Part 10 – Brainstorming (Or, I wanted to call this chapter "Clarification" but I felt the pun was inappropriate to the tone of the story)
Clara arrived an hour later; she'd moved back to London after she and Harry had divorced, although she hadn't kept in touch with John at all. Not out of dislike, but out of respect for her ex, who would accuse them of ganging up on her or of taking sides against her. Harry's personal demons weren't the literal type, which in some of her more despairing moments Clara rather wished they were; at least then all it would take to get rid of them would be a demon hunter with the proper dagger or sword.
As soon as the front door to 221 Baker Street opened, she put all concerns about her ex-wife aside, focusing entirely on her former brother-in-law. John looked gaunt, drained, and she could understand why; discovering the existence of the supernatural in this manner was bound to take its toll.
She'd heard about his being invalided from the army, of course, and once he'd started blogging about his adventures as Sherlock Holmes' flatmate and friend she'd been sure to follow that as well. More than once she'd thought about reaching out to him, but then Harry's no doubt poor reaction to any such communication had come to mind, and she'd gone on with her life without making that move.
Now, however, there was no choice in the matter; she pulled John to her for a quick hug and a peck on the cheek, then stepped aside and let him shut the door. He ushered her into the downstairs flat and introduced her to everyone: his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, a lovely older woman who looked a bit pale but resolute; his fiancée Mary Morstan of the Colchester Morstans, whom she was very glad to meet; and finally a young woman named Molly Hooper, who bore the visible bruising of a victim of violence of some kind. Presumably administered by the spirit currently possessing Sherlock Holmes.
John explained everything, leaving nothing out that she could sense; her ability to tell when someone was holding back was well honed through years of experience. She might only be 45 years old, but she'd been trained from a young age in dealing with the supernatural and its victims, and she was impressed by the level of truth she was receiving from these people.
Mrs. Hudson was the only one who hadn't been attacked in any way by the spirit, but in spite of only having second-hand evidence at best, she was still as firm a believer as the others. Good; any skepticism would make things that much harder. She needed these people to be prepared to do whatever she asked of them, promptly and without question, no matter what.
Because finding Sherlock and removing his unwanted tenant was going to be the easy part; getting rid of the spirit entirely was going to be a bit more difficult.
"Mary, when was the last time you excommunicated a spirit?"
The blonde looked unhappy at the question, but answered it willingly enough. "I haven't done this since…well, since I was 18," she confessed. "And never on my own. And before you ask, no, I don't have any of my parents' spirit vessels; they were destroyed in the car accident that killed them. We were moving," she explained as she looked at the others. John was holding her hand and never let his eyes move from hers; Clara smiled faintly to herself, pleased that he'd found someone to share his life with after so many years on his own. "They didn't want to trust the vessels to the van, didn't want anyone handling them but themselves. It was a drunk driver; he crossed into oncoming traffic. They were killed instantly and the car was totaled. The vessels shattered and I never bothered to find anyone to help me craft new ones."
She sounded guilty, and Clara started to reassure her that it was all right, she understood, when John beat her to it. "Stop blaming yourself, Mary," he said gently. "None of it's your fault. And you thought you'd left that life behind you. So," he added, finally turning to give Clara a hard stare. "What are our other options? I take it you don't have any of these vessels handy?"
She shook her head. "No. I've always used whatever vessels the Excommunicator I was working with had on hand. They require a great deal of focused care that I don't have the ability to give them; any vessels I might have had would have died, unfortunately. A bit like a houseplant that isn't watered often enough," she added in an attempt to explain. "The psychic energies of an Excommunicate feed the vessel, keep it healthy and 'alive' and ready to contain any rogue spirits fed to it, for lack of a better word. I simply don't have the right kind of energy."
John looked disgruntled. "Great. So what do we do now? I assume you know someone who can help us?"
"No one who can get to us in time," Clara replied with a frown. "We need to get this spirit out of Sherlock as quickly as possible; from what you've told me, it sounds like he's going to do something drastic; the longer your friend is able to hide from him, the angrier and more out of control he's going to get. Which is a bad thing, yes, but it's also a good thing," she hurried to reassure them as she saw Molly's face blanch.
"It's good because he'll be easier to manipulate, and easier for me to draw him out of Sherlock's body, if he's overly emotional and not in control of himself," Mary added. "The only problem is, if I don't have a vessel to put him in once he's out, he'll be able to find a new body to possess, and then we'll have to hunt for him all over again. And the longer a spirit is free, the stronger it gets."
"Another reason to get this over with as quickly as possible," Clara agreed. She looked at John. "This is going to sound awfully cold-hearted, John, but you don't by any chance know anyone who's dying right now, do you?"
