Chapter 14: A Fall

Tonight he leaves the club alone, this man who might be a serial killer. John closes out the tab with Sherlock's card and meets him at the door. They follow the man at a distance. He does have a goatee. And they'd seen the ridiculous watch before he'd picked up his coat from coat check. Sherlock is confident it's the man who left with Jazmine on Saturday.

Tonight all he does is get in one of the cabs lined up in front of the building. John and Sherlock hurry into the next one, instructing the driver to follow. They drive for perhaps fifteen minutes, each staring out their own window.

What just happened? John rages in his mind. His erection has subsided (tailing a serial killer may have that effect), but his body is still humming. He can feel the pressure of restrained wings at his back, and he itches. itches. for more. What the hell was that? It was so far outside the range of experience of John Watson that he feels he should pull back into the hatchling persona. From the hatchling perspective, it was right and natural, and he believes it had been building up to this point since before he'd even hatched.

John Watson from Before is gasping in shock. And yet. And yet. It felt good. And he had died, for fuck's sake. DIED. Is it wrong to chase a good feeling? Compared to being dead? Is a pedestrian moral convention justified in keeping him lonely and colorless? Well. Good question.

Sherlock's fingers are tapping out a crazy code on this thigh, tracing the tweed pattern of his coat. He looks steadily ahead and John doesn't have any idea if he is thinking about the kiss. the ear. at all.

The cab ahead of them eventually stops at the drop-off of Harefield Hospital in South Kensington.

"Drive around the corner," Sherlock commands in his deep voice. The cabbie does so.

"Harefield Hospital," Sherlock considers, as they climb out. John again pays with Sherlock's card. "I had wondered if it would be involved. Especially as it's the closest hospital to Mayfair. Harefield has become very well known for its transplant center in the past ten years. People fly in from all over the world." There is a strong gust of wind and Sherlock pulls his great coat closer around himself, flipping the collar up. John just stuffs his hands deep into the pockets of the shooting jacket Sherlock acquired for him and hunches his shoulders.

"Organs are in short supply," Sherlock lectures quietly, as they peer around the corner. The goateed man is having a smoke under the awning. "Much more demand than supply. It's illegal to sell organs; they can only be donated, and that usually from fresh corpses or from family members. We're not quite as bad off as in the days of Burke and Hare, but the laws are crushing, so it's no surprise a black market is flourishing."

"Burke and Hare?" John asks.

Down the close and up the stair

In the house with Burke and Hare

Burke's the butcher, Hare's the thief,

Knox, the man who buys the beef.

Sherlock quotes in a resonant baritone.

Oh. Wait. John knows that one. Every medical student does. Knox taught anatomy at Edinburgh Medical College and needed bodies for his lessons. At that time, cadavers could only come from executed criminals... which didn't happen often enough for Knox. In 1827, he began to pay Burke and Hare to provide him with freshly cooling bodies. The public outcry when this was revealed was tremendous. Knox got off, but Burke was hanged, publicly dissected and bits were passed out to the crowd as mementos. His head is preserved today, noose marks still around the neck, and there is even a small book on display in Scotland made out of his skin. But what does that-

Their mark chooses that moment to toss his butt into the bushes and stroll through the double doors. Sherlock frowns thoughtfully, "Hmmmm. Ok, come on. You keep track ofwhere he goes while I get us through."

He swans past the doors, straight through the lobby to the security desk. John is right behind, darting his eyes left and right. He sees the goateed man go to the elevator bank around the corner.

Sherlock leans confidingly close to the guard behind the desk. "We received a call about a patient upstairs," he says softly, flashing Lestrade's warrant card. "Sister is worried an ex-lover may have planted some drugs in his room. We want to keep this very quiet: we'll just be in and out. Shouldn't bother you at all." He waits a beat, but the dullard in the uniform just nods, so he swirls back to John.

"Where?" he murmurs.

"Elevators," John replies, leading the way. "We'll be able to see what floor he stops on; the doors just closed a second ago." They stand side-by-side in the little hallway, five elevator doors in front of them. Only one has a moving light: 12, 13, 14, 15, 16... and... stop. Top floor.

Sherlock immediately shoots out a long fingered hand and jabs at the Up button. When they get in, he presses 15th. John waits quietly. He's feeling the incongruous adrenaline-fueled calm that is familiar to him from battlefield surgery. Now is the time: action to be decided in a split-second on infinitely layered arriving data. It's like his brain is bouncing on its toes, waiting. Sherlock catches his eye, and they share a short, intense grin.

NOW.

The elevator dings, and Sherlock sweeps out first. It's past midnight so the floor is empty. He can see the nurses' station at the end of a hallway, but the door labeled "Stairs" is right there, so they're through and climbing before anyone's seen them. At the top, he leans quietly against the door for a second, listening. Then he eases it, carefully. carefully! open, taking in as much of the view as he can. "I don't see anyone," he whispers to John, who is pressed against the cold concrete walls next to him. "It's not a ward floor. Some offices. Roof access. Mechanics."

