Necessary Faith
By Alecto Perdita
Chapter 13 - Exorcise the demons from your past
Rating: PG-13
Posted: May 31, 2012
At one point, John wondered when he went from trading in life (to heal, prevent, and cure; do no harm) to trading in death (maybe he's just deluding himself; he has always bargained against death for more time and more chances). Hunting is all about death. All too often, he gets somewhere far too late for his taste or conscience. There isn't always someone to help at the end the strings of violent deaths that he traces and chases. The least he can do is prevent more from happening (for prevention is preferable to cure).
On second thought, it isn't all that much different from what he did with Sherlock.
As they say, taxes and death are the only certainties in life.
-x-x-x-
The start of autumn is heralded by a string of crop failures up and down the English countryside. Coupled with outbreaks of foot-and-mouth diseases among cattle, this year's harvest is completely wasted. Prices for certain food items skyrocket in anticipation of the produce that now needs to be imported from abroad. No one has been able to pinpoint the cause (with symptoms so disparate that scientists can't even decide if it's bacterial or viral) or origin of the failing wheat crops and the bovine disease.
Mary informs him that a number of hunters she's been in contact with are betting on something supernatural. Someone noticed that some of the farming communities exhibited demonic omens before fields died over night.
By coincidence, John was already in Kent when several acres of farm and grazing land withered like a scene from the Bible. After interviewing several affected farmers while posing as an investigator for DEFRA (1), he and Mary manage to narrow down the point of origin to an abandoned farmstead nearby.
He should have waited until the next day to make his move, given himself enough time to do recon and set additional traps. But demon activity doesn't actually distinguish between day and night, and waiting can mean it will have the chance to leave the area. John is chalking a devil's trap overhead in a promising choke point when he hears a sudden noise. He hastily completes the symbol and goes for his container of holy water.
"Are you sure this is the place, Cas? Cuz we ain't seen diddly-squat so far," someone (male, American judging by his accent) bites out in annoyance.
There are two other sets of footsteps, so three of them in total. John's pulse quickens in anticipation. He might be able to take them with good tactics—if they are human. But if they're demons... He flattens his back against a wall, mind racing as he considers the possibility of drawing all three of them under the trap he just completed. Even if he can't exorcise all of them at once, it would buy him enough time to get away and regroup. He's not stupid enough to take on three possible demons by himself without backup.
"Somebody's here," a second deep and commanding voice (also male and American) declares.
John swears he hears the rush of a million wings before a man in a beige trenchcoat suddenly appeared before him. John's training and instincts kick in immediately as he splashes the trenchcoat man with holy water. He pushes himself off the wall and past the other man (who is decidedly not screaming and clawing at the holy water drenched parts of his body). He never makes it across the room to the devil's trap as two other men step out and block his path.
The shorter of the two men aims a pistol at John's chest and barks, "Hold it right there."
John and the taller man then strike at the exact moment with the containers in each of their hand, leaving all three of them wet and drenched in the aftermath. Stunned silence fills the air between them like molasses. After another few seconds, John dares to lift one hand to wipe the water dripping from his face.
"Holy water?" asks the shorter man.
"Holy water," the taller confirms with a swift nod.
John furrows his brow together as he examines the two men, their attire, their posture, and their weapons. "You're hunters."
The shorter man lowers his gun, though his eyes are still bright with suspicion. "And you're also one."
John nods and stows away his holy water. He widens his stance and falls into parade rest before offering one hand in greeting. "John Watson, a pleasure to meet you."
The taller man steps forward (and he is fucking tall, even taller than Sherlock by a bit; John's neck is already developing a crick looking up) and shakes John's hand. "I'm Sam, and that's my brother, Dean."
Dean, the shorter brother, just nods in greeting. The trenchcoat man joins them, hovering protectively at Dean's side.
"And that's Cas," Sam points to the man with the trenchcoat.
"Good evening, John," Cas says stoically and angles his head to a side.
For some indiscernible reason, John shivers at the sound. He pushes the feeling away. "So you're also here to investigate crop failures? Aren't you a bit far from home?"
"Look, pal, we don't have time for chit-chat," Dean says brusquely. "If Famine is anything like War, things are about to get real bad—and soon."
John blinks in confusion. "Excuse me, Famine?"
There are a brief exchange of words about horsemen and demonic hierarchy, but no one offers John any in-depth explanations. There are suspicions voiced about John, which are subsequently assuaged by Cas before John can even protest. His head spins as he is swept up into the frenzy of their hunt, and John is not so prideful as to be unwilling to defer to more experienced and knowledgeable hunters. So before he can fully process the new turn of events, he finds himself alone with Sam while Dean and Cas split off to search more of the grounds.
