6th Perdition, ring two.
The Perditions of John
6th Perdition, ring two
Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock BBC
Story Title: The 6th Perdition of John in the second ring.
Summary: John plays with Sherlock's mind and heart.
Character/Relationships: John/Sherlock
I Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Sherlock took only a few moments to crack Johns riddle. It was not what he expected.
11 is a master number – masonic lore - George Barnard, 11:11 is "the calling card for beings that are half angels and half humans" – nice John –four-four time - doorway between two worlds – forth dimension - In Numerology, "11" represents impractical idealism, visionary, refinement of ideals, intuition, revelation, artistic and inventive genius, avant-garde, androgynous, film, fame, refinement fulfilled when working with a practical partner. - first Great War, World War 1, ended on the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month – Tolkien – a curious number – Apollo 11 -September 11th is the 254th day of the year: 2 + 5 + 4 = 11. - Genesis 11, men rebelled against God and built the tower of Babel. -Symbol of the interior fight, the rebellion and the mislaying which results from it. But it also represents someone who comes out victorious of the tests with the acquired knowledge.- eleventh hour last moment of hope -eleven stations on the path of the cross – four elements – Fibonacci sequence – corrective wave ofElliott Wave Principle -4 winds – 4 directions – four square – four score – four moon phases – time passing – Shi/She four is death in Chinese - 11:11 phenomenon -Uri stopped Big Ben at 11.11 AM, GMT April the 30th 1997
Sherlock looked toward the tower. He smiled. Time. Do you have any time? Nothing is bigger when you have none. Big Time.
Sherlock headed that way, rubbing his head. He is walking across Westminster Bridge when he realized his throbbing head had grown to epic proportions and he vomited into the Thames. He was not looking forward to climbing the stairs to the tower bells where he expected to find his next clue. He kept going, light headed and miserable. The tourists were swarming and the smells of the heavy perfumes and the city in general were overwhelming in the cool air. He huddled his coat around him, intending to visit Mycroft while here when he was bumped into by several tourists not paying attention. He winced.
He was not functioning well. He decided, Mycroft could wait as he spied just the sort of fellow that Mycroft would despise him for recognizing. He approached the man and within ten minutes had followed him around a corner, securing a transaction away from Mycroft's nosy cameras. He reasoned that he must win so therefore he required all the tools within his disposal; a necessary adjustment of transport was in order.
He had of course found the clue. It was a little paper origami lotus flower. Sherlock unfolded it and read the simple words.
You and the designer of the tower have something in common don't you?
Sherlock sighed. Bedlam.
He hailed a cab and leaned deep in the seat, closing his eyes, he told the driver, "Bethlem Royal Hospital please."
He handed the driver enough to cover his fare and a tip then instructed him to wait. Sherlock indeed found yet another clue and deciphered quickly that he was to now go to yet another charming location from his past.
Sherlock made his first transport adjustment in the cab on the way. The rush of clarity and relief made him shiver.
John was proving that he'd managed to research Sherlock far beyond what a common person could know. He spent the day visiting scenes of his Uni days as well as places he had resided secretly while in the throes of his drug dependency. With a smile of irony, he made several more adjustments as the day drug on and the game became increasingly hard to play. Sherlock was impressed at some of the facts John had evidently gleaned about him from Mycroft's most confidential files.
John knew far more than Sherlock ever suspected his flat mate could have discovered. Why had he gathered this information? Sherlock felt more misery as the endless day progressed to evening. He had spent two-month's rent on cabs this day and nothing on nourishment due to the nausea. He texted John again, expecting no response but nevertheless knowing he was near the end of his ability to function.
[9:00 - Please John. I am impressed and woefully sorry. I have patiently followed your clues. Can we not just speak? SH]
[9:03 -are you there? SH]
[9:07 - Do you hate me this much? SH]
[9:08 - If you do, I understand. SH ]
[9: 12 - But do you not see, I gave up everything, for you? SH]
[9:23 - Please don't ignore. I swear the last three years were far worse than death for me. If I had known. If you hadn't cared? Would it have mattered that I bothered to stop them?]
