight comforting. He couldn't tell if John was awake or not, and he rubbed his jaw in his doctor's soft hair.
Sherlock pondered his current situation, realizing that his life was so vastly different, and yet so similar, to how it used to be. John was in his life, so deeply ingrained Sherlock knew he was rendered anew. He had become so vital, so quickly, that Sherlock knew he could never walk away again. That sensation that stirred in him only in response to John swept in from his extremities, rushing across his mind, and Sherlock held John tighter.
"I love you." He whispered, burying his nose in the sandy blonde hair, streaked with grey. It didn't matter if John could hear him, he had to say it. Like drawing air in to live, Sherlock had to tell John he loved him.
John stirred, arms hugging him, leg tightening around Sherlock's. Some part of him must be aware enough to have heard, and he snuggled in deeper under the covers. Sherlock pulled John fully on top of him, not bothered at all by the doctor's weight. John wasn't a large man by any means, but he had muscles, and he was heavier than he looked. Sherlock let John treat him like a pillow, absorbing and sharing their body heat. The sun might be warm, but the days were steadily getting colder, winter coming on strong this year. The bedroom was chilly, and Sherlock knew the floor was freezing.
John slowly woke up, having fallen back asleep after their earlier adventure. He turned his head and rested his chin on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock watched as John blinked away the cobwebs, his dark eyes focusing on Sherlock's. John smiled at him, that sweet smile he never showed anyone else. Sherlock lifted his hand, and traced the fine lines next to his doctor's eyes, down his nose, across his lips, before cupping his face. Sherlock kissed him, light and chaste, and pulled back to catch another sweet smile. He smiled back, neither needing words to let the other know what they were feeling, thinking. The passion between them was quiet, simmering gently in the background, and they were content to snuggle, relaxed.
John brought a hand up, buried it in his curls, tugging one lock out straight, watching as it sprang back to a tight curl once he let it go. He kept doing this, thoroughly absorbed. Sherlock let him, growing amused by the fact his doctor loved to do something so silly. John particularly liked the one that always fell over Sherlock's brow, and John smiled, realizing that it was far longer than he thought. If Sherlock's hair wasn't so curly, it would reach inches past his ears in some places.
John played with his hair for what felt like forever, until Sherlock brought up his injured hand, and he saw the state of the bandage. Sherlock grimaced in distaste, as he must have ripped a stitch. The blood had seeped through all the way, and it had dried nearly black in the center. John grabbed his hand, and got an annoyed look on his face before sitting up, and rolling off of Sherlock.
"Well, that didn't last long, now did it?" John grumbled, leaning off the side of the bed, digging for his bag. Sherlock rolled over, propping his head on his uninjured hand. Knowing full well John was going to want his hand looked at, he plopped it down next to John on the bed with a dramatic sigh.
"Looks like you ripped a stitch, love. I'll need to change this out, clean it off." John said, as he cut away the ruined gauze. Sherlock cast a quick glance at John, wondering if John even noticed the endearment. He had a feeling John had called him 'love' at least a few times already, and thought it peculiar. Not in a bad way, just a he's-never-called-me-that-before way.
"'Love'?" Sherlock asked quietly, watching as John carefully pulled away the gauze where the blood had dried it to his skin. It hurt, but Sherlock punted the pain away, letting it fade until he didn't even feel it. John paused for a second before he spoke.
"Um, yeah, sorry. Wasn't thinking." John said, sounding mildly embarrassed. "Do you mind? I'll stop if you do."
"No, it's fine. Really." Sherlock murmured, relaxing into the mattress, curving himself around John where he sat on the edge of the bed. "No one but my mother or Mrs. Hudson has ever called me that, but it's fine."
"Did you just compare me to your mother?" John laughed, looking at Sherlock.
"Possibly. Limited understanding, odd habits, like making me eat and sleep. There's a resemblance." Sherlock smirked, and ducked his head when John playfully swatted at him. John glared at him, but it melted away when Sherlock smiled and curved closer. He rubbed Sherlock's curls, and the doctor went back to tending his hand.
"Yeah you pulled a stitch, not too badly though. It's slightly inflamed; I'll give you some more antibiotics in a bit." John wiped at his cut with an antiseptic swab, cleaning away the dried blood between his fingers. The doctor was gentle, and did his work with smooth skill. Sherlock felt all warm and fuzzy, and he was ready to fall back asleep from the sensation John was invoking in him.
"Hhhhmmmm." He mumbled, snaking his free arm around the other man's waist, his long form wrapped tightly to John's back and hips. Sherlock nuzzled his face into his lover's hip, and sighed in contentment.
"Comfortable, I see." John said over his head, wrapping his hand. Sherlock just hummed happily, dosing off, John's scent and salty skin against his lips making him very interested in staying where he was. Right up until he felt a cold alcohol swab and a sharp needle stick in his upper arm.
"Bloody hell! John!" His happy mood gone, Sherlock jerked at the unexpected jab. He rolled away from John as he lifted the syringe from his arm. Sherlock growled under his breath, and John ignored him, putting the needle back in its sterile wrapping, throwing it on the nightstand.
