Chapter 8: And of the Fallen~
The gleam off the snow was pale like the shadow of God. The Jeep was left miles behind, and they wandered in the woods, Hansel leading the way, back to his prison, among the trees that stood tall, and entombed in snow, like great pillars of salt from Sodom's grave.
"There it is. The palace of misery, and the cooking fire for the Mistress of Sorrows..." said Hansel, and he bowed his head, cheeks blushed red, seeming somehow lifeless now, like Pinocchio before his master, as if spider thin strings drew him back, and his flesh was turned to wood and splinters, a carven idol for Her vile worship, the very instrument of Her vigil before Death.
They come to the end of a hike that had gone on for miles of eternal white, with trees layered in the snow, like Pharaohs in their linens, forever sleeping kings of the No Man forest, ...
There stood one lonely hut in the center of the white. The wind blew through it and beat the doors like drums. There was a howl through its walls ,like the ghost of wolves in the wind.
"It's made...of candy." John whispered, stopping short , colliding with Sherlock's back.
And there She stood. Dressed in a long flowing crimson cape, and a wedding gown, with enough petticoats beneath it that it seemed she was swathed in the Winter about them, save only that some of the petticoats were dyed black with the blood of victims, and rose up from under the white lace, like coals sit under white smoke, ominous and red in the places where they almost seemed to glower with flame.
Her hair was black, and soft like the down of ravens. Her eyes were silver like stars; she looked like a queen of the elves, noble and gentle, and clean of any wrong-doing.
And beside her stood Gretel, alive and well, no poison keeping her in frightening dreams, and she had almost an impish smile on her face, and a pink tint to her cheeks, every bit as youthful and healthy as a girl of 22 years should be.
Hansel cried out, and he stood with his mouth gaping, as if someone had shot him through the heart. Major reached out and took his arm to keep him from falling. Mycroft's lips twisted in disgust, as it became clear to him what had happened.
Sherlock stepped forward, and the look on his face was of such calm wrath that John felt his heart jump and squeeze several beats, as it tried to compose itself, like music tries to fix itself when a note goes off wrong.
"So you have solved the riddle The Eagle and I comprised for you?" asked the Mistress , smiling as she stirred her fairytale cauldron of some simple broth.
"I suppose I should tell you that there are 7 contestants besides he and I, which makes 9 all total. And yes, I am his muse. And Gretel is mine. If you're wondering why she is healthy and awake, I could never kill my daughter, no. She helped me plan her brother's betrayal...for many years now."
"YOU'RE A LIAR! YOU'VE BEEN ABSOLUTELY HORRIFIC TO MY SISTER ALL THESE YEARS! SHE WOULD NEVER HELP YOU!" Hansel started screaming, and it took John and Major to keep him back from her.
" I was teaching her discipline. Because I love her; she is the daughter I should have had, had your whore of a mother not robbed my love from me. I only needed you for livestock."
"YOU'RE LYING! SHE HATES YOU. GRETEL, TELL MR. HOLMES...TELL HIM THE TRUTH..."
Gretel looked straight into Sherlock's eyes, and her own sparkled like wishing stars.
"She promised me a place in her kingdom. She swore I would be a princess in it, on my 10th birthday ,she swore. We've been planning this for years and years. And Hansel, trying to be the heroic big brother, bought every bit of it..." she said smiling.
Sherlock's expression didn't change at all. Only cold ,unblinking wrath.
"Isn't it brilliant, Mr. Holmes? A kingdom or Terror, a world with only fear, where the truth is what I say it is! A world without justice...A perfect Anarchy..." the Mistress asked, voice quavering with emotion.
There was no reply. But rather Sherlock lashed out,and flipped the boiling cauldron over, and hot water spilled forth, causing both the Mistress and her Student to shriek in shock and pain as they were scalded.
And Sherlock suddenly drew up to his full height, standing out against the snow, like a flaming pyre, dark and almost billowing his darkness like smoke into the air.
For the first time in his entire life John Watson could say he was truly , horrifically petrified. Of his own best friend...
" Wretchedly ,beautiful fool..." Sherlock said, voice harsh, far colder than the Finnish Winter, colder than the Grave itself. He began to circle them, like a raven does the dead flesh he intends to feast on. Slowly circling, menacing,unblinking.
"Wretchedly beautiful fool. Rather than presenting me with a body, you have stolen a soul...indoctrinated a young mind into your corruption...until she believed it? Believed you to be her mother, her brother the enemy? Believed you to love her, and to give her a place among the Parthenon, when you become the queen of the gods? Wretched,beautiful fool...did you think your beauty could save you?..."
The Mistress had a determined look on her face. " You may have stopped Moriarty, but you cannot prevail against what is coming. A Reign of Terror, a world without truth or light. You will live to see it, your friends will live to see it, and then we will slaughter you all, one great portrait in your blood."
Gretel giggled. But then, Sherlock's eyes knifed into her own, and she fell silent. He smirked, almost mischievously, and suddenly, he was giggling melodically himself, but his laughter fell silent, and his face went back to being the same stone cold mask.