[9:28 - If your point is to say that I underestimated you, I did. Point countered, I also overestimated you. I thought I knew your heart. I assumed you had no secret change of affection. I thought my feelings for you were unrequited at best and a source of discomfort and eventual separation to be inflicted upon me in the future, in truth. SH]
[9:29 - I thought if I asked you to go, it would lead to your realization that my feelings were outside any bounds you found acceptable. You would have deserted me when you discovered it and I would never have survived.]
[9:33 - We both failed to communicate some rather vital information that stood outside my decision making process. How was I to expect you to go tits up and gutted?]
[9:47 - I can't turn back the clock.]
[9:51 – I don't regret our moment of bliss. It was worth all of hell to have that one perfect, undeletable memory.]
[10:13 - I am losing my mind. He's won after all hasn't he? SH]
His vision is swimming and he is so tired as he stalked the banks of the Thames. He again tried to cure his situation though the tremors told him the battle with his body was nearing critical mass.
He had only gone a few yards, when he realized, he may have inadvertently murdered a dead man. He smirked at the irony of being so near Waterloo.
His respiration is failing to deliver enough oxygen to his brain and his heart rate went from accelerated to terminal. A realization that he has no clear memory of calculating his last dosage stops his continued lurching forward. He surprisingly felt a jolt of adrenaline and feels more clear and rational then he had for several hours. He switches off his torch as he withdraws his phone from his pocket and begins typing.
[10:41 - I cannot win. Forgive me. May have been a mistake to resort to random supplier. His product inferior or cut improperly but needs must. If convenient, please resuscitate. SH]
[10:42 -If inconvenient, please see that my Strat is donated to the Royal Academy and that a scholarship is set up per my instructions. SH]
[10:43 -Where are you? JW]
[10:44 – Sherlock. I am on my way. Where exactly are you and what are your symptoms? JW]
[10:51 -clue 36. Cardiac arrhythmia. Cantbreath..]
Sherlock was near the site that he and John had once investigated the murder of a night watchman. His mind didn't note he was falling until he is face down, the cold rocks feeling like buzzing unfriendly glass under his body. The stench of the muck from the river and the distant sounds of the city play vivid symphony to his blotching brain. He used the last of his will-power to type as he felt his own chest betray him with waves of pain. It was imprudent to inject an untested batch from a dodgy source.
He only did it to keep going because his body was betraying him with fatigue, lack of food and the crushing headache he could no longer ignore. The signs are familiar. He'd been here before. Having survived so many close calls, he couldn't help but find it disappointing that he'd ended up fulfilling Sally Donavan's often pronounced prediction. The body he happened to murder was his own, but there would be an investigation after all, beings it may be less than apparent how a dead man would again be found freshly dead a second time.
"Oh, John. I have quite made total pants of this, haven't I?" He feels the damp mud seeping into his cloths and rakes in a sigh of disgust at the thought of being found in such a boring and appalling condition.
He has certainly never been opposed to his last gasping breath not being achieved in comfort and luxury, but he honestly felt cheated that his end was not to be more magnificent and interesting. At the very least he had always hoped to go out in some unique fashion while in pursuit of some worthy opponent. This was intolerable, to expire covered in rammy gick felt like an insultingly average death. Mycroft would make such a face. That was at least a bit of a pisser. He smiled at the image while trying to curl onto his side and draw himself up into a more comfortable curl as the pain in his chest screamed
[10:52 – Hold on. Contacting Mycroft. Faster. Did you call an ambulance? JW]
[10:55 – Are you still with me? JW]
[10:56 – Sherlock, answer me.]
[10:57 – I expect you to respond to me immediately. I have arranged help. Why? MH]
He let the phone slip from his hand.
He wished he could see the looks on their faces as they realized who he was and how much paperwork would be required to explain the demise of a dead body. He wondered for a moment if they would feel the urge to drive a stake through his heart this time. It couldn't hurt any worse than what he was experiencing now. He fleetingly thought of dialing 999 or Mycroft when the symptoms grew so bad, but instead he'd simply decided to put himself in John's hands.