"No sulking, I did say I was going to give you a shot." He smiled at Sherlock's pout, and laughed when Sherlock pulled the covers over his head, grumbling about evil doctors and torture devices. "None of that now, love." John lifted the corner, and peeked underneath. He caught a glimpse of dark curls, and the flash of jewel-bright eyes narrowed in displeasure.
Sherlock pretended not to notice when John snuggled back under the covers, rolling over and trying to ignore the strong arm that roped around his hips. John pressed himself fully against Sherlock, groin snug and flush with the detective's ass. He tried his best to ignore the hand that found his cock and started to rub, with gentle strokes. He tried, but his body came roaring to life, and he heard John chuckle into his shoulder. John was aroused, and Sherlock groaned when John thrust his hips a little, rubbing his cock on his ass.
"I think it's my turn, Sherlock." John whispered in his ear, kissing his neck.
Sherlock moaned once, as John pushed harder. Tense with need, Sherlock was shaking in tiny tremors from John's hand stroking his full length, masterful fingers pulling and tugging. John was suddenly gone, rolling away from Sherlock, leaving him gasping and wondering what his doctor was doing.
"John? What…" He gasped, as John had rolled back, and Sherlock felt John's fingers grasping at his buttocks. He knew instantly where John had gone to so briefly, as a very well lubricated finger pushed its way into him. John must have had lubricant of some kind in his bag, and Sherlock got even more excited. It was dark and warm under the covers, and Sherlock felt surrounded by his doctor, his hands and mouth seemingly everywhere.
"I'm a very well prepared doctor." John growled in his ear, making Sherlock grin.
Strong fingers pushed into him, two at first, and then three. Sherlock relaxed fully, thrusting his hips back at John, eager for more. He was getting impatient, wanting John inside him. John teased him, his fingers pulling out all the way, only to push firmly back in.
"John!" Sherlock demanded, and John kissed the back of his neck, sucking lightly.
"Patience." He whispered back, and he pulled his fingers away one last time. John lined himself up, and with one strong thrust of his hips, buried himself to the hilt inside of Sherlock.
Sherlock couldn't think; he could do nothing but hold on to the arm wrapped securely around him. John rocked his hips slowly, refusing to go fast, taking his lover at a deep, steady pace. John moved against Sherlock's back, his whole body rubbing and touching his detective. Sherlock was reduced to a moaning, quivering pile of limbs and loose muscles, helpless under John's strong hands, his powerful hips. All of John's years of sexual experience told him the perfect rhythm, and he used it on his lover. Deep, slow thrusts, filling Sherlock all the way, pausing for half a heartbeat before slowly pulling out. The head of his cock slipped in and out of Sherlock's tight hole, and Sherlock whimpered deep in his throat as John timed his thrusts back in with strokes to Sherlock's cock.
John was determined to take care of Sherlock. He angled is hips, plunging himself deeper, rubbing the head of his cock on the other man's prostate. He could do this forever, fucking the most perfect person in this world, this perfect man in his arms. John groaned, and knew he was getting ready. He worked Sherlock faster, giving Sherlock the hard fucking his body was begging for. Sherlock swelled in his hands, and tightened around his cock. Sherlock came, and John plunged faster, moaning and grunting as he thrust deeper, Sherlock coming hard around his cock.
Sherlock was shouting, face buried in a pillow, body convulsing in waves of release and pleasure. He was helpless as John fucked him hard, no control over his body. He came so hard he was sobbing, and John chose that moment to orgasm as well, deep shots pumping into Sherlock. Both men clung to each other, rocking as they climaxed; John buried deep, his hand stroking Sherlock as he came on the sheets. John groaned loudly, his cock pulsing in time to Sherlock's quivering body.
John held Sherlock as the younger man shook and clung to him. John hugged him tightly, comforting Sherlock as he tried to recover from the powerful orgasm. He was shaking, hands clutching at John's arms. John slowly and gently withdrew from Sherlock, kissing his lover as Sherlock jumped in response. Sherlock had come so hard he couldn't handle it. He was sobbing quietly, overcome. John turned Sherlock to him, and pulled until the younger man buried himself in his chest. He hugged him, running a hand through dark, soft curls, soothing.
"Shush, it's okay, you're fine. Shhh…." John whispered to him, running a hand up and down the detective's back. "The big ones can do that, it's okay, sshhhhh…"
Sherlock eventually stopped shivering, and he snuck an arm out and hugged John back, snuggling deeper into his embrace. John smiled, and held his detective, both of them still hiding under the blankets, the world shut out, just the two of them, and their love.
Lestrade checked his mobile again, for twelfth time in the last hour. He couldn't help it; even when he put it away, intending not to look unless it went off, he would forget, and impatiently check for a message. He was sitting at his desk in his office, and he heard the sounds of a busy day through the door. He couldn't concentrate on the cases in front of him, nor the paperwork needing his signature.
Lestrade sighed at himself, he knew he was being stupid, but he couldn't resist anymore. He gave up, and went back into his Inbox, and scrolled through the texts from the night before. He zipped past all the work related ones, the ones from Donovan demanding to know what was going on. He skipped the ones from the surveillance teams, and the guards stationed on Baker Street. He kept going, until he got to the last one, the one from the man at MI6.