" You..honestly think that you can threaten a dead man with Death?" he cried, snickering snidely. "Or that you could touch me with Terror, and make me blanch? Or that you could persuade me with the lives of the people I love? As if they belonged to you?...Oh, but you are a fool, a beautiful one...but wretched. You trust that the brilliance of your scheme can save you? You trust that your beauty will last? It's for a moment, a breath...roses last only for a day, poor beautiful fool..."
The Mistress was suddenly silent, losing her bravery. Sherlock almost jumped on this.
"Let me teach you a valuable lesson. You cannot threaten the Fallen with a Fall. What, did you think this was somehow going to work, because...you actually mistook me for the hero of your fairytale? Did you mistake me for an angel?" Now he was rolling with mocking laughter. Gretel was eyeing the Mistress , losing her nerve. Then Sherlock's voice took on an almost robotic tone.
"If you threaten the lives of those in my charge, you only provoke my wrath. Did you think your beauty, your Terror, your Greater Scheme could threaten me? Did you think that Death or Armies could prevent me from what I seek? Is that what this Game is about, to punish the usurper of your beloved King? Moriarty was my creator, by giving me death, he gave me a greater power.
The walls of your Tombs cannot keep me in. Nor could any Terror keep me out. I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them. No matter how beautiful your plans may be, no matter how well set your traps...no matter the brilliance of your murders, the price of your kingdoms... I will have the answer to all of the riddles, the keys to your cage...Alive or dead, I will hunt you. Or didn't you hear? I am alive from the Dead, and why did I return, when I was very ready for my everlasting Sleep? The blood that you spill in the earth cries out to me, and I must drink the soil dry, my great Emptiness thirsts...you cannot possibly know my pain.I shall forever thirst, until every drop of blood you have spilt is accounted for...You see, I am Justice itself, I am compelled to continue when my desire is to cease. To return to my Grave, and be at peace...But I cannot until I have burned you...drawn from you every drop of blood, like gold purified in the crucible.I wouldn't be too overly hasty for murder...for that will only cause the Fire to ignite within the vacuum I have become. And love will only intensify the flame, so of all souls beware the most those I keep charge of..."
The Mistress tried to look away, but Sherlock thrust forward, tilting her chin with his first finger, making her look him in the eyes.
"The longer I am in Pain...the more lives you take...the greater you will suffer. And you will look for Death like Greed searches for treasure, but Death is no escape from the Dead. Then you will gasp for breath,and claw for life, but I will find you, I will wake...my Thirst commands me. You will seek for an eternal paralysis, a Void in which to cease from conciousness, but then shall I consume you, in my Nothingness...in my Empty Thirst...until you give back from the Earth everything you shed upon it. Give me the names of the other contestants...end your eternal suffering here and now."
The Mistress opened her mouth to speak them, but Sherlock pulled a piece of paper ,and a pen, from out of his coat.
"No, don't speak , write them down. Sign their lives over to me..."
She willingly obeyed. He took the piece of paper and pen back with a flourish. Then he leaned closer to her, and whispered, his voice like razors:
"Fall to your knees and beg me for mercy."
She fell to her knees. Gretel did the same, suddenly crying, terrified.
"If...what you say...is true...Mr. Holmes..." the Mistress began..." I heard...the rumor...in the circle of the Great Accomplice, that Lazarus had come for us...But I also heard you were a good man...So...I humbly ask you for mercy."
Sherlock's eyes were viper-cold.
"You are a liar, and you won't receive it."
Gretel was crying, and hyperventilating now.
"Your sister is dead ,Mr. Yeats." Sherlock said over his shoulder, to the boy who stood eyes wide as an owls.
"But fear not...I will get Justice for her murder."
The Mistress looked up at him, swallowing...suddenly herself in quiet panicked tears.
Sherlock smiled smugly...shaking his head.
"GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!" he shouted, and the Mistress and Gretel fled like rabbits for the candy-lodge.
Sherlock turned slowly to look at his friends. His eyes fell on them one by one, searching them. Hansel was trying to calm himself, and take deep breaths. Mycroft just stared, for once in his life entirely speechless. The Major even looked a tiny bit unsettled, though his stern face was hard to read.
Last of all Sherlock looked at John, who let out a heavy puff of air, trying to process what he'd just witnessed. It had been like watching a lost soul plead with the Reaper for a few more years, had been truly horrible, and he had a hard time placing the image of that towering Shadow , with the image of his beloved friend, who only a few hours ago had been eagerly explaining this case to him,and teasing him about wearing their land lady's slippers...
This was not the Sherlock that he remembered, but the one that had been to the Grave and back. The one that had taken down Moriarty's Network. And by witnessing this version, this dark and terrifying version of him, it finally came home to John that the story Sherlock had told him, as if it had happened to someone else, of torment and life as a fugitive in taking down the Consulting Criminal and his Accomplice, was real.
John saw the apology in Sherlock's eyes, but only briefly. A numbness took over him, his humanity vanishing before their eyes. He slowly turned, the paper crackling in his hands, and ,robotically, he marched away.