He is still aware for a few moments as his vision narrows, darkens and finally his eyes close. He could hear his heartbeat racing and knew his oxygen levels were decreasing because of how he began to feel like he was floating. The pleasure of it, away from the physical pain, and away from the worry of the world and its obligations was glorious and seductive. Time slowed. His eyes opened one last time as he rolled partially and saw his phone flashing text after text. He twisted his head and looked into the sky.
The stars are brilliant. The earth rotates around the sun, John. I have no regrets, John. I did the right thing. I do wish…
Sherlock partially closes his eyes, not finishing his wish and it didn't matter, because the light was so bright and there was nobody around to hear his wish anyway.
[TAC RES 7 – 11:04 – Target DAS. In Trans with rhythm but outlook unknown. ETA M16 ER 12m]
[11:04 -All measures required. Use Kings Protocol if necessary. Must live, imperative A, target indispensable. MH]
[11:06 – He has been retrieved. Resuscitation measures had to be taken. They will do all they can. How did this occur? M]
[11:08 – My fault. It is my fault. JW]
[11:09 – obviously. Do not bother to employ further stealth. We will speak soon.]
[11:09 – I did call you. JW]
[11:11 - I trust you actually wish to be seen? Get in the car.M]
[11:12 – Will you let me see him? JW]
[11:13 – That request isn't strictly up to me at this time is it? I am disappointed. I will advise you on his behalf should there be one, but we shall speak of sailing wax and string ]
Mycroft Holmes burst into the room. John was being honored as an incredibly protected guest. That is he was being detained, but they had not decided to practice active torture and had kindly brought him tea, so it may be prisoner or It may be guest but the definition was precisely the same. John didn't stand, he looked up at Mycroft with his contemplative startled expression of respectful inquisitiveness.
Mycroft allowed his anger to flash in his eyes for a spit second, then with a slow exhale that spoke of pain and steel remorse, his face grew pointedly placid.
John met his eyes, missing nothing yet asking him to explain with a politely curious tilt of his head and the slight narrowing of his eyes as if trying to see Mycroft closer. Mycroft never burst forth in a room. John realized at once that his demeanor was far elevated beyond any point he'd ever seen.
"Tell me 'Doctor' did you enjoy humiliating my brother? Quite the little game you played. Quite the little petty lark. Wasn't it?" he smiled like an indulgent parent, but there was no smile truly on his face. John saw for the first time that perhaps, Mycroft was scary. Right now he looked a feather duster short of insane.
John cleared his throat, but his voice was steady. "I don't think asking him to understand the fact that he treated me like a bumbling useless tosser, to be left behind, lied to and not trusted even when you both knew the battle I fought each day, was so very evil. It really wasn't any form of humiliation, compared to the disgrace of mourning someone while they have a piss at my expense because they only died to get away from me. Must have been quite the lark to have me think you enjoyed my company because we had this common loss. That's my toast to your accusation, Mycroft. Humiliation? I'm sure you could give me several years lessons on that subject. Feels like I should have caught on earlier, but I never could quite master all those subtle Holmes mind games. Posh boys cut their teeth on them and you and Sherlock chew them up for fun. A mutt like me goes to the pound, not the hunt. No reason to bark or growl here, just tell me he's ok."
Standing, John yanked his watch off and threw it on the table. He looked at it and shook his head, then returned his eyes to the cold face while wearing his own frosty military calm like a badge of dare.
Mycroft's face fell slightly, but he refused to show that he had any feelings. He did know what he'd put John through, but right now, he needed a grudge to focus on rather than Sherlock. "Indeed. Still, you could have proven said point without the death march."
John looked at him with cynical amusement. "I hardly think his overdose falls exclusively in my hands. If he was telling the truth, that's kind of a double standard. Seems there were similar events on your watch. "
Mycroft sighs, then seems to find his tie slightly out of adjustment and uses the two way mirror to adjust its perfection to some unknown state of further perfection. "There were. The most recent all seem to have revolved around you. He came to you in faith. Saved your life again, in fact. Gave himself to you and you disposed of him and taunted him like a schoolyard bully. You must be so proud."
