The doorknob rattles, rattles, stops.
"What have I told you?"
Slide, slide, a body backs into the door.
"You never listen. Tsk, tsk. Shall I cut off another finger?"
"No, no, no, please—don't, don't. What will your—?"
"Do not bring him into this."
Slide, slide. Silence.
The driver's face is white, his eyes like dinner plates as they gaze at the pictures set before him. The one he's particularly set on is the man with blue skin and white irises. The tip of his nose is gone, frozen off. On his neck, a long, curved red smile looks at whoever is willing or, in the driver's case, forced. All the blood is gone from the body. His fingers tremble. "Are ya… are you tellin' me they did this?"
Greg Lestrade leans against the wall, Sally in the seat across from the driver. She pulls her hair into a loose ponytail, leaving Greg to answer. Her own face is pale from exhaustion and nausea. "We don't exactly have any confirmation right now, so… no; we're not telling you they did this. We think they did this. There's a difference."
Sally's lips purse.
"What did I do?" the driver mumbles, beginning to hyperventilate. He grips the table. Greg goes to get a trash bin and a paper bag. "Who did I help move in that night?"
Sally weakly smiles. It provides no comfort.
No one sees them move in.
Mycroft holds his hand, the grip tight and warm from his leather gloves. It is cold, the wind biting into Mycroft's already pink cheeks. "Don't touch anything," he whispers, out of the driver's earshot. The moving truck has only a bed and an old recliner. Most of their possessions are in the bags slung over their shoulders. The driver stands with his hands on his hips and observes, shaking his head.
"Will I be able to touch anything?"
"Yes, in the flat. Don't be smart," Mycroft sighs, annoyed.
"Says you."
"Sherlock." Mycroft shuts his eyes.
Sherlock's face splits into a wicked grin. He shoves his face into the big scarf around his neck, muffling his voice. "Counting back from ten?"
Mycroft squeezes Sherlock's hand, a vise grip. "You're acting like a child. Wait here. Do not move." He lets go of Sherlock's hand, leaving it to freely breathe and regain the flow of blood. Sherlock curls his fingers once, twice, and does not move.
He is an abominable snowman, white legs and face peeking from the confinements of black clothing. Mycroft insists the large coat is needed. "I know you only wear the same clothes every day to piss me off," Mycroft told him, "but, please, for the love of God, dress ordinary for this. We need to blend in." Sherlock blends in. However, the driver stares a lot. Sherlock isn't wearing trousers, though a skirt does fall to his knees. His feet are covered with boots. Mycroft says they are "in style". Sherlock thinks his feet look big in them. He plans to not wear them again. His head is bare, his hair long, curly, and freshly cut with a fringe that will take weeks to reach his eyebrows. Mycroft doesn't like it. Sherlock doesn't care.
Sherlock believes the driver stares to wonder if he is cold. Most would wonder the same. When the stares continue, longer and longer each time, Sherlock grows uncomfortable. This is one of the times where he isn't thankful for being able to pass as a cis woman.
Mycroft takes his hand. "He wants to know if you're single."
"Tell him I'm twelve."
"I did."
"Can we come in? Did anyone say?"
"Yes."
They walk into the building. Nobody is out. All is quiet. No one sees them move in.
"It's ugly."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like for me to get a different one? It would be difficult to find another flat with two baths."
Sherlock looks at the floor, working off his boots. His toes immediately spread into the carpet. "I take it back," he says. "The carpet is soft."
Mycroft rolls his eyes.
They place the recliner in the sitting-room-and-kitchen combo. First, it's next to the refrigerator, then Mycroft slides it to a back wall. There will be a television resting in front of it by tomorrow. For the bed, Sherlock and Mycroft drag it into a room, knock it against the wall. "Are you sure you want it there?" Mycroft asks, condescending.
Sherlock sighs. "I won't be the one sleeping in it."
For the first time that night, Mycroft smiles. "Quite."
They prepare the bathtub at dawn. Sherlock sits on the tile floor, unclothed, eyes on Mycroft as he holds his wrist over the porcelain. Blood drips from a cut on his wrist. "It won't be a lot," Mycroft says.
"I know."