Goodnight, Detective Inspector. –MH
The Inspector stared at it, and felt this tiny spark of something flash in his chest. He hadn't been happy for so long, not since the debacle of a marriage that had ended a couple of years back. Not since Sherlock Fell. Since he had last seen Mycroft Holmes. He hardly recognized it, so foreign to him was the emotion.
Lestrade had been happy only once more recently, and that was when a certain consulting detective ambushed him in the precinct's garage. Sherlock had so brazenly stepped from the shadows, all cool looking and so obviously not dead that Lestrade had skipped past the anger and went straight to thankful. Sherlock's face as he hugged him had been priceless, too.
Lestrade knew he was being stupid. He really did. He knew his fascination with his friend's big brother was pointless, immature, and guaranteed to get him embarrassed and hurt. Back when he first met Sherlock, damn near nine years ago now, he had very quickly been introduced to the specter that was Mycroft Holmes. A call had come down from on high, he had found himself escorted to a black car, and then shuffled off to a clandestine meeting with the man who would quickly become something of an obsession.
Lestrade had played it cool, and had listened quietly to the man who introduced himself as the older brother of the very intelligent and highly irritating 'consulting detective' he had met just that morning. Lestrade was no fool, regardless of what Sherlock might think. He knew power when he saw it, and knew very well that Mycroft Holmes would be a powerful enemy, or a beneficial friend. And so it had been proven, over the years.
If he looked after Sherlock, and let him 'assist' (which quickly became take over, and let Lestrade catch the glory) on cases, then Mycroft would cover for his brother's errant behavior, and protect Lestrade in turn.
Lestrade hadn't seen the harm, he really hadn't. Sherlock had solved in one hour a case that had stumped the best of them for a week. And done it in such a way as to offend everyone, but be so bloody right no one really did anything about the annoying aspect. Sherlock had then swanned off, ignoring the glares from insulted officers, and told Lestrade to call him when he needed help again. And Lestrade had needed him, and he did indeed call.
And so began a relationship that was still awkward and annoying and precarious, but Lestrade found himself loving the irascible consultant. Not that he would EVER tell Sherlock that. Nor would he ever mention the happiness that he'd experience when Mycroft would text him, call him, summon him for reports or to give him instructions.
Greg Lestrade was a man happy to be in a state of denial, because he knew if he tried to be anything more to the elder Holmes besides a nanny for his brother, Mycroft would disappear. Lestrade knew, and he just stayed in this frustrating place, pretending he was happy, putting up a front. He lived alone in this place of random happiness, as he lived alone in the cold empty flat he used to call home.
Lestrade looked at the text, and he wondered what it meant. Mycroft had never, ever texted anything like this before to him. Ever. What did it mean? Sure, Mycroft would chat with him sometimes, always polite, but nice. They would talk for a long time, about anything. He was nice to him, when he had no reason to be, and from everything he saw in how he acted with others, including his own blood, Mycroft Holmes wasn't nice. So why was he nice to a forty-something detective inspector from Scotland Yard?
Lestrade bit his lip, and rubbed his thumb over the text. He sighed, and just stared at it. Wondering.
The day was cold, but the sun was warm, not much help as it rarely came out from behind the clouds. The morning had been sunny, but as the day continued on, it had quickly gotten colder, and winter was heavy on the horizon. The autumn had been cold so far, and getting colder, far colder than was usual for London. The sun was bright and glaring when it slashed through the clouds, warming those below briefly before the wind whipped up, and the shadows returned.
The two women were bundled up against the wind, stylish and sexy in their long black coats. They had black hats on, and Mary smiled at the matching picture they made. Mary tucked her chin into her collar, glad Death's men had packed up her cold weather gear. Winter was most definitely coming early this year.
Death stood beside her, her long mahogany hair braided back, and tucked under her black hat. The brim was pulled low, obscuring her face, and her collar was up as well. They stood just down the street from Scotland Yard, confident that the CCTV feeds wouldn't catch them where they were at.
"When are your men going to be ready?" Mary asked, and she kept scanning the street, making sure no one was taking particular note of her unless she wanted them too. Death was listening to her teams on an earpiece hidden beneath her hat. She would tell Mary once they were in position, the drivers getting ready to provide each woman with an escape.
"Soon. Yours will be the most arduous, are you certain you still wish to do it?" Death asked her, and her wild eyes glanced at Mary, at odds with the concern in her voice. Mary nodded, knowing Death was right to be worried, especially after last night.
They had broken into the building across from 221B the night before. Mary remembered with glee the stricken look on Sherlock's face as she slowly, and very menacingly, put the laser sight over his heart with her sniper rifle. Death had held hers on John, and Mary had been glad for it. Death had impeccable control, whereas Mary might have accidentally pulled the trigger, just from seeing John sleeping in his chair in his lover's flat. Her anger had been so overwhelming that Mary had to struggle not to pull the trigger herself, and end Holmes where he sat at the table. It was Death's voice from the darkness next to her, saying that they needed to go, that had roped her emotions under control. They had made their point. She knew it, and Death knew it. And from the look on Holmes' face, he knew it too.
