Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes © Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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Part VI —
Circle of Salt
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"...I conclude that we cannot."
Footsteps, down the hall.
"He isn't our responsibility!"
They remind of a march. One two, one two.
"And even if we could—which again, we don't—we have nothing."
The shoes are overpriced. There is a shit stain on the left sole.
"Gentlemen," Mycroft begins, "know that—"
The huge oak doors to Mycroft's office swing open, revealing Sherlock, arms out as if presenting an offer that cannot be refused.
"I'm taking the case."
The men flinch. They wear matching suits and grave expressions. The discussion is dire, and Sherlock's dramatic entrance doesn't fall in well with any of the men. The biscuits on the table are untouched.
Mycroft's eyes become half lidded.
His are the only ones really looking.
Rapid breathing. Tangled hair. A layer of grime, covering his outfit, contrasting the golden cleanliness of Mycroft office. Pupils darted about. He is in constant motion; rubbing his fingers, scratching his arms, occasional trembling, head snapping in different directions, unsmiling and smiling. Anxiety pours out of cracks in his walls, but he isn't empty of it anytime soon.
"This isn't your case to take, brother dear," Mycroft says.
Sherlock's cracked lips curl into something decidedly unhappy.
"And who's gonna stop me? Your miserable excuse for agents? You?"
This is what the men in suits represent to him: stability, rules, control, boring, losing.
(Sherlock despises losing.)
Even the room makes him uncomfortable. His brother's quarters. Large enough to pay respect to his position but they could be bigger. Likewise the furnishing could be more ornate, yet he prefers a minimalistic style. He avoids opulence. That is to say the office isn't devoid of luxury; there is a painting from the Romantic era, a chest table with golden handles, and a glass ashtray with an intricate pattern. Nothing of sentimental value. He passes right into the crowd; into the machinery of society, and Mycroft is terribly aware of it.
Sherlock is a machine, but unlike Mycroft, he isn't connected to a whole. He's a renegade android, unplugged, unable to connect.
"We found Dr. Watson," Mycroft says, and there is a tightness that wasn't there before.
"Brilliant," Sherlock spits sarcastically. "I did it hours ago. And even John Watson knows more than you fools."
Something flashes over Mycroft's face—something buried, and ancient. But then it smoothens, heat lowering, transforming into ice.
Malevolence.
"Gentlemen," he calls without evading his brother's gaze, "step aside please."
"I don't think..." a man trail off.
"Exactly," Mycroft says tiredly. "Step aside, Mr. Johnson. If he wants this case, he'll have to see it for himself."
Behind them is a small screen. It is connected to a Mac, which from what Sherlock can see, is heavily regulated and altered. The screen is black, with a small replay sign, having just played through once.
It's titled J_5 . avi
For some reason, it sends shivers down Sherlock's spine.
"Play it."
Whatever Sherlock prepared himself for, this wasn't it.
The scenery is a bathroom of some sort. The only source of light is a small light bulb. Cracked linoleum. No windows, no furniture, no sound. It has a very sterile feel to it—but it's ruined by a splatter of crimson upon the grey tiles and hooks in the roof, making it appear like an abattoir. Sherlock imagines skinned animal carcasses. There's a dark form on the floor.
The person behind the camera readjusts the lens.
John.
He holds his head high, eyebrows drawn downward, jaw tight. He steels himself, soldier like. There are cuts on his face, thin and wide, a particular one right underneath his left eye, which is swollen, lips also bloated. He neck is purple with bruises. The clothes aren't his own, and hang loosely on his frame. How long has he been there? Impossible to tell. His arms and legs are tied, and the fabric is soaked with blood. Swallowing thickly, he asks something, and Sherlock can read the words who and where. But there is a futility to it.
(Where are you now?)
It clicks inside Sherlock's head.
The bandages.
The camera jars, and John flinches. There is a brief period of static. Frames, flickering. One is on for about three heartrending seconds in which John's face is contorted into one of pure anguish. Others are extreme closeups. Flash. Mutilated body parts. Flash. A razor, shining. Flash. Widening pools of blood. When the video stops jarring, John faces away, and there is more blood on the wall. He doesn't move. The cameraman is shadowed, moving out of focus. Sherlock sees a gun in the gloved hand.
The unseen cameraman clicks the light off, rendering the room to darkness.
Rendering John to darkness.
J_5 . avi ends.
Would you like to replay? hangs in the air like a subtitle.
"How?" Sherlock bites out. He is very pale. It feels like he's going to be sick all over Mycroft's carpet.
"Workers involved in the research yesterday's bombings received it."
"I didn't."
"You were busy chasing ghosts."
Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but remembers his promise. John had told him—while they ran through the streets and questioned shady people—that he wished to remain dead. What they would do together would not be pretty, and when it was finished, first then could he come out of his hide and live.
"I... I need to go."
He hurries out the way he came like a scared black rat.
A man lays a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "You did the right thing, showing him. He's probably on his way home to empty his stomach and hopefully any thoughts of taking this case. One shouldn't be involved in cases one has emotion attachments to."
Mycroft says nothing.
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"Why?"
They stand in the abandoned apartment. 112B. Where it began, and where it'll end.
And there is blame, and grief, and rage.
John looks at Sherlock. Each movement and each gesture is so very calculated and tense. Vengeance is his drug; his ideal, his god, him. "Why what?" he asks harshly.
"Why didn't you tell me what was done to you?"
John's eyes widen slightly. Then, after a few moments, they narrow. "It doesn't matter. It's over now."
"I have the right to know, John."
The doctor snarls; a grotesque, inhuman sound like a cornered, abused dog. "You never get anything, do you? It's about you, Sherlock. It's always been about you. You, you, you, you..." His voice cracks. He shakes his head. "He doesn't care about me, never did, even when I hunted... even when I hunted him. No, it's you, it's always you. Even if I'd slit his throat he'd look at me with boredom." And his eyes wander, unstable mind drifting. "Therefore, I'm going to kill him. To show him. I'll savour it, killing them one by one, until all that's left is him, alone."
Sherlock thinks: I must reach him.
(—before he disappears forever out of my grasp silver ribbons flying—)
He holds both hands on John's cheeks, gently cupping his face upwards towards Sherlock.
His logical part screams for information. It cannot function without it.
"It wasn't you who planted those bombs, right?"
John pauses.
He reaches up, grabs a piece of used bandage, and rips it off. A fourth of his face is revealed—the upper, left half, revealing the scar underneath the eye, and sickly skin. But it is John, even as a distorted, not-quite-right mirror.
Too much information.
Overload.
He cannot deal.
Cannot.
"I'm so sorry."
John expression's twists. That was not the correct response. "Get out Holmes," he says dangerously.
"John I—"
"Get. Out."
"Please, listen to—"
"GET OUT! Get out, get out, get out..." he repeats it, pushing Sherlock away. Sherlock feels his heart twists and awkwardly runs out, as if it was a monster in his heels.
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Heroin.
Sizzling.
That is the first thing he hears when entering the basement. The woman leading him nearly trips down the stairs; she's a recovered drug user but a current alcoholic, and knows all the dark parts of London. Sherlock does too.
The light reveals several figures sitting on sofas and mattresses. It is very quiet, and the heat is temperate. This place is hosted by Rio—a known name in the underworld—who promises sterile, safe environments for a small price. Being in such a place evokes memories, but he hasn't got time for them. Like a zombie, he does the purchase of the dealer there.
Injection.
The quickest way.
(His machinery mind remains silent.)
He put the desired amount in a spoon. He draws up about an equal amount of water in a syringe, then squirts the water around the pile so it gets all of it. He uses a candle, making sure it won't boil. The powder dissolves into the water, and he moves the spoon and mixes it completely. Small bubbles form at the bottom. Done, he drops a piece of a cigarette filter in and sticks the needle in to suck up the heroin. He pours tap water over the stick of the needle to cool it. He squirts it once, swallowing thickly.
How many years have gone since last time?
Sherlock doesn't remember.
He injects it.
Yes. Yes. Everything becomes fragmented, and slow.
He doesn't know how long he stands there, breathing, before the message comes.
Need your help. Cab outside.
He doesn't waste a second.
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He doesn't know where he is, but he hears the gunshots before he steps out of the cab and he enters, bloodlust pumping through his veins along with the drug.
There are men there, running.
One of them follows. Set to kill. Sherlock sways, and gets out his gun.
He thinks about John's face.
(which one? all of them)
There is a click.
A gunshot.
A strangled scream.
Sherlock calmly walks towards the lump form, vision blurred, smiling lazily. His head is delightfully silent, and overcome with a sense of calm, all he can hear is his heartbeat.
Increasing.
Who lies on the pavement?
(it isn't Moran)
He stands above the body.
Looks at the eyes.
At the bandaged head.
"J—John?" Sherlock chokes.
The man is still and wide eyed. Sherlock bends down, unsteady, feeling dread consume him. The bullet had hit his arm. He reaches up, and with gentle fingers, lets a hand glide from Sherlock's chest to his neck. To feel the heartbeat. "It's alright," Sherlock whispers, "I'm okay, don't worry, please don't..."
John continues to stare, silent.