Mycroft continues as if Sherlock didn't speak. "Tonight, I will find something more suitable for you. I would like to find two—one for the tub and another for your feeding. However, I will promise nothing, and you will do your best to not get your hopes up." He wraps his wrist in a towel, holds it there for a minute before disinfecting the wound and slapping gauze on it. Sherlock watches him do this with flared nostrils and a headache. "In you go. I would suggest lying on your stomach."
Sherlock climbs in, lies on his stomach.
Mycroft drops the mattress from the bed on top of the tub. The light disappears. Sherlock sleeps.
In the morning, Mycroft checks the locks on the door. He shakes and twists the doorknob.
"I think the lock will hold," he tells Sherlock, as he straightens his tie in the bathroom mirror.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock's voice is quiet. He is sitting in the tub, awake, mattress propped along the wall. It's getting dark. He has gotten up an hour or so earlier than usual. "I think I can hold off another day."
"No, you can't. Try to open the door when I leave."
Sherlock does. He can't open it.
When the drugs bust happens, Sherlock sits on the grass outside and plots his suicide. His stomach hurts, and his hands are stained from pulling the stopper from the tub. He hides his nails in the soil. It's cool and offers little support.
He follows two boys back to the fourth floor. He wants to jump on each of them. He wants to hear their necks break.
Sherlock goes into his unit, locks the door, and calls Mycroft.
"There's a boy next door," Mycroft says. "He tried to enter our flat this morning. He was hung over; there's no need to worry."
Sherlock drops to the floor, next to Mycroft. He pulls his knees beneath him, tugging on his hair until the tangles disappear. "Are you putting newspaper on the walls again?"
"Sherlock, don't be obvious." Newspaper sits in front of Mycroft, some torn, some still in readable condition. It doesn't take much to figure out what Mycroft intends to do with them. Sherlock reads an article from the eighties, chewing on his thumbnail.
Sherlock visits the boy next door. It doesn't go well. Mycroft is furious. He opens the door for Sherlock and begins to shout.
The boy knocks on their door, but Mycroft shuts him out. Sherlock catches his eyes. They are dark blue and beautiful.
While in Sweden, Sherlock gets sick. His skin boils at even the faintest glimmer of sunlight. His lips crack, his throat burns. Mycroft never leaves his side.
In those days, Mycroft is squeamish. He isn't now. He slices into his skin and fills a sippy cup without a second thought.
In those days, Mycroft learns how much blood he can give before he becomes light-headed. In those days, Mycroft's first emotion is guilt. In those days, Mycroft doesn't like killing people.
It's second nature today. Mycroft never dirties his suits.
"I will find him, baby brother," Mycroft says, lighting a cigarette and staring at the wall with expressionless eyes.
"I have no doubt you will."
"It's my fault. I should have kept a closer eye on you."
"I'm not a child anymore, Mycroft."
"No." Mycroft smokes. Rings leave his mouth.
"He's in London, isn't he?" Sherlock asks. "I suspected he was when we left in such a hurry."
Mycroft doesn't look at him. "I will get him." Ashes fall from the cigarette's tip. "He isn't set to leave for another week."
They have a television in their flat. It's turned to a cartoon Sherlock vaguely remembers from his childhood. The volume is down to mute. "You will get him," Sherlock agrees. "And I will kill him."
"I will kill him." Mycroft turns his head. "We both will, in our own ways."
Sherlock enjoys the sound of that.
Sherlock never once asks how long they are planning to stay after they're finished.
For only a minute, Sherlock sits on the windowsill, fingers and toes clinging, and peers into the neighbor's window. He sees the boy from next door sleeping, twisting and kicking in his slumber. Sherlock returns to his own flat before he's noticed. The wind is cold, but Sherlock is made for scaling buildings.
Charles Augustus Magnussen is, in simplest terms, a businessman. He reeks of undeserved achievement. He walks with a swagger no one understands, and has a mind full of information that can fill an entire palace. His hands are moist, and his eyes are empty. He ruins everything he touches and touches everything he shouldn't.
As of now, Charles Augustus Magnussen is expected to be back in Denmark in a week's time. All of his conferences finished the night before. He stays in a hotel and keeps to himself, not causing any trouble, always watching, studying.