It wasn't until they had returned to the estate outside London that Mary's body had betrayed her, as she got violently ill, vomiting up her supper. Death had rubbed her back, saying nothing. Mary knew she was conflicted; killing for vengeance, for revenge, had never been her way. She got paid to take out targets, and she did with callous efficiency. Or she used too. Killing for emotional reasons was an alien concept to her. But after tonight, she would have no trouble. Experiencing something was the only way to adapt to it.
"I'll be fine. I'll see you at the estate once I'm done. Have fun with yours." Mary turned, and disappeared into the crowds.
Today they would let London experience their rage. The city would burn until Holmes was dead.
Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. John was drying off, and the air in the hallway was frigid compared to the warm mist from the shower. Sherlock didn't care that he was naked, he fully planned on getting back into bed.
Sherlock cast a vaguely nervous glance towards the front room, avoiding the windows where the noonday sun filtered in. He had a haunting recollection of slamming the bedroom door shut last night, the echoes from the noise bouncing in the hall, and his memory. Sherlock lost all memory of what happened after that point, and that made him very nervous. He refused to show it, knowing it would only worry John, and make him question Sherlock's sanity. As he was questioning it.
Having a panic induced breakdown was slightly different than what Sherlock feared had really happened. Sherlock was afraid he had gotten so frightened, so overwhelmingly terrified at his helplessness, at his inability to protect John, that he had deleted it. Everything from the second he slammed the door last night to the fog dream just before he woke up that morning. All of it deleted. Gone. Deleted out of an instinctual desire to protect himself.
He hadn't lost control of his mind palace like that since he was a child, and first learning to use it. For him to delete an experience as he lived it was very troublesome. Sherlock felt fine now; he truly did. Cautious, yes, but not afraid. So whatever it was that he had felt last night, it was too much for him to handle. Using his emotions was going to be far more problematic than he had anticipated.
John opened the door behind him, and nearly ran into him.
"Sherl', why are you standing naked in the hall?" John asked, walking around him into the bedroom. Sherlock followed behind him, smirking at another nickname that John was using without noticing.
"It's my hall." Sherlock said, throwing himself back on the bed, not bothering with the blankets. John threw him a look that clearly said he knew better, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. John jumped up on the bed next to him, laying out beside his detective in much the same pose.
"So, Sherl', is it safe to stay here or should we be thinking about moving?" John asked, hands on his stomach, looking up at the ceiling. Sherlock hummed quietly, and John tossed him a look when he didn't answer. "Seeing as how two crazy assassins decided to throw a laser show in the flat."
John nudged him with his elbow. No response.
Sherlock had stopped listening, the word 'moving' circling in his head. John saw his face, and just watched him, waiting. He knew that look. Moving from the flat had evoked thoughts of trying to find a new place to live, which had then spawned the thought of houses, buildings, places people choose to live, to go home to. Packing up belongings, gear, tools. Chose to be at…..
How did this all begin? Not with Moriarty, not with Mary. How did this begin….Blackwood. Why use Blackwood to announce your intentions to the world? They went there, to that specific place. I thought it was because of the isolated location, so that they could stage such a dramatic show without interruption. And I know that's part of it. But how did Death know about Blackwood? No one knew about it, the world had forgotten it existed. So how does she know about it? And why did she pick that place? And the boat, the one they used getting to Blackwood, where is the boat? Did no one look for the boat? I told Lestrade to find the boat, didn't I? It could have been rented, stolen, or it could be owned…
Sherlock sat up abruptly, eyes wild, excited. John sat up too, curious. He had waited patiently while Sherlock processed whatever epiphanies he was having. John waited, holding his breath. It was big, whatever it was. Sherlock turned to him, and John felt a thrill of excitement race down his spine at the satisfaction and delight in Sherlock's eyes.
"John, you are a miracle." Sherlock reached out, grabbed his head, and gave him a crushing kiss full on the lips before leaping off the bed. "A bastion of revelations! Unrivalled in this world!"
Sherlock tore out of the bedroom, and John crawled off the bed, chasing after his very excited, and very naked, lover. Sherlock dashed to his coat, tearing through his pockets for his mobile. John glanced at the windows, and bit back a grin. He really hoped the surveillance teams stationed on the roof across the street weren't choosing this particular moment to look in the flat. Sherlock had found his mobile, and he was excitedly calling someone. Still totally naked.
"C'mon, answer! Dammit! Lestrade!" Sherlock was nearly shouting, so thrilled was he at finally getting through. "Shut up! Listen! Did you find the boat they used at Blackwood?"
Sherlock stressed that question, everything seeming to hinge on Lestrade's answer. John watched as Sherlock's face went from dementedly hopeful to outrageously exasperated in milliseconds.
"Dear God man! Find it! I told you the specifications for the boat before I left that day, must I do it all? Find the boat, we may yet find the disciple! Call me immediately, no waiting!"
Sherlock hung up, and John was about to ask before he saw Sherlock was dialing yet again. It rang, going long enough without being answered that Sherlock was pacing in frustration and impatience.
"Mycroft! Stop spying on Asia and find out who used to own Blackwood Chemical, the place where Death staged her debut." Sherlock was still pacing, and John was thinking he might want to close the drapes. "Yes, of course I'm fine! What do you mean? No, I don't need you to come over, John's here, I'm perfectly fine. Find out who owned Blackwood, all I know is that the place was condemned after the owner died twenty years back. I don't recall who the owner actually was."