"Shall we?" Sam inquires politely and then they set out as well.
Their sweep of the nearby perimeters unearths nothing, so they return to the easily defensive point that John had pointed out earlier. John pulled his coat tighter around his body, bracing against the early autumn chill. Sam towers over him—the American is a massive giant of man standing guard with his single-barreled shotgun. John shakes his head and chuckles to himself. Americans and their shotguns.
"Something up?" Sam asks.
"Nothing, just thinking about what a strange turn my life has taken," John replies with a wry smile.
John offers the other man the seat next to him on the bench. After several moments of internal consideration, Sam sits down and rests the butt of his gun against the dirt ground. John does another assessment of their surroundings, looking for any signs of movement or noise. So far, still nothing. The waiting is always the worst part of working a case, whether it had been with Sherlock or in his current occupation.
"How long have you and your brother been doing this? And Cas?"
"Dean and I have known about this our whole lives, our dad raised us in it. You can say it's the family business," there are traces of old bitterness in Sam's voice as he speaks. "Cas is kinda a recent addition to the team. I'm guessing you haven't been hunting for long then."
"Almost two years now."
It's difficult to imagine where he would be now if he hadn't met Mary.
"Do you mind if I ask why you started?"
In response, John simply supplies, "My best friend died." He had always found it best not to elaborate too much (and it's not really a lie because if Sherlock had lived, John is almost sure he would not be here). Because it offends some hunters when they find out John has not lost someone like they had—like losing a loved one to the supernatural is a necessary rite of passage.
Sam is staring at him. His hazel eyes are flickering back and forth over the lines of John's face. Recognition suddenly dawns on Sam's youthful face (God, how old is this kid to be running around doing this?). "Wait, you're Doctor John Watson, the blogger."
John suppresses the urge to groan. It's not often that he's recognized while on the job, but it's always awkward when it happens. As time passed in the years since Sherlock's death, it happened less. "That's me." John finally sighs in defeat. "I reckon you've read the blog then."
Sam nods enthusiastically. "Can't think about hunting all the time," he gains a distant look in his eyes before shaking it off. "So this is what you've been doing since Sherlock—"
People—well, the ones trying to be considerate anyway—tend to cut themselves off just when they're about to talk about Sherlock's suicide. They gave him that frantic look, as if John was going to shatter apart at the mere abortive thought not yet given word. (In those early months after Sherlock, John had felt like he would at any mention of his best friend. But now? He feels only annoyance and some sadness, because John Watson is no wilting flower, is becoming a seasoned hunter).
John is saved from having to ward off an awkward conversation about Sherlock when Dean's roar of "SAM!" carries across the field.
The next fifteen minutes is a death-defying exercise with a dozen human cultists and an old Irish harvest god in flesh incarnate. Regrettably, John ends up shooting two of the cultists to prevent Dean from getting his head sliced off. He's not the only one to discharge his firearm though. The adrenaline rush runs John higher than ever before. He's never faced down a proper god of any sort before. Cas had been dispatched to release some prisoners locked away in a nearby cellar. Sam and Dean move together with practiced ease, trading blows and quips with one another. In the moments between felling one cultist after another, John is insanely envious of their partnership.
John wrestles another cultist to the ground, wondering how many more they will have to take on. Somewhere behind him, Dean is complaining loudly about "everyone's fruity accent." Sam lunges at the god, Crom Cruach, with a wooden stake, but is thrown back by an unseen force. The stake skitters across the water-damaged floorboard. When Dean dives forward to grab it, another wave of the god's hand sends it spinning into the darkness unseen. So John, Dean, and Sam are pressed hard into the ground by Crom Cruach's invisible hand. John fires a shot into the god's chest, knowing full well it will do little, before his Browning is wrenched away.
"Don't you three look delicious?" Crom Cruach traces a finger across his lower lip before settling his sight on Dean. "Have to fatten myself up for the long winter ahead. I think I'll start with the first-born. They're my favorite."
"Think again." Cas materializes out of thin air behind the god and thrusts a thin gladius into Crom Cruach's throat. Another twist of the blade sends a visible arc of lightning flashing through the night air, and the god burns up in ashes.
The pressure on John's back lifts and he can breathe again. The remaining conscious cultists take one look at their defeated god and flee. Cas and the others make no move to pursue them, so John assumes they're finished.
"Well, that sucked, fucking pagan gods always gotta be such dicks." Dean grouses as he dusts off his leather jacket.