He only goes out at night.
He doesn't see during the day. He doesn't see, he doesn't see.
He doesn't go out tonight.
Sherlock ties his hair into damp plaits. He smells of luxury shampoo and sharp peppermint.
In the sitting room, Charles Augustus Magnussen is lying defenseless on his back, his hands and legs bound. His eyes are open and don't react to anything. His glasses are off his face, a deep bruise on his cheek. It will disappear come tomorrow night.
"Mycroft," Sherlock whimpers. He drops to the floor, knees weak. He's going to scream.
Mycroft is on the recliner, one leg draped over the other. He has been here for a while. "You never thank me."
Sherlock blinks away tears. "Thank you for keeping me alive."
Sherlock feels like he's an idiot for not knowing about a Rubik's Cube. The boy is kind and patient. He shows Sherlock how to shift the sides and make the different colors move around. "I, uh, heard you gotta do the corner bits first," he says.
Sherlock is hesitant to take the cube from him. He's supposed to give it back tomorrow. "I may not be here tomorrow," Sherlock says, because there is a dangerous man in his flat, who Mycroft is so sure won't do anything funny.
"The day after tomorrow," the boy says with his eyebrows furrowed.
"I may not be here the day after tomorrow," Sherlock says, because there is a dangerous man in his flat, who Mycroft is so sure won't do anything funny.
Sherlock doesn't mean to make the boy upset. His situation is temporary. He doesn't deserve anything permanent. He tells himself this as they walk back into the building. You do not need him. He is only a boy. You will kill him. He will kill you. He does not like you. You will kill him.
"You can come in," Mycroft says, and Sherlock does. All the doors inside are closed and locked. Sherlock touches a doorknob as he passes, giving it a shake. He hears mumbling from the other side.
The cube is rickety in his hands. It creaks with each turn. Sherlock leans against the refrigerator and does the corner bits first.
Mycroft isn't pleased. He closes the door, and is now standing in front of Sherlock, hands on his hips. "What is that?"
"You of all people should know." Sherlock's fingers tap along the yellow squares. "It's a Rubik's Cube—a puzzle. He gave it to me. Is that a problem?" Sherlock never raises his head. Mycroft's eyes will be harsh and unwanted.
His voice is delicate. "No. It isn't a problem."
"Good," Sherlock whispers. He squeezes the cube.
The next day, Sherlock returns the Rubik's Cube to John—John, whose name is ordinary and extraordinary at the same time. He tells John he is nothing, and John tells him it's all fine. John gives him back the Rubik's Cube—a birthday present. Sherlock cries.
They agree to see each other again tomorrow. Sherlock is unsure what he and John are.
"His name is John," Sherlock says, as Mycroft is fixing him a cup of blood. The blood is from a man Mycroft threw into the river after draining him. He almost got caught. Mycroft managed to come back safely.
"John," Mycroft ponders, an amused smile on his face. He passes over the blood. Sherlock drinks it, gulps, refreshed.
Magnussen is missing a finger. Mycroft is holding it in his palm, fingers spread and putting the finger on display to Sherlock. The skin is pale. Blood is absent. "Did he bleed?" Sherlock asks, head tilting. He sits on the recliner, legs crossed and holding his feet.
Mycroft cocks an eyebrow. "Do you bleed?"
"If I am not invited in, you know that. We bruise."
"'We'?" Mycroft closes his fist, hiding the finger from view. "Are you finally accepting it?"
"I've always accepted it."
Mycroft gives him a look, but doesn't say anything in regards to Sherlock's lie. "Would you like to see him?"
Someone knocks on the door.
Mycroft gives Sherlock Magnussen's finger before answering the door. With the finger in his hand, Sherlock is powerful. He has always been powerful, but having the finger of his assaulter in his grasp channels the strength in new ways. Sherlock can do anything. He will scream, and everyone will hear him.
He listens for Mycroft. The exchange at the door is over quickly. When Mycroft reappears, Sherlock says, "Well, how was that?" but he regrets it as soon as the words meet eardrums. Mycroft looks disgusted, horrific, and underneath it all, he's scared. Mycroft is never scared. Sherlock thinks the world is about to end, which is illogical to think, but he does. "Who was that?" he asks, voice lower than a whisper. Never has he been more frightened of the neighbors overhearing.