Sherlock turned to John, who was closing the drapes. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his doctor being so close to the windows, but John didn't see him and Sherlock was distracted by his older brother being his usual pain in the arse-ness. "Just do it. Call me."
Sherlock ended the call, and only then did he notice he was still very naked. It was rather chilly in the flat, and the doors were all open. John had closed the drapes, and Sherlock figured out why once he thought about it. He felt slightly out of sorts about the surveillance teams seeing him naked, but he figured they were the spies; they had most likely seen worse.
"Hmmmm, pants." Sherlock mumbled to himself, and walked back down the hall. John followed behind him, impatient and wanting to know what was going on.
"Okay, I got most of that from your half of the conversations. You figure we find the boat, we may find a clue as to identity and location, and we find out who owned Blackwood, we might find out how Death knew to use it?" John said, as Sherlock pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms. John smiled when he saw Sherlock raid John's undershirts for a shirt to wear, pulling one on instead of going two more feet to his closet and grabbing one of his own.
"Yes, John, exactly. We may get very lucky, and Death has been careless enough to leave a trail to where she is hiding, or even who she is." Sherlock still clung to his mobile, glaring at it every few seconds as it stubbornly refused to ring. He stalked out of the bedroom and John huffed in annoyance. Once Sherlock got this antsy, it was almost impossible to slow him down to normal human speeds.
Sherlock planted himself in his chair, his mobile perched on his knee, still stubbornly silent. John threw himself in his chair, and grabbed the nearest paper. Sherlock was fidgeting, fingers drumming on his knee. Sherlock needed a new case, and badly. One that didn't involve pyscho ex-fiancés and disciples. John looked out around the paper occasionally at his lover, and each time Sherlock was staring at the mobile, brows furrowed, willing it to ring.
They sat like that for a while, before John got bored. He peeked over the top of the page, and looked at Sherlock. He still hadn't moved. Still staring at the stubbornly silent mobile. John laughed, and went back to reading, sinking deeper into his seat and propping his feet up on the edge of Sherlock's chair. He sat like that for a few minutes, and he jumped when he felt long fingers wrap themselves around one of his ankles. John smiled, and kept on reading, enjoying the thumb rubbing circles on his skin.
Sally Donovan was late, and she hated being late. She had left the Yard earlier to question a witness, and Lestrade had called her on her way back, telling her not to bother going home, to just come back in. She held back from telling him that she had no plans to go home, that all she was going to do there was watch crap telly and drink herself to sleep.
Sherlock Holmes, again. She knew it. Always that man. He was aggravating and just plain weird. And Lestrade followed that man's lead like he was the Detective Inspector, and not a busy body civilian who always mangled things. Never mind that he was always right, and he closed more cases than any single detective at Scotland Yard. Sally hated him, and she wasn't afraid to show it.
Well, she used to hate him. Two years ago, she and her friend-with-benefits Anderson had been convinced, so absolutely convinced, that Sherlock Holmes was a fake, a liar, and a psychopath bent on breaking all the laws she held dear. She had done her best to convince Lestrade, but in the end she had only partially succeeded. She had to go around Lestrade, to his superiors, and finally gotten someone to listen.
Then the world ended. Sherlock had evaded capture along with his partner Dr Watson, and the very next day committed suicide from the roof of St Bart's. He had died, and it was so unexpected, so obviously against everything she had believed about Holmes, that it left her foundering in disbelief. Never had she expected such an action from Holmes. Complaining, bickering, whining, and yelling, yes. But suicide? It had hurt, so badly was she shaken.
And the month after? When she had been with Lestrade that day he dropped by 221B to see if John Watson was okay? That day haunted her. Haunted her so badly that when she got home that night, she had downed an entire bottle of wine trying to rid herself of the image of a soul-bereft man. John Watson had been a hallow shell of a man, a body without heart or higher thought. He had talked, moved, responded to questions, but there had been no person behind his eyes. The death of his partner had destroyed the man she had always thought to be misguided, but still a decent man. Still a good person. And she had contributed to the destruction of his world, no matter how right she had thought she was to do so at the time. Sally had felt her convictions, her steadfast belief that Holmes had been a lie falter in the face of John Watson's grief. And she was haunted, guilt following her with every step.
When she had the misfortune this past week to see John Watson again in person, her guilt had come flooding out of her soul, compounded by the fact that Holmes had been exonerated by her own superiors just weeks earlier. Sherlock Holmes had been everything he had claimed to be from the very beginning, and she had let her personal prejudices distort her judgment, and sour her reputation. And to see the righteous anger and fury on John Watson's face had felt like a well-deserved slap in the face. She took the punishment she dealt herself in silence, refraining from stepping back into old habits, because she deserved Watson's anger, and Holmes' indifference. She deserved it all.
Sally exited the cab just outside the front of Scotland Yard, pausing to catch her scarf as the wind threatened to carry it away. The weather had steadily gotten worse from the lovely morning the day had started with, and she looked up at the sky in apprehension. Surely it was too early for snow, but the wind was so cold it felt like it could start any minute. The sun couldn't decide whether it wanted to stay hidden, or keep shining. Sally didn't see the woman in front of her until it was too late, walking into her and bumping off of the other woman.