They slip into the hallway. It is empty, dimly lit only with emergency lights; and truncated, with a "Emergency Exit/Roof Access" door just to their left. To the right, beyond the elevators are what appear to be doors to offices. Tense and alert, they creep along the wall. Sherlock's ears are almost twitching he's listening so hard. Behind one door voices can be heard murmuring and a tiny crack of light is visible.

Sherlock and John read the plaque: "Dr. G. Linley, Director, Transplant Services". The murmur inside rises and falls, but they cannot hear anything specific. Sherlock inclines his head closer to the hinges. As he leans in, a button of his coat scrapes lightly across the door. The voices inside stop and they clearly hear, "What was that?"

Sherlock and John frantically back away, and John grabs the nearest doorknob, trying to turn it. Locked. They race back down the hall. They can hear the knob rustle behind them, and a masculine voice says, "I'll go check."

John is first to the stairs, and quietly, without sacrificing speed, presses the latch. Nothing happens. He presses again. It does not yield. Bugger! The stairs are fire exits, they have to be accessible. But apparently this one can only be released from the stairwell side. Sherlock sees what is happening and whirls the few steps to the roof door, optimistically jamming an elevator button on the way. The elevator dings, but it will be too slow. The man is in the hallway now, staring down at the pair of them, aghast, body leaning, starting to run. "Stop!" he shouts.

Sherlock swings his hip against the bar of the roof door and he and John spill through. The heavy door closes slowly behind them, can't be pushed because of its pneumatic hinge, and John looks around for cover. He's got his knives ready for battle; but he looks for cover first. "Over there," he says, fast and quiet, indicating a collection of power boxes, antennae, little maintenance buildings and another entrance. The smooth surface below them is marked as a helipad, and they race across it, diving for the cover of the large power box as they hear the door behind them open.

"Oi!" A voice calls. "I know you're here! I saw you!"

"I'll try this door," John whispers, lisping a little to disguise the carrying sibilant of the 's'. "But I believe it will be locked. We can only hope that Romeo over there did something to keep the other one from latching. On my mark, you go that way," John points Sherlock to the left. "I'll go right, and we can try to circle around, see if we can get back through. I don't want us to get cornered together." He looks at his knives, and then tries to hand one to Sherlock. "See if you can take this?"

Sherlock looks intrigued, and plucks it out of John's hand. "Interesting," he smiles. He bounces it lightly in his palm. "I wouldn't know how to use one. I won't need it." He drops it in his pocket nonetheless, then rolls to his knees and peers around the side of the box. John checks as well. The man is looking in their direction, but doesn't see them in the dark.

John darts back to the next power box, staying in the deepest shadows. He is within a meter of the other door now, and the man hasn't yet seen him. Sherlock is calm and still where he is, waiting for John to direct him. He'd make a good soldier, John thinks. John smears his hands along the dirty sides of the box and the rooftop, and then wipes them on his face, to cut down on the reflection of his skin. He ruffles the rest of it through his hair, although he knows it won't make any significant difference to the lighter parts. He keeps his head ducked and slinks low, breasting the door.

The man sees him as he tries to open it, shouting again, "Oi! Arsehole! What are you doing up here? I'll call security, I will. Get over here! I've got a gun!"

The door is indeed locked. John pivots low and dives for the base of a cell tower to the left. "Go!" he hisses to Sherlock, who launches himself to the right, running 10 quick steps to press himself, panting and grinning, behind the wall of exhaust ducts. There's the thunderous report of a gun, and gravel explodes behind him. Shit. A gun? These people were supposed to be all about knives. Surgical instruments. And now the man is shooting.

Sherlock checks cautiously around the corner again, looking for John. There he is, slipping through the shadows, low on the ground, barely visible behind a long shaft. It's not very good cover though, so Sherlock sets out to distract the shooter. He gets a couple pieces of gravel and shies them as far as he can, away from John. They land with a satisfying scuffling sound, and the man immediately turns in that direction.

Sherlock tries for the next block of cover while the man's back is to him. But his timing is off and he's seen. The gun cracks again and Sherlock startles, losing his momentum. He falls back and runs to the right some more, until he's lying in the shadow of a long row of ventilation housing. The man is running in his direction, swearing, "Bloody, buggering fuck! Quit hiding, you colossal poofter, and fight like a real man."

Sherlock assumes this means goatee recognizes him and John from dancing at the club. However, he will not be taunted into stupid action by homophobic slurs. He retreats again, moving further away from the original access point. The best cover is on the far corner of this part of the roof. He hears the rattle of gravel again, from the opposite direction, and knows John has deliberately made noise to draw the man off. It doesn't work. Sherlock watches as the man twists to shoot haphazardly at the sound, then pivots back to Sherlock. Where's bloody security? Surely some of the night nurses have noticed gunshots on the rooftop?