"A friend of John, I presume. He was out there, along with three others, so clearly they are, at least, acquaintances."
Mycroft isn't telling Sherlock everything. "Who was that?" Sherlock repeats, getting up from the recliner. Magnussen's finger is cold in his hand.
Something passes over Mycroft's face. Briefly, Sherlock thinks Mycroft isn't going to tell him. Mycroft heads back into the room with their guest. Sherlock follows. "Mycroft."
"Moriarty," Mycroft answers, keeping the door open for Sherlock to join them. The room is void of all, except for their guest of honor, currently sitting on the floor, propped against the wall. "Jim Moriarty." Mycroft crouches next to Magnussen, who is gazing at Sherlock with narrowed, calculating eyes. Sherlock's skin crawls. "I thought you would have killed him." Mycroft speaks to Magnussen now. "It's improbable to believe you would allow him to grow into a young man after he was unsuccessful in killing Sherlock when they were children. He killed Carl, though, but you didn't want Carl."
"Regardless, I had Carl, and he was good." Magnussen's lips form a sick smile. Sherlock shuts his eyes. "And I had your parents, and I had your baby brother, and they were delicious."
Sherlock doesn't open his eyes. He stands there, shivering in his skirt and hooded sweatshirt, because of a man he desperately wants to harm. Mycroft takes the initiative and slices off another finger. Sherlock hears the sharp intake of breath, the hiss of teeth, and the quiet drop of the finger to carpet. "Shut up," Mycroft says, calm as can be. Sherlock wishes he could be like him, then hates himself for thinking such things.
"You can take off all the fingers you want, Mycroft, but that won't kill me." Magnussen is panting. Sherlock turns his back on them. "And you can take Jim and do the same to him, but that won't kill him."
Sherlock's stomach churns.
"You turned him," Mycroft says.
"Yes, a newborn. Turned him when I came back to London with you two… right on my heels. He's one of us now—well, not you, Mycroft. It's a shame dear Sherlock never bit you. You do smell quite good."
Magnussen's hand is missing two fingers. Mycroft takes a third. He picks the two from the floor, grabs the knife, and captures Sherlock's arm in a tight pull, tugging him out the room. The door closes. Mycroft locks it. "What are we going to do about Moriarty?" Sherlock opens his eyes. His stomach still hurts. "He's going to, to, to—"
"We're not doing anything just yet," Mycroft interjects, taking Magnussen's finger from Sherlock's fist and moving into the kitchen. Side by side, he neatly places the fingers on a counter. "If I were you, I would be worried about who else might not be who they seem to be." With the knife in hand, Mycroft begins chopping the fingers into little pieces. He might as well be cutting an onion.
Sherlock sits back in the recliner, pulling his legs to his chest. "You're talking about John."
"Was I?" Mycroft drops the fingers in the garbage disposal.
John doesn't know anything about Moriarty or anything about Sherlock.
"So, where are you from?"
It's embarrassing, the way John handles the conversation. Sherlock tells him, might have told him too much. Sherlock is an idiot. He ends their meeting. John follows.
"Don't answer the door," Sherlock tells Mycroft, but Mycroft does anyway. Sherlock ducks into Mycroft's bedroom, shutting the door behind him. The mattress is new, comfortable. Mycroft sleeps peacefully. He doesn't snore. The other mattress is old. It was Mycroft's when they were in Sweden. They aren't in Sweden anymore.
Mycroft taps the door with two of his knuckles. "John wanted to see you."
And Sherlock wants to see him. Instead, he shakes his head and offers no reply to Mycroft.
That night, John knocks on the door. Lipstick is on his face, his eyes unfocused.
Sherlock closes the door.
Sherlock's stomach has never ached this much before in his life, yet he doesn't let Mycroft feed him. "I'll be fine," he says.
Mycroft rolls his eyes. "You smell like you're dying, Sherlock. At least let me refill the tub."