"I'm so sorry! I didn't see you. Are you okay?" Sally asked, incredibly embarrassed. She had trouble seeing the other woman's face, as she was bundled up against the cold in a high collared coat and low black hat.
"Oh, I'm just fine, dear. But you are not so lucky." She said, reaching up to tilt the rim of her hat back, revealing the face of Sybil Moran.
Sally was briefed just that morning by Lestrade, and she knew the face of the most wanted woman in Europe well from the pictures Lestrade had given her. She was beautiful, and the mania in her eyes made Sally snap out of her shock and reach for her gun. Her hand went to her hip, but she felt nothing. Sally looked down, and saw her gun, and its holster, were gone. Just gone. Sally looked up, and caught a glimpse of a maniacal smile contorting Moran's lovely face before she faltered. Sally tried to move, tried to reach out and grab the other woman's arm. She tried, she truly did.
Nothing was working right. Her fingers were numb, and Sally couldn't remember why she was so upset. Why was she scared? Why was that woman scaring her?
Death caught Sargent Donovan's arm as the other woman began to pass out under the effects of the drug she had administered during her well-timed collision. She hadn't felt a thing, the needle sliding effortlessly into her side, as Death grabbed her weapon and pocketed it.
One of her men joined her, and placed an arm around the policewoman's waist. Holding her up like she was getting a hug from a friend. There they stood in front of Scotland Yard, and no one saw the imminent danger that Sally Donovan was in. Death nodded to her man, and waved him off to the black car that had pulled up behind them at the curb. He got in, carrying the unresponsive policewoman with him. No one saw, no one stopped them.
Death smiled, and turned towards the corner of the building, where several CCTV cameras were pointing down on the square in front of Scotland Yard. She deliberately moved into the line of sight of the closest, and reached up, and pulled off her hat. Her braid fell down her back, and she looked directly into the camera. She smiled her most lovely, gracious mile, and nodded once, before donning the hat, and sedately getting in her car. She pulled the door shut behind her, and the powerful engine growled as the car leapt away from Scotland Yard. Countless police officers within shouting distance, and all of them useless.
How easily she had stolen one of their own. Now it was Mary's turn.
Mary counted until ten, and then moved down the hall. The camera above her panned down the hall in the opposite direction, and she waiting until it was sweeping back before she moved again. She moved with a fluid grace, having done something like this many, many times before. She used to call it the 'Camera Dance' when she was younger, bored with routine break-ins and the killing of old men. She had even danced the waltz once, almost getting caught in her silliness. The guard she had to knife who caught her playing had cooled her mirth, settling her back down into the right mindset.
Once you knew the beat, the rhythm of these cameras, you could always get through. It was the stationary ones that were really tricky. Especially in long hallways with no doors.
This was easy. This was the maintenance corridor of CAM Headquarters in London. She was on the 31st floor, and this corridor was only monitored by the sweeping cameras. She had poured over the intelligence she had gotten from Death, and she knew exactly where she was going. She waited those last few seconds, and slipped into the guard station at the end of the hall. It was break time, and one of the guards was downstairs in the lobby, hitting on a hot barista and getting a pastry his arteries didn't need. Mary walked in silently, and the one remaining guard was unconscious quickly, the butt of her pistol making a dull thud in the quiet room. He slumped in his chair in front of the camera monitors, and Mary rolled him out of the way, into the corner.
Mary looked quickly over the screens, trying to find her target. He was nowhere on the office level, and she scanned through the screens, assessing and dismissing them one by one.
There! I've got you, you rat bastard! Mary grinned, her lips pulling up into a menacing smile. It was time to get vengeance. This was the man who had kidnapped John, and almost burned him alive, just to see if Sherlock Holmes would give a shit. He had spilled the truth of her existence to her former masters, destroying her life once she was no longer potentially useful. He was going to die. And there was no one to stop her.
Mary accessed the cameras, disabling them all. She then turned to the hard drives and servers in the corner of the room, and inserted the block of C4 deep inside the cooling cabinet, in the shadows where no one would see it. Once she was done, she would detonate the explosives. No chance of the stray camera shot of her being here would survive, and one would be able to see what was going on if they came in here before she was gone.
Mary grabbed the back of the security guard's chair, the man still limp and unresponsive. She pulled him out into the hall, and dragged him down the far end, pushing him into a small maintenance closet and shutting the door. She had an issue with collateral damage, and if he stayed in the security room once she blew the charge, he would die. His partner wasn't due back for another forty minutes. Plenty of time.
She jogged down the hall, and found the access to the ventilation. This was a large building wide system, and the air ducts were more similar to elevator shafts than those found in residential homes. They even came with very sturdy metal ladders, perfect for the intrepid assassin to get around in.
Mary knew she had to move fast, Magnussen was in his bedroom, presumably changing for dinner. She climbed swiftly, going to the residence level faster this way than taking the stairs. Mary wasn't fazed by the great drop below her, nor the whirring of fans and the drone of machinery. She stopped, and pushed on the panel she needed. It opened easily, and she dropped into the A/C maintenance room for this level. She was four rooms down from Magnussen's bedroom, and she needed to be there before he came out. There was only one way out of his room, but once he entered the hall he had multiple exits.