The man is close, and Sherlock worms himself to the next box and then crouches, listening to the harsh breaths of the man.

He's enjoying the adrenaline, and wonders if John is, too. He looks out, and can see John creeping up behind the man, only meters away. Excellent. Sherlock pushes up and leaps over the air shafts, sprinting for the final power box, near the edge of the roof. He slides behind it... and keeps sliding. Oh, fuck. They've switched to pea gravel here, and the roof has begun sloping downwards, and it's dark. Sherlock's feet flounder in the loose substrate: he can't get purchase.

The gun fires again, but Sherlock isn't paying attention, because he's skidded out, hit the lip at the roof's edge, has bumped over it, and falls with a sickening swoop, barely catching himself with a shout and the tips of his fingers. His shoes scrabble at the eaves as he tries to solidify his grip on the small pipe he's clinging to. He looks down. It's a long, long way. 16 stories. Assuming three meters per floor, that's a total of 48 meters. A fall from a that height is 95-98% fatal. This does not look good.

There's the sound of a brief scuffle, the thud of a dropped body and then footsteps running towards him. "Sherlock!" John cries.

The flimsy aluminum of the pipe begins to bend and crumple. Sherlock is only holding on with his fingertips, and he hears a tinny squeal as the pipe pulls away from the building. A cascade of gravel pours over him; he can hear steps slithering down. John's horrified face appears over the edge of the roof, blurred through the filter of the dirt and rocks hitting his own.

"John-"

and then he is falling.

And John dives after him. Giant wings, black in the night, stretch for a split second, and then fold tightly against his back as he thrusts himself downward, reaching for Sherlock.

Sherlock flails desperately, trying to flatten himself out to make for maximum drag, but he's oriented head-down and can't right himself. He feels a touch on his leg, but it slips free. The wind is whistling in his ears, his hair is whipping into his eyeballs, and if he were not moving he would certainly vomit.

He manages to flip, and stares up, stretches his arms out. John reaches down again, wraps one hand, then two around an arm, and the great wings spread out, cup the air with a soft boom, and Sherlock is jerked so hard he thinks it might have dislocated his shoulder. He feels the bandage under his arm stretch and pop away from his skin. John beats his wings, great, mighty flaps, pushing against the air, trying to slow their fall.

It works.

They slow, although they're still falling. Sherlock swarms up John's arm until he's hanging from his neck. He reaches up with both legs and tangles them around John's. Part of it is fear, but his brain is working lightning fast. Must improve their aerodynamics through less wind resistance at this point. He'll be a weight that John can more easily manage the more he molds himself into John's center of gravity. The principal is the same as that of riding a motorcycle.

He holds on primarily with his legs, not wanting to interfere with the wings, and John feels he's secure enough to readjust his grip and wrap both arms tightly around his body. "Hold on," he gasps.

"Obviously," Sherlock replies cuttingly.

This surprises a laugh out of John. "Right. Unnecessary."

They begin to angle, instead of plummeting down. Sherlock can feel John straining; sweat begins to slick down his face. His chest and shoulders flex and pull as he struggles with the weight of two grown men, in addition to discovering how to fly.

John aims for a tiny patch of lawn, and they hit the ground, stagger, and fall, John on top of Sherlock.

"Wings, John. Hide them," Sherlock hisses. But he is laughing. Exhilarated and high. "That was amazing!" He gives John's neck a quick squeeze before flopping his arms wide to the squishy grass beneath him.

John retracts his wings, and his grin is incandescent. "Oh, god. I didn't think we'd make it. Are you alright?" He raises himself on his hands and looks down at Sherlock, who wiggles fractionally beneath him. His eyes are stormy in the shadows of the shrubbery, but the gleam of mischief in them is bright.

"I've never been better," he says, low and reverberant. Their bodies are pressed together from the ribs down, and John can feel the resonance echo through his veins. Sherlock's legs are still tangled around his own, and the position is so primal...

John lowers his head without any more thinking, kissing Sherlock like there might be no tomorrow. Given the past hour, there might not have been a tomorrow. Sherlock responds by tightening his thighs around John, wrapping him immediately around the waist, pulling him closer, a growling sound of satisfaction spilling from him, Mmmmm.

John licks and bites his way into Sherlock's mouth, coaxes his tongue out to play (it doesn't take much effort) and twines around it and teases until it's where he wants it, fully extended into his own mouth. John begins to lave and suck. Sherlock bucks beneath him, little groan growing deeper. His hands slide down to John's arse, rocking him up against a growing erection.

CRACK!

They freeze for a second. "Gun!" John barks.

"Shall we?" Sherlock asks, pushing John off of him and propelling himself to his feet. "Run!" And they're off. They hear one more crack of the gun before they turn down another street, and then another. Sherlock waves down the first cab they see and they ride back to Baker Street.

"He was a terrible shot," Sherlock pants.

John starts to say something, and then breaks down into breathless giggles. They are still laughing as they let themselves into the flat.