Sherlock doesn't allow this either. He looks ahead, at the wall, until Mycroft leaves him.
Sherlock isn't fine. He doesn't see John, but neither of them really goes out of their way to try to see each other. Is this the end? If this is the ending, Sherlock doesn't like it.
On a Thursday night, with loud pop music playing and the chorus being paired with tenants' laughter, Sherlock picks out the person who marked John.
Mycroft is sleeping during this. On the landing between the first and second floors, a group of students sits and studies. They have notebooks on their laps and pencils in their hands, but they're doing more talking than studying. Sherlock remembers the shape of the lips John had on his own. It doesn't take long for Sherlock to match them to a blonde girl flipping through note cards. Moriarty sits next to her. Sherlock hides from his line of slight.
Near midnight, the study group breaks apart. "Let's go get something to eat," the girl suggests. "There's a twenty-four-hour diner not too far from here."
"I'm not hungry, Mary," Moriarty says.
Mary. "You're never hungry!" she says, then laughs. Sherlock has heard this laugh more than once in his life. If he knew this was her, he would have silenced her much earlier. "You can watch me eat again, then."
"I'll catch up with you."
Mary goes outside, bundled up in her coat and scarf and wool cap. And Sherlock follows, bundled up in nothing but unwarranted jealousy and John, John, John in his mind, his ears.
Sherlock is good at scaling buildings, but he's better at climbing trees. His fingers and toes bend around bark as he heaves himself up the branches. Along the way, he finds birds and insects. They scurry away. He is not their friend. It hurts to know nature considers him an enemy.
He watches from a distance, his eyes and mouth weeping at the sight below him. It's ridiculous, how he's acting. Irrational. Mycroft is more capable at getting him something to eat. Sherlock's veins are humming, though, filling his body with renewed confidence and skill. With his fingers planted into a branch, holding him steady, Sherlock wiggles his haunches and prepares. He hasn't done this for a while, only when he was a newborn, still ignorant and unwilling. Trouble followed him. Mycroft always cleaned up after his baby brother.
A single intake of breath, and then he flies. The tree branch breaks. He lands on top of Mary. It's messy. He shoves her to the ground, unforgiving. She hits her head on the hard snow, forcing a coughing fit. "Who…?" She doesn't recognize him.
Good.
Her scarf is in the way. Sherlock rips at it, tearing the blue fabric in two. The neck below him is warm. The carotid artery is there, singing in time with Sherlock's toxic one. His teeth dig into her neck. He misses the artery by centimeters. The blood flowing into his mouth floods his brain, causes him to groan and slurp noisily.
Mary puts up a fight. She rolls, feet kicking, screeching for help. Sherlock gets the upper hand. He presses his palm to her face, shoving, shoving, shoving, until she makes no sound and breathes no breath.
His tongue runs along the teeth marks, catching the blood he misses. He bites into her neck again, this time in her jugular, and gnaws and sucks and licks.
Feeding from a live human is much better from what Mycroft gives him. This is warm, beautiful, and thriving. Unlike when he drinks from the sippy cups, Sherlock loses all control of his other senses. There is only smell, taste, smell, taste, taste, taste. The sippy cups compose Sherlock. He can see. He can't see now. He can't see the person running toward him and raising their leg and kicking him in the head.
Sherlock grows dizzy. The fog fades. He's lying on his side, his face oily and his body sore. His muscles are overworked. His head feels heavy. Mary is in the snow, blood dripping from her neck, her breath coming back to her in loud, uneven gasps. Someone is leaning over her, talking, their hands gathering her scarf to wrap around the wounds on her throat. Mary's blood is black.
They turn their head. They lock eyes with Sherlock. "You."
It's Moriarty. Sherlock is on his feet and jumping into trees and onto buildings long before Moriarty can touch him, not that he would. Mary is trying to talk. Big mistake—for him, or for her? Sherlock doesn't look back.
As he hoists himself onto windowsill after windowsill, he debates on seeing John, on crawling into his room and sleeping next to him.
Sherlock pounds on Mycroft's bedroom window.
Mycroft is disorientated and very, very disappointed. "Sherlock, what did you do?"
Sherlock licks his lips, tasting Mary. "I won."