Mary opened the door, and peeked out, looking both ways. Magnussen only had two guards in his personal areas, relying instead on the building's built insecurity features to stop intruders. More foolish he. There was no movement, and she took the chance he was still in his room. Mary propped the door ajar with a broom, and silently glided down the hall towards her target.
She pulled her nine mil from the holster on her thigh, the silencer adding a minor weight she hardly ever noticed anymore. Mary moved along the wall, hugging the shadows. She paused outside the door, and listened. There was the sound of a single person breathing just past the door, and she shifted, glancing quickly around the edge of the partly open door.
He stood at the mirror just to the right of the doorway, adjusting his tie. She listened, and there was no one else in there to worry about. Mary dropped the gun down, holding it casually by her thigh. She reached out, and lightly pushed on the door, opening it all the way and stepping through.
Charles Augustus Magnussen was not expecting anyone, much less an assassin he had sold out for information on his rival. Her sudden appearance in his private space was as much of a shock as the sight of the gun she held at her side.
"What! What do you think you are doing? How did you get in here?" He stammered, backing away, coming up against the large glass window that made up the entire wall.
London shined outside his window, the evening sun setting swiftly. The rays of gold and bronze shined across her face, illuminating her brilliant blue eyes, her porcelain skin. She was given a halo of light, her hair shining like a beacon. She was a lovely woman by any standard. She could see just fine, the angle of her stance letting her benefit from the light without being blinded by it. His tall form cast a long shadow, a black line on the golden floor. It stretched out across the entire room, and she stopped just shy of it, refusing to touch any part of him.
This man was as evil as they came. He took a perverse, deviant pleasure in violating people, their privacy, and then feeding off their pain and misery. He had no issue ruining lives the second they became inconvenient. He was a leech, a parasite on the souls of hundreds. The pain and despair of his victims was his favorite food, one he slobbered on and despoiled before sucking it down, destroying any shred of decency he may once have harbored in his shriveled soul.
"I have come to settle a debt, Magnussen." Mary said, her voice light, sweet. She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling brightly in the setting sun. There was no threat in her stance, the gun at her side seemingly forgotten. He held his hands out, beseechingly.
"A debt? What do you mean?" he asked, though he very well knew. He remembered everything, this man. Nothing slipped by him. She knew he was stalling, hoping against hope for one of his men to come up behind her and take her out. She also knew that he thought she was referring to her identity being leaked.
"There are hundreds of debts leveled against you, Magnussen. So many broken hearts, destroyed dreams. But there is only one debt that matters now." Mary put her finger on the trigger, knowing her couldn't see her hand in the blinding light, the shifting rays. He was focused on her face, falsely comforted by her smile, her unthreatening charm. The light was racing time across the horizon, and she knew the sun would set any moment.
"What debt do you mean? I assure you my dear, it was nothing personal, the selling of your identity. Perhaps we could make a trade? Perhaps there is something I know, someone I own, that could be of use to you? My life for whatever you want, you have only to ask." He told her, trying his best to convince this lovely woman not to kill him. He felt he had a good chance, as she had made no move to pull the trigger, and not once had she pointed the weapon at him. Everyone had a weakness, something they wanted, or needed. He felt certain that she had hers.
"There is something I want from you." Mary said, and she smiled as he relaxed slightly at her words. He saw her smile, and stood straighter, thinking she was willing to make a deal. "But first this debt you owe."
"Name it, we shall settle this like business people, yes? One professional to another." He said, fixing his tie, relaxing enough to fuss at his jacket. "There is much I could do for you."
"John Watson." One name. And that name was enough. Magnussen looked confused, for he knew John had left her, and why she would consider John a debt was beyond him. Mary smiled, and his face grew even more confused. The sun crowned her in its dying glory, her eyes as bright as the morning sky had been. "I don't care all that much about myself, I truly don't. I knew my dream of a happy life could evaporate any minute. But you put the only person I have ever loved into a bonfire and let it be lit. You took him from me as surely as you took him from Sherlock. While I am not his true love, he is mine. Forever."
"Then what can I do for you, to settle this affront?" He asked.
"Die." Mary said, as she lifted the gun, and she reveled in the sudden fear that eclipsed his eyes, the second before she pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced his skull, just above and between his eyes. He died so fast he had no time to fully feel his fear. "And what I want is for you to go to Hell."
His body slumped against the glass wall, and he fell slowly to the floor just as the last flash of the setting sun vanished from the room. His eyes were truly vacant now, his body as empty as the remnants of his soul.
Mary stood over his body, and she sighed. Too fast, too soon. But she couldn't spare the time to fully satisfy her rage, her sorrow. She had done this for John just as much as she had for herself. Though she knew he would never approve, he would call this murder. Strangely enough, she knew Sherlock would understand, and forgive her for it. Too bad he would never know.
Mary had avenged her love, and ironically enough, saved Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes in the process. Magnussen had been gunning hard for both men, weeks away from attempting to manipulate Sherlock into betraying his brother. Whatever secret he held over the Holmes' brothers was as dead as he, now.
