Ch. 5
Hands
Pale Death beats equally at the poor man's gate and at the palaces of kings.
-Horace
2005
Mycroft watched the pale, dark haired man warily, his fingers tapping on the ornate desk in front of him. The other man shifted in his chair impatiently, his icy gaze revealing nothing.
"Sheol-"
"Mycroft, really." The other said shortly. "Do you not pay attention? I do not go by that name any more."
"Oh?" Mycroft matched his tone. "And what are you called now, may I ask?"
"Sherlock." The brunette said, his eyes flashing.
"Sherlock. An odd choice, but it fits. How did you come upon this name?" Mycroft asked.
"A play off 'Sheol,' naturally." Sherlock's voice was bored, "I adopted a few letters from my past…clients. Now, you didn't call me here to discuss my name choices, did you?"
"Obviously not." Mycroft rolled his eyes, leaning back in his leather chair. "You haven't been doing your duties."
"I've been performing them just fine, Mycroft." Sherlock growled.
"In the civilian world, perhaps. But there is a war going on out there, and we need you-"
"Need me?" Sherlock stood abruptly, leaning on the desk to better glare at Mycroft. "You don't need me, you're merely stuck with me."
"Sherlock, calm down." Mycroft snapped, and the anger vanished from Sherlock's face, replaced with a cool indifference. "I would have thought you would have been over whatever tiff we had before."
"After what you did to me?" Sherlock snorted. "No, I believe I have earned my right to be angry."
"Fine, hold onto your childish anger." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "But go save the souls of the men at war. They have done nothing to harm you."
"Yes, fine." Sherlock straightened up finally, "I will go and save their perfect little souls."
He stalked away, turning around when he reached the door, a smirk gracing his face.
"Oh, and Mycroft?" His voice was lofty. "You have been spending too much time with the mortals on earth. You've been gaining weight."
And with that, he departed in a whirl of his coat.
Afghanistan was, as always, brutally hot. Being dressed in dark colours didn't do anything to alleviate that fact. But he refused to remove his gloves until he actually needed to take a soul. His youth was filled with souls taken entirely too young because of a careless gesture or a friendly embrace.
Sighing, Sherlock made his way to the makeshift morgue on the army base. It was his 36th base that day, and he was already growing weary of reaping the souls. But worse fates awaited those who weren't collected in a seemly manner. Sherlock shuddered, repressing the terrible memories that seemed to lap at his consciousness at an increasingly frequent manner.
With a final press of his hand, Sherlock collected the last of the souls, preparing to move on to his next destination when he feels a gentle tugging, holding him back.
'Ah, another person about to die.' He mused as a commotion begins nearby the tent he's currently in.
Leaving the makeshift morgue, Sherlock strolled to the source of the commotion, unsurprised to find a slew of doctors surrounding a man who has already started to glow.
'You cannot save him.' Sherlock thought to the faceless mass. 'He is too far gone.'
Sherlock has seen this millions of times since his life on earth began. The frail humans pounding at the chest of the dying one, even as his soul begins to glow. But the humans choose not to see the glow, just as they choose not to see Sherlock. They could see him if they really tried, but they would rather write off death as a necessary evil as opposed to an actual human.
'No, not human.' Sherlock corrected himself. 'More than human. Better.'
He walked up to the dying man, ignoring the doctors that are frantically milling around him. They are unimportant. Why bother memorising their faces when he would just have to watch them die later? His eyes focused on the one who is dying, and he removed his leather glove, reaching a hand out to take the man's soul.
Placing his hand over the man's heart, Sherlock began to draw his soul gently out of his body. He is startled when a highly tanned hand slapped over his.
'Can he see me?' Sherlock wondered. He stared at the hand that was place atop of his, bewilderment and shock freezing him in place.
"Live, Murray!" A voice said. 'The hand's voice' Sherlock realised. The owner of the hand didn't see Sherlock, but was attempting to save his comrade. The tall brunette smirked slightly, looking up at the doctor.
He is handsome, no doubt. He has a kind face, which suited him well in his profession. Sherlock studied the man, annoyed to feel a twinge of something. Guilt, perhaps, that this kind doctor couldn't save his friend?
Sherlock shrugged as he pushed aside his surprised that the doctor's soul was still in his body. 'Perhaps I cannot take souls through the hands.' He attempted to reason with himself. But he knew this wasn't accurate. He had taken Johann Sebastian Bach with just a brushing of his fingertips against the composer's wrist. 'No matter, I'll think about it later. As for the matter at hand-'
Sherlock glanced back at the body the blue eyed doctor had referred to as Murray, shocked that the glowing was receding.
'Impossible…'
Sherlock stared as the doctor's hand, which lay over his, coaxed Murray's soul back into his body. He watched as the familiar glow, the sign that the soul has left the body, reconnected to its earthly flesh. Sherlock turned to the blued eyed doctor once more, studying him as his face lit up with joy as the heart monitor returned to a normal pace.
'Who are you?'
"You saved him!" Another doctor cried.
"We saved him." The blue eyed doctor said, clapping a hand- that hand- on the other doctor's shoulder.
"Thank you, Doctor Watson."
'Doctor Watson…what are you?'
Sherlock stared at Doctor Watson, and for a second, barely a millisecond, the doctor's eyes met his. Sherlock's eyes widened, even as Watson looked away. He would be convincing himself he was imagining things, Sherlock knew, but the man still saw him.
Sherlock turned on his heel, leaving the medical tent as fast as he could. Mortals rarely saw Sherlock, especially if he didn't want them to see him. But this man, Doctor Watson, had not only seen him, but stolen a soul right out of his very grasp.
Sherlock was entirely unsure of what to make of it.
A/N: I am so, so sorry that it took such a long time to write this chapter. I really have no excuse either, just a lot of rewrites. I wasn't really happy with how it was turning out when I first started it.
Don't worry, I will go back and explain why Sherlock doesn't like Mycroft, and also what happens to souls when they aren't collected. Promise! I just needed to get a bit of John in here (so you don't hate me completely!)
A huge thank you to the people who reviewed. Thank you! I never thought I would have a story that would make people wait for the next chapter (Here's looking at you, MysteriousPerson)
I hope you enjoyed the chapter!
Berry shakes and clear blue lakes,
Robottko