John can't help the wide grin cracking across his face. "Still grateful for all your help. Not sure I would have been able to handle that one by myself." He turns his attention to Cas. "What did you use anyway? And where can I get one?"
Cas opens his mouth to speak, but is immediately interrupted by Dean. "Trust me, man, it is not worth dealing with the shipping costs."
There are bodies to be burned and buried. Even with the four of them, it takes them two hours. They work with few patches of silences during the lull in conversation. Occasionally, Dean wistful longs for a beer or makes some jab at the British. Sam frequently apologizes for his brother (God, John used to have to do that all the time for Sherlock too), and Cas would profess to not understanding some reference (the obtuseness makes John's chest ache because the scenario feels so unbearably familiar). But John doesn't take offense, replies with good humor, and basks in their company (he's been on the road completely by himself for a month now).
Now standing by the Corsa, John asks the three Americans as he gestures at the long stretch of dirt road, "Are you sure you don't need a lift?"
"Thanks, but we got a few things to take care of first." Dean's smile is guarded, so John decides not to push the subject.
Cas steps up until he is almost nose to nose with John. John starts (you would think after having lived with Sherlock and his complete disregard of personal space, he'd be used to this sort of thing by now), but something in the other man's blue eyes stop him from drawing back. He belatedly realizes that Cas is trying to study him—read him.
"Have faith, John."
John blinks and Cas has already pulled away, back turned and walking off in the other direction.
"It was nice meeting you, Doctor Watson," Sam clasps John's hand (the grip is warm and well-callused). "I hope you don't mind me saying, but I don't think Sherlock was a fraud."
Despite the prolonged campaign online on Sherlock's behalf, John rarely hears anyone say it in real life. John feels inexplicably grateful. "Thank you."
"Yeah, thanks for the backup. It got a little sticky there for a while. Good to know the Brits got some hunters taking care of business over here." Dean takes John's hand this time, so John hopes he's made a good impression.
He looks at the three of them. Sam and Dean seem so young, but their battle hardened demeanor is like that of many career soldiers John has known and fought aside. By comparison, Cas is stoic. But they all have the same tinge of burgeoning desperation lurking just beneath the surface. John wonders what they've seen and done to get to this point.
He wishes there's something more he can do to help them.
"Take care of yourselves." After a moment, John adds, "Please."
He'd hate to see more good men (they're just boys, some part of John screams) die for nothing.
John waves to them when the two brothers back away from the car to join Cas. He turns the key in the ignition and wonders if he should be making the long trip back to London. When he glances in the reflection of the rear-view mirror he's adjusting, all three American have already vanished from sight.
-x-x-x-
On the Thursday of the first week of October, his London phone starts ringing nonstop. The calls are coming from unfamiliar numbers and John is hot on the heel of a shifter. After the fourth call in an hour, he switches the device off and resumes his chase. By the end of the night, he and the shapeshifter (who hasn't actually hurt or killed anyone, well, there's a first time for everything) reach an understanding, allowing them to part ways unscathed. John drops into his bed back at the hotel and falls asleep as soon as he hits the mattress.
It's the copy of the newspaper left at his door that finally breaks the news.
Moriarty revealed as greatest criminal mastermind in generations! screams the front-page headline. John almost drops the paper when he first saw it. He closes his eyes and counts backwards from ten. Nope, the headline remains unchanged. He pinches himself hard as an added measure.
He's not dreaming.
He greedily absorbs the three-page article on James Moriarty's criminal history and activities. The information is apparently coming out of a joint Interpol and MI5 investigation finally concluding after five years. The sheer amount of evidence uncovered is mind-boggling. Most of the article focuses on Moriarty and then his fabrication of the Richard Brook persona, finally leading into a two paragraph summary of Sherlock's suicide. It was short, almost a footnote or afterthought, but Sherlock Holmes is posthumously absolved of all suspicions.
He fumbles for his London phone and turns it back on. Twenty-four new voice messages and half a dozen texts are waiting for him.
FROM: Gregory Lestrade
9:16 PM, October 5
Took them long enough! Sherlock still deserves better. Stay in touch, John.
-Greg
FROM: Harry Watson
9:22 PM, October 5
Answer your damn phone, Johnny!
FROM: Molly Hooper
9:24 PM, October 5
Have you heard the news about Sherlock yet? Where are you?
3 Molly
FROM: Harry Watson
9:27 PM, October 5
I hope you're happy. This is what you wanted, right?
