Chapter 12: They Shall Rise~
Author's Note: Part of the event of this chapter was inspired by Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows. I always like to reference the different adaptions of Sherlock Holmes, in which ever category with his character I am writing for. Also, a little warning, this chapter is a bit violent. There will be a little blood.
The morning Sun had come to meet the winter, like a groom meets his bride at the altar, and John woke up, the blankets now cold beside him.
Sherlock was standing ,looking out across the snow, blue scarf again batting about in the wind ,like flame portrayed in water colors.
John stood up, the morning cold waking him up fully, and came and stood beside Sherlock, instinctively wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Though he wasn't speaking, there was something he could sense, knew in his bones, was very wrong.
The others were fast asleep, Gretel laying close to Hansel, head resting on his back, like all was forgiven now. The Mistress even looked peaceful in her sleep, and Major and Mycroft were snoring in harmony. John looked back at them and smiled, and then looked up at Sherlock's drawn expression. So drawn...so care worn as of late...John felt himself searching for a way to lift his spirits, a means of unraveling the grey that twisted itself about him like a phantom serpent.
"We have one result. We still have the problem of the Blood Eagle though...his story...what he gets out of this whole thing..." Sherlock said, at last, softly, as if he feared his darkness may frighten away the morning light. John let his hand slide up his back, and clutched one of his shoulders with all his might.
"This rate you'll have it solved, the end of the world diverted, and us all home in time for Christmas! No worries, mate."
"Oh, I'm not "worried" as in I'm not concerned that I won't solve it in time. I have developed a sixth sense , I call it "sonar"...I can feel when I am about to encounter someone I have crossed swords with in the past, and I feel that you and I will encounter our Eagle face to face very soon. I am concerned for your safety..."
John shook his head. Sherlock was totally unbelievable sometimes. Here he was the one who had been violently tormented, and he was worried about John's safety?
"Whatever happens, we're protecting one another. We'll be alright."
Sherlock looked sidelong at the others. Then he turned to face John, hands going to his shoulders. Drew a deep breath.
"Yeah...Yeah, it's all fine, isn't it? " he nodded, smiling as if he was still unsure. "Ok. Get them up."
John turned to do as he'd been asked, but felt a dread circling like vultures in his stomach, wondering what it was that Sherlock's "sonar" was picking up?
It was around 3 o clock that afternoon when it happened.
They made it back to Helsinki safely. The Mistress was taken to the British Embassy, and Mycroft gave his people the case, and they flew her back to England to stand trial.
The Yeats siblings were moved into their own room on the hotel's campus. Mycroft still had his own room, and the Major was staying with Sherlock and John now, intending to be in the room "at night for a few winks, until we shove off to Chernobyl, or wherever it is we're going".
It had been decided that they would stay in Helsinki one week at the longest ,to solve their problem with Blood Eagle.
Around noon Mycroft called and said he would not be back to the hotel for quite a few more hours, so would someone please "be sure and feed the goldfish". Major took the incentive, gathered Hansel and Gretel up, and walked them to a restaurant, turning the GPS tracker on for Sherlock's phone in case he and John had problems whilst he "took the kids out for a stroll".
John and Sherlock were left to their own devices from 12-3, using their time to investigate the scene of yesterday's crime, and try to get a bead on the bird their prey.
He found them first.
"So, we found a random bullet fired into the middle of a blast, what's that supposed to tell us?" John was asking.
Sherlock stood with one glove in hand. His bare palm was upturned, examining a bullet.
"It tells us that our Eagle is very good at seeking out his prey. There was a certain individual here yesterday that he intended to assassinate, using the blast as a diversion. I've seen the like of this before...it's a worn out trick, probably because it's a very good trick. Still...I am of the belief that criminals ,if they simply must be criminal, should be a little more original..."
" You would be wise not to insult me, not when my wrath is kindled." said a voice.
John felt himself grappled with, two sharp nailed hands clamping down on his face, partially smothering him, and a woman's voice saying in a harsh Germanic accent (he couldn't tell if it was German or somewhere in the Netherlands...)
"Shhh! It goes worse for him if you make a fuss, Doctor Watson."
John felt his survival instinct snap into gear, this very moment like being propelled back into Afghanistan. He was suddenly forcibly composed, stiff, trying to measure all of his means of escape, his plan of action.
That disappeared when he saw what had happened to Sherlock.