John wanted to argue, but part of it was at least true. He was a plonker for freaking when Sherlock was at his most vulnerable, but Sherlock was no saint for letting him reach such a mental abyss before stepping forward. "Not really, no. I didn't handle the thing so well. I was, I am not the picture of well-adjusted here. Broken toys can be messy. I can't help that he made a quick stop for a fix. I didn't even know. That put him in danger. That was not my clue."
"He injected the cocaine to function with a concussion, some sort of bullet wound. I gather you had no idea how carefully you have been watched over. I do not need your explanations or your excuses. I have an extensive understanding of the dynamics. I never thought unkindly of you John. That perhaps was my mistake."
"This isn't how I meant for this to turn out. I wanted him to know, he'd made a mistake, leaving me behind. I did prove the point. I could have helped."
"Ah, yes, our brave little soldier. Most impressive."
"You don't like me, because even you missed it. I see. Does it really bother you that much?" John blinks and smiles, his charming disarming face.
Mycroft raises an eyebrow, "You have some very problematic enemies I suppose you know. You realize you have drawn attention."
"Not important right now. You planning to make friends with them? Hand me over to them? Or are you calculating my value, against how loose my canon may be?"
"I am observing. "
"And gagging for me to share my intimate skills with your own army brats?"
"Which you feel is inappropriate."
"Right now? No possibility. Other concerns press my attention. May I please see him?"
Mycroft looks at his shoes and steps toward the door. He turns and smiles his most gentile, yet chilling smile. "I'm sorry, the viewing has been reserved for family only. You see, my unerringly brilliant brother died of respiratory complications forty-two minutes ago. He loved you. He coughed up a lung for you. Only had the one whole one left you know, lost most of the other one, just over a year ago. Right after your nuptials if I remember correctly. Yes, he overdosed, I am sure you need no description of what those final moments look like…Doctor. I only wanted to view your face as I conveyed that news to you…personally." Mycroft narrowed his eyes slightly and turned to leave the room satisfied by the way the air collapsed from the solders lungs and the look of agony he saw bloom on John's face. "Enjoy your stay. We have so many singular methods of entertainment here."
John didn't scream or shed tears. He just sat back down and grew very still. He eventually laid his head on the desk and closed his eyes. Whatever Mycroft had in mind was fine. It was all fine, in fact. All fine.
Sherlock, please no. He took in his breath and looked through his texts of the day. Over and over Sherlock had begged and he'd forced him to continue. He'd died because John had seen but not observed. Again.
Again? Not exactly, but still for John, it was, Again.
[2:57 – I am an idiot. You are an arse. Meant to be I suppose. The price of my forgiveness was too high beings in truth, it was already yours. Forever.]
John stood and began emptying his pockets. He had of course been relieved of all weapons upon arrival. He lined the contents up largest item to smallest. He took off his Jumper and folded it neatly. The shirt was slowly unbuttoned and removed but he began twisting the material as if wringing it out. His eyes seemed to meet those in the monitoring booth, steady, fearless and empty.
John placed the twisted shirt out on the table precisely and with the care of a tea ceremony. He took his wallet and wedged it under the door. He kicked it securely. He kicked off his left shoe and wedged it into the wallets fold.
Behind the glass, a man in his twenties with a patched eye and a scar down his cheek asked softly,"What's he doing?"
"Locking us out." Mycroft said passively.
John moved the table toward the one way mirror. He stood on it, locked his knees, held his arms out pulling the wound sleeve into a tight coil and wrapped the shirt snugly around his neck. He spun and hung his now bare heels off the edge of the table and used an ink pen to securely kink the arm of his shirt tightly to his neck. It took exactly five seconds for John to lose consciousness. His body crashed through the window like a tree.
"Jesus Horatio Christ!" the assistant said in horror.
Mycroft looked down at the bleeding damaged man at his feet. That was unexpected.