FROM: Mike Stamford
10:01 PM, October 5
Go online and look at the front page of BBC news. Now!
FROM: Bill Murray
8:48 AM, October 6
Always believed in you and your detective, mate. I imagine someone's going to fry over this. Stay strong.
The voice messages are less encouraging. Three are from Harry, twenty are from reporters wanting him to comment on the news or trying to get an exclusive with him (all of which he deletes without a second thought), and the last is an amusing threat from a stalwart Rich Brook defender for being a part of a mass government conspiracy (this he saves to share with Mary).
He throws his phone down just as it starts ringing (another unfamiliar number) and reaches for his laptop. Sure enough, the expose on Moriarty's criminal empire is the top news of the day. The articles (Daily Telegraph, Financial Times, the Guardian, the Observer, the Times, New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, etc.) all follow a similar to the one John just read in the newspaper—with heavy focus on the investigation and little mention of Sherlock. But thanks to Mary (who had emailed him compilation of links to reactions on blogs and other social networks), he finds that people outside of the mainstream media are far more interested in tragic drama that tied Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty together.
His other phone buzzes.
FROM: Mary Morstan
8:09 AM, October 6
Check your blog.
The hit counter is still broken, stuck at 1895. But the number of comments on his last ever blog entry has soared into the hundreds. Scrolling down the page, he sees that the comment count on his older entries (namely A Study in Pink and The Great Game) has similarly ballooned. John is far too overwhelmed to start reading through the new comments. After reading through some of the links Mary sent, it quickly becomes obvious where the traffic to his blog is coming from. Because everyone is linking to it as a testimony to Sherlock Holmes' genius.
How could anyone think he was a fake? The Internet collectively bemoans.
Righteous fury simmers in the pit of his stomach. Because everyone is blind. Because, as Sherlock would say, the world is full of idiots.
His laptop joins his London phone at the foot of the bed and he reaches for his other mobile. It's a Saturday, so he can call Mary without worrying about her day job. She answers on the second ring.
"John, how are you?" is the first thing she says.
"Fine," he mutters. "Just fine."
"Do you want to—"
"No, Mary, I don't want to talk about that. Thank you for the links though. I just wanted to let you know that I closed the case with the shifter, but we should keep an eye on the area in case the same MO pops up later."
She sighs and doesn't push him. They spend the next half an hour reviewing other potential leads instead. John spends the rest of the day alone and working through fits of mania. He'd read dozens of online articles and commentaries in a row before forcing himself to walk away from the computer; lest he be tempted to destroy it.
At ten that night, his London phone rings. It's from a number that he doesn't recognize. He lets it go to voicemail. But whoever it is doesn't bother to leave a message.
Then the same number rings him the next night. John ignores it again. No voicemail this time either.
Twice might be a coincidence. But when it happens for the third time in a row the night after that (always precisely at 10PM), something fishy is going on.
John answers on the fourth night. "Hello?"
Complete silence except for the sound of his own breathing feeding back.
"Who is this?"
No answer still. John's ire grows.
"Whoever this is, stop harassing me. I don't have any comment to give about Sherlock Holmes, so leave me the bloody hell alone."
He viciously jabs the end call button. No one calls the next night after his outburst. Or the night after that.
Come Friday morning, John is packing his belongings for the next possible case in St. Ives. He zips up his bag and settles on the bed to clean his Browning. The routine of field stripping his favorite weapon soothes John's nerve. He had fallen into a familiar flow state that he almost misses what is being said by the news playing on the telly in the background.
"...Sebastian Moran was arrested last night on charges of attempted murder. Police sources have revealed Sebastian Moran's connection with the late James Moriarty; going so far as to identity him as Moriarty's once right-hand man. The arrest was once again headed by the same joint task-force that released the results of its five-year long investigation last week. Moran's arrest is being hailed as the end of Moriarty's criminal legacy..."
John snaps his gaze to the telly in time to see the recorded footage of a muscular blond man being shoved into the back of a police car. Sebastian Moran's face was a collage of reddening bruises, as if he had just gone several rounds with a meat tenderizer. His lip is split and one eye almost swollen shut. Besides police officers crowding the scene, there are also scores of men in black suits which John can only assume are MI5 agents. As the camera pans over to focus on Moran in the car, the shot pans over a stretch of street and buildings that John instantly recognizes.
Moran had been arrested on Baker Street.
Checking the internet quickly confirms John's suspicion. Sources are citing shots having been fired in the direction of 221B Baker Street. Curiously enough though, there is no mention of who is Moran's would-be murder victim.