He hadn't even heard him cry out. "Of course!," he told himself, "Stupid, of course he didn't cry out...he's too USED to this!" John basically shouted in his mind.
Sherlock was hanging from one of the back walls of the hotel, suspended from a fire escape ladder, blood welling up in his coat, swinging from two hooks that were pierced into his ribs like elephant tusks. John could see long gashes down both sides of his rib cage, some of the bone exposed, the hooks clenching into the actual bones themselves, and resting in between them, putting a strain on them,bending them without breaking them.
Sherlock's mouth gaped for a moment, and blood was forced onto his lips, smattered a bit like when a lady smears her lipstick. He closed his eyes, and drew a rattling breath, rolling his neck on his shoulders. Then he opened his eyes, immediately getting down to business...
" If you honestly were more original, then it wouldn't come as an insult to you."
The Blood Eagle lit up a propane torch. Sherlock smiled. "Go ahead."
With a sick smirk, he held the torch to the hooks and melted them in place. They would have to be surgically removed now. John was thrashing, trying to fight, but his heart was starting to beat erratically.
"Poisoned finger nail polish..You'll be a little loopy for a while, Doctor..." the woman hissed, scratching him with the poisoned nails in question.
The worst part of watching Sherlock being tortured was the expression on his face. He wasn't gasping in pain, groaning or crying , like most of the people John knew would be. His features weren't even twisted.
He was smiling.
And when the Eagle was done, he was laughing.
Which took the Eagle aback.
"Did you actually have to go to all this trouble to get my number? I'm flattered, really...So, have you come to tell me what you're all about ,then? Is this a confession?"
"It's a warning."
Sherlock rolled his neck, rumbling with laughter, which made him bounce on the chains he was hanging from, and the fire escape ladder shivered ,as if in fear of him.
"Warn me? Any warning you might have given me has come much too late. But I have a warning for you...Take your hands off John Watson this instance, and if you dare to ruffle a single hair of his head, I shall follow you to Hell, and Lucifer will need expel me for the havoc I will wreak when I am there..."
The captors were silent, as if uncertain...Sherlock shouted something in Danish at the woman that was grappling with John, and John literally felt her heart beat into his back she was so afraid, and she shoved him as far away from herself as she could.
"Sh-Sh..." John managed to gasp, twisting about, grabbing a trash can lid like one might a shield, and crawling to Sherlock's feet, ready to beat any one within an inch of their immortal soul, if they came any closer, never mind that he was weak and drugged. One of the Eagle's boys made the mistake of coming just a bit too close, and John growled like an animal would, and hit him hard enough to break his toes. He squealed like a pig and stumbled away.
The Eagle stood face twisted in consternation, that even suspended from hooks, like a rogue puppet, Sherlock was still getting a one up on him.
"So, it's not a warning, on your part , it's a confession. Tell me...what is this Game you are playing? What is the objective of it?"
The Eagle smiled, "Raising the dead..."
Sherlock twisted his brows, skeptically.
" You? Interested in resurrection?...The rest of the Gauntlet might say that you've gone soft. What a benevolent thing to want to do; an act of charity for those in the Pit!"
"Not ressurection...Mr. Holmes. Seance. I mean to call them up. Maybe not their actual souls. Their faces ,their voices, their images...I mean to cause them to rise...my Army. The Seven Masters may think me to be a fool; I'm not truly. I'm a villain, a cowardly lion, and a starving one at that, lying in wait for my opportune moment. The Mistress was only the damsel in distress, my muse and my diversion...And the one able to ensure I have my key ingredient...I bought a Kingdom for cheap...and you destroyed it with a cigarette lighter, and a mouthful of flammable liquid."
Sherlock's lips parted in a silent "Oh!"
" What a MARVELLOUS...Aha, this case! Oh thank you Peter Yeats!" Sherlock gasped, pressing his shaking hands together...
"You tricked her into helping you betray your masters...by pretending to love her...? But you...meant to kill her...when it was done. Her...and the boy...that's who the bullet was for I take it...The girl, heaven forbid me from even uttering what you probably intended for her...Precious really...You are a beautiful fool too...just like your lady accomplice...Well, no matter...Fire consumes all flesh the same..."
The Eagle smiled, wickedly.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock Holmes. My name is Virgil Sinead. I was the best man at the Baroness' wedding , you know, and Yeats named me the godfather of his two children."
Sherlock was nodding, and smiling, showing all of his (bloodstained) teeth.
"I'm listening..."