She turned away, catching a glimpse of London lighting up in the deepening twilight. It was so beautiful from up here. What a view. Mary left, already forgetting the limp corpse slumped on the floor.
She returned to the maintenance room, and dropped another block of C4 at the panel. She climbed down, well past the maintenance corridor, down and down. She was fit, she had no qualms about the thirty floors below her in the ventilation shaft. She paused once in a while, to stick a block of C4 to the wall from the small pack at the base of her back. This was all unnecessary. She had left no trace of herself behind. No, this was for Death, the progression of her plan. CAM Tower was one of the largest and most recognizable buildings in London, and multiple explosions would most definitely make a statement. The central air shaft was well away from populated areas, so she had minimal concerns about innocents. Mary climbed down to the fifth floor, where the shafts all split out and up. There she found the last access panel, and entered. This was how she had originally entered the building. The public had access to these levels, and she had left her street clothes in the main maintenance room. She quickly covered up her tac-gear, and exited the room. The black hat obscured her bright hair, the rim pulled low. Her long coat covered her completely, thick enough to hide the outlines of weapons. She made her way down to the main lobby, passing the other security guard on his way up the escalator. She smiled, guessing correctly that he had decided to stay and flirt longer with the barista.
Just as she hit the main lobby, she reached under her coat, and pressed the switch. Great, deep tremors shook the building. BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM. Mary reacted like everyone else, looking up as the ceiling shook, the fire alarms went off, and as the lights flickered and the room fell dark. She ran with the crowd, outside and into the street. There she kept running, disappearing into the milling crowd, the panicked screams and shouts covering the sound of a car starting down the alley she was heading for. She never looked back, never looked up, as the top levels of CAM Tower erupted in flame, lighting the London skyline like a torch. Mary got in the black car, and it pulled out, vanishing into the streets.
Molly was tired. It had been such a long day, and the day before hadn't made things any easier. Lestrade had told her what Sherlock had learned about Mary, and that she was supposedly in league with a disciple of Moriarty.
She shivered, as any mention of that man terrified her. He had swept her off her feet, romanced her and seduced her. All to get to Sherlock. Molly had never been used so callously in her life, and it made her still feel dirty in some way. Stained. Molly knew better, she truly did, but she had trouble removing the injury he left. He had been so deliberately perfect, just what she thought she wanted.
Molly was closing down the lab, turning off instruments and making sure no notes were left out. The television was on in the office, and she would turn it off when she went for her purse. The night had gotten dark quickly, and the lab was filling up with shadows. She took one last look around, and went to the office door.
The news was on, and Molly stopped in dismay. There was an aerial shot of a burning building, a skyscraper. Flames engulfed the top floor, and at regular intervals down the length of the building, black smoke billowed out. As if it was burning from the inside too. The tower was barely recognizable, but she could see enough to know it was CAM Tower.
"Oh my God!" She breathed out, a hand covering her mouth. Was it terrorists? Arson?
Molly was absorbed, and she didn't see the shadow moving behind her, the silhouette of a taller woman at her shoulder.
"What a sight. I love a fire in autumn. Takes me back to holidays as a child." The voice said at her shoulder, and Molly screamed. She turned and backed away, staring at the woman who had suddenly appeared from nowhere.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Molly asked, frightened by the woman. She was lovely, tall and slim and had an aura of grace. Her hair was long, braided back away from her face and trailing down her back. It was her eyes that made Molly afraid. Eyes that reminded her of a monster.
"My name isn't important. I haven't used it in so long that I believe I have forgotten it, really. You may call me Death, dear. A foolish name given to me by foolish men. So easily impressed by blood and destruction." The woman named Death smiled, and Molly felt a chill race down her spine. She was in danger, every instinct telling her to run. The other woman was between her and the door, and Molly had a feeling that she would not be able to win in a fight.
"What do you want?" Molly asked, her voice nothing but a whisper now. Death was still watching the news, the light from the fires on the screen dancing across her delicate features. Her eyes were lit from within with a different kind of fire, and Molly drew in a breath. Those eyes, she knew those eyes. The darkness was complete in the lab, but for the television. A heavy quiet was building, the air waiting for something to happen.
"I want you, dear." Death's eyes caught hers, and Molly locked up in terror. Her voice was strangled, and she felt a sick tension soak into her bones. Her eyes, Oh God, she has his eyes!
Molly's eyes widened in recognition, and Death nodded as she saw the other woman make the connection. Molly was shaking her head, and she tried to deny what every instinct in her body was screaming at her.
"You have his eyes." Molly stammered, and she gulped as Death grinned in delight.
Molly felt the world closing in on her, and she hardly felt the sharp blow to her temple that knocked her out. Death caught the slight woman as she started to fall, her weight easily managed. A larger shadow moved behind her in the doorway, and Death nodded. It peeled itself away from the other shadows, and Death passed the unconscious Dr Hooper over to one of her guards. He lifted her up, being careful when Death narrowed her eyes at him. The man and Dr Hooper disappeared into the shadows, and Death took one last look at the television.
"Well done Mary." Death said, and walked into the darkness.
The lab settled, the air still. Only the flames from the television gave light in the quiet room, and Molly's coat hung forlornly on the peg by the door.