Mrs. Hudson sucked in a shocked breath, and even Molly gasped a bit. "Why?" the younger woman asked, twining her fingers together nervously. "I mean, I can get my hands on any number of dead bodies, but dying people is a different matter entirely!"
"Molly's a pathologist at St. Bart's," John explained quickly, obviously seeing Clara's confusion. "And I'm not affiliated with any hospital at the moment, I'm afraid. But I'm guessing you asked because you can, what, send the spirit into a dying body, trap it there somehow?"
Clara nodded, impressed by John's acumen. "Spot on. If a spirit can be forced to possess a dying body, preferably one where there's no consciousness left for it to control, then it's trapped there, where it merges with the dying spirit. No one knows why, although there are many theories. My personal favorite is that the dying spirit, no matter how ready to leave the body behind, still blindly attaches itself to any energy given to it. And a ghost that has remained among the living has a great deal of energy to absorb. But the person would have to be absolutely beyond the shadow of a doubt dying," she stressed, looking from face to face and willing them to understand. "There can be no hope of revival, or else the invading spirit will be able to free itself. Death has to be the only outcome for the host body."
"Macy Dunsworth."
Everyone turned to look at Mrs. Hudson in surprise. She sat in her chair, taking a ladylike sip of her tea and looking just as calm and resolute as she had been since Clara arrived. "I'm sorry?" she asked, glancing at the others in case they knew who the older woman was talking about.
No, John, Molly and Mary looked just as confused as she knew she did. "My friend, Macy Dunsworth," Mrs. Hudson explained. "She's in hospice. Cancer." She blinked rapidly, and Clara saw a hint of pain that was quickly masked by determination. "She's been taken off life support and isn't expected to last much longer. She's comatose, but I know if she were awake and aware she'd be willing to help us." She blinked rapidly, obviously fighting tears. "I just saw her yesterday, poor dear."
Clara stood up and walked the few steps to Mrs. Hudson's chair, then sank down on her knees and took the older woman's hand gently in hers. "Are you sure?" she asked softly. "Because there can't be any room for doubt. If there's even the slightest chance of recovery…"
Mrs. Hudson shook her head firmly. "No. No doubt. Macy won't be with us much longer; the hospice staff said two or three days at the most. And she's got no family, only a few friends like me to visit and sit with her. I know no one's there tonight; it was supposed to be my turn, but, well…" She glanced at Molly, who looked on the verge of tears herself. "She would understand, I know she would. And approve."
Clara gauged the level of Mrs. Hudson's belief in her own words, then nodded firmly as she rose to her feet, pausing only to press a grateful kiss to the other woman's cheek. "All right, then. We need to get Sherlock to this hospice. Once we track him down, John, are you prepared to knock him out? Do you have any sedatives on hand to inject him with?"
"I do," Mary said. "I have a kit at my flat. I can fetch it on the way."
"And if we aren't able to get at him with the needle, I can guarantee I'll have no problem punching him," John said grimly.
While Molly took down the hospice address and Macy Dunsworth's room info, Clara had John show her to the flat he and Sherlock shared. As soon as they reached the top of the stairs Clara could feel the taint of the spirit, cold and clammy, and repressed a reflexive shiver through years of practice. John, as a non-sensitive, obviously felt nothing; his trepidation and hesitation was based solely on the events that had transpired there. "He raped her," he said without looking at Clara, staring at the still-closed door, his hand on the knob. "Moriarty. Right here, raped Molly and let her think it was Sherlock doing it to her."
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "But at least your friend is aware that it wasn't Sherlock who actually did it now. The fact that your detective was able to control his eyes in that manner is actually quite remarkable; I've rarely seen instances where the original consciousness was able to counter the actions of the spirit possessing them. His mental control must be amazing."
John gave a silent chuckle. "Yeah. You have no idea." Then he took a deep breath, let it out quickly, and turned the knob.
The aura of the Moriarty spirit hung heavy in the air, even hours after he'd departed. What Clara hadn't told John was that every act of violence helped anchor the raging spirits to this plane of existence, helped strengthen them, and the longer they waited to free Sherlock, the more difficult it was going to be.
What wasn't going to be difficult was following Moriarty's ectoplasmic trail; she could practically taste it, his mingled fury and selfishness and even the way he delighted in chaos.
"All right," she said after spending five careful minutes in the flat where he'd committed such a terrible offense. She looked over at John. "Let's go catch this bastard."
A/N: This story is coming to an end soon, and so will Moriarty be if things go as planned! Thanks as always for reading, reviewing, following & favoriting!