"He's done it for you, if that's important. " The younger man rolled John to one side and a gush of blood rushed from under John's armpit. Mycroft sighed.
"Get him sewn up, then sedate him until I require him." Mycroft said quickly releasing the neck tourniquet John had fashioned. Within seconds, John groaned in pain.
"You plan to kill him and now you want him rescued?" The younger man whispered as he typed franticly then attempted to constrain the worst of the bleeding without dislodging more of the glass embedded.
"Yes, he is actually suicidal, perhaps I will factor that into whether or not I allow him further contact with my brother."
"So maintain what you said, should he surface? Say he's dead?"
"Yes, of course. And do retain the footage of his little party trick. One never knows what one may find of use in the future." Mycroft stepped over John and left the room, making certain to not sully his shoes with John's blood.
"Stop it." John croaked as he was lifted onto a gurney face down. "Don't let them help me." He demanded now trying to fight the hands he could feel on him. He shivered in pain but was too foggy to put up much of a fight.
He heard the words, "little stick." The world swam and sounds became distant as he heard all the familiar calls of his condition. He wasn't sure what they gave him, but it was bloody glorious, whatever it was. He lay on the moving nothing and opened his eyes to the blurry meaningless shapes. Part of him knew he'd just done something important, but he just couldn't be arsed to think about it or care.
He needed to find his phone. But, then a sob bubbled from him as he tried to make his mind settle on what was real and what might be just a dream. He thought he was leaving Baker Street, someone had spoiled his plans. He had been dreaming something about Sherlock again. "Sherlock?" he said softly but he was too tired to wait for a response.
Just a bit of nonsense for you. Fact is as lovely as fiction. 666 words of Inspiration?
Control the orientation of your body on the bounce. As you would expect, mortality is highest when the initial point of impact is the head. Mortality declines (in this order) when the point of impact is ventral (the front of the body), dorsal (back of the body), lateral (side of the body), and feet-first
His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to nothing.
Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.' The whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and you were astonished."
"It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling. "You remind me of Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of stories."
Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he observed. "Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine."
[25] "Have you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked. "Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a detective?"
Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a miserable bungler," he said, in an angry voice; "he had only one thing to recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me positively ill. The question was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might be made a textbook for detectives to teach them what to avoid."
A study in Scarlet – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
It is estimated that the human body reaches 99% of its low-level terminal velocity after falling 573m 1880ft which takes 13-14 sec. This is 117-125mph at normal atmospheric pressure and in a random posture. The fall from St. Bart's roof was 70 feet which takes approximately 2 seconds. It takes 45-60 seconds to inflate a rescue air cushion; even small ones are rated for 70 feet. Can be up and in position in less than 4 minutes by a trained crew.
The sole inspiration for Poe's Dupin appears to be derived not from any fictitious figure, but rather from a real-life Frenchman named Eugene Francois Vidocq (1775-1857); doubtless Poe heard of this man while he was in London as a child, and he followed this man's memoirs detailing the events of his life. Vidocq had been a talented criminal whom the Parisian police had decided to hire as a spy. Pleased with his work, police officials arranged for his release, and soon after Vidocq, once relentlessly pursued by the police, became police chief himself in 1811! As time went on. Vidocq hired his own network of undercover spies to capture criminals, but eventually a series of scandals forced him to resign his position in 1827, due to public suspicion that he was in fact responsible for planning many of the crimes that his police squad appeared to solve, just to make themselves appear to be skilled investigators. The belief was that, if Vidocq was removed from his post, then the crime rate would in fact decrease. Five years later he took this job again, but he resigned after only one month, and he accordingly spent the remainder of his days writing his own fiction and memoirs relating the details of his life, as well as running his own private detective agency called "Reseignements," probably derived from the French "Renseignements," meaning "information."
These are my story stats: I post an average of 110 reviews each month, often longer than some people's chapters. Won't you please take the time to review?
You have submitted a total of 1300 signed reviews.
Total words archived : 520,915 words.
Average number of words per story : 27,417
Total hits to Profile Page : 4,000