He slams the lid of his laptop and packs it away. He doesn't like the direction his thoughts are gravitating toward. But John simply cannot shake the feeling gnawing at him as he turns the key in the ignition.
He settles into his room in St. Ives by dusk. His early evening jog helps work off some of the nervous energy accumulated in the drive over (not to mention, a chance to study the layout of the local neighborhood; always useful knowledge on the run). The press are still calling him and trying to contact him for a statement. Moran's arrest only seems to feed into the furor for more of the story. After returning to his room and showering, he finds another two missed calls and voice mails asking for an interview.
Never has he been so grateful to be out of London. Reporters would be physically stalking him at this point.
After almost a week since the truth about Moriarty came out, John thinks he may be ready to say something finally.
It takes him a few minutes to log into his blog—having been literally years since the last time he posted an entry. The rest of the evening is spent drafting, editing, and polishing what will probably be his final entry.
His mysterious caller does not attempt to contact him that night, but John doesn't realize that until after he publishes his post at 11:23PM.
-x-x-x-
For the first time that he can recall, John dreams about Sherlock that night—but not Sherlock's death. He dreams of just Sherlock. John is standing in the doorway of their old flat while Sherlock is reclined on the settee in his dressing gown and a thoughtful pose. He crosses the living room to hover over the other man.
The afternoon light coming through the window goes out, plunging the room into twilight dark. Sherlock pops open one clear glasz eye, "John."
John feels tired suddenly and his leg flares up with pain. "Budge up." He doesn't know why he doesn't just go over to his armchair.
Sherlock sweeps his legs off the cushion in a wave of blue silk and sits up (something John's waking mind would recognize as something Sherlock would never ever do). John sinks down onto the sofa in relief.
"Bad day at work?" Sherlock's deep voice rumbles, passing shudders through the patches of connected skin where their shoulders brushed.
They're sitting close, so close. But that's never happened before. Nothing of this sort has actually happened before.
John nods, "A vampire attacked surgery today. Had to behead it myself. Sarah was not happy with all the blood in the waiting room."
"Anyone get infected?"
John rolls his eyes at the spark of glee audible in Sherlock's words. He pokes at a patch of dried blood on his shirt. He should really go burn today's outfit.
"No."
"Boring!" Sherlock declares. Instead of flinging himself at the other end of the sofa in a fit, he sags onto John's shoulder. John allows himself to bask in the warmth of another body against his. Sherlock squirms and shifts until John's nostrils are assaulted by a mass of wild curls and the scent of Sherlock's shampoo. They sit in silence and breathe. John remembers reaching out to take his flatmate's hand to lace his fingers through Sherlock's spindly ones.
But then, John blinks and 221B is gone. He stares into the off-white expanse and the spider web cracks crawling across the ceiling over his bed. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes several quaking breaths. Wetness prickles at the corner of his eyes, so he hastily scrubs a hand across his face. On the nightstand, one of his mobiles vibrates loudly against the plywood.
He'll take any distraction right now.
FROM: Molly Hooper
5:39 AM, October 12
Come home.
Something inside him twists and writhes in pain. The mobile hits the wall with a satisfying clunk. When he finally drags himself out of bed hours later, he is so unbearably relieved that the device is still intact (still preserving the hundreds of saved text messages from Sherlock).
-x-x-x-
From the Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson:
11th October
The Reichenbach Fall
Some of you may still remember the case that first made Sherlock's name almost three years ago: the recovery of the painting called Falls of Reichenbach. Some of the papers even proclaimed him as the "hero of Reichenbach." In retrospect, even long before Moriarty made a play at the crown jewels, I can now see that had been the beginning of the end. Read More
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(1) Department for Environment, Food, and Rural Affairs (DEFRA) is the government department responsible for environmental protection, food production and standards, agriculture, fisheries and rural communities in the United Kingdom.
A bit of a longer chapter this time to help make up for the wait between postings. I couldn't resist slipping in a brief cameo scene with the boys of Supernatural. For everyone's reference, the boys are about a quarter of their way through their adventures in Season 5 (they've met War, know they're Michael and Lucifer's vessel, and Cas is still holding out hope of finding God somewhere). So the Apocalypse has been kickstarted, but things are not quite as desperate and depressing as they get like later in the season.
I'm unsure about working the Judeo-Christian Apocalypse into the background of this story. I have no intention of getting John involved in that plot. The events and omens are mostly localized to America, so the hunters in Britain and Europe have little idea of what's actually going on.
Next chapter is the last chapter for this fic. We're almost done!
Thank you for everyone for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and alerting!