The Sound of Her Wings
28 September 2011 06:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladygrendelTitle: The Sound of Her Wings
Fandom: Sherlock BBC & Neil Gaiman's Sandman
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Jim Moriarty, Mycroft Holmes, Death (hint of Sherlock/John)
Warnings: bombs, overnight hospital stay, Death herself
Spoilers: "The Great Game"
A/N: While I do recommend Gaiman's work, foreknowledge of the Sandman universe isn't strictly necessary. I've changed the dates from the graphic novels and added an OC who will be introduced later in the series. The title is from the last chapter of the first Sandman volume, Preludes & Nocturnes.
>>>>>
Previous: Being Human
>>>>>
Honestly, if John had to run for his life at a moment's notice right now, he was dead man. His legs no longer felt like flesh and bone but of something a lot less solid than jell-o. Any sort of movement that would require him to stand on his own two feet simply wasn't feasible.
"I'm glad no one saw that."
"Mm?"
For goodness sake, he thought irritably, watching Sherlock scratch his head with a loaded weapon, use some common sense.
"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."
"People do little else," Sherlock replied with a shaky smile.
John liked it when Sherlock smiled. It was a rare occurrence, like a double rainbow, and just as stunning. John's heart gave a small jolt when he realized that Sherlock hardly ever gave anyone who wasn't John a genuine smile. He resolved that if they got out of this mess alive, he'd never take advantage of them again.
Sherlock stopped smiling. It took John a moment to figure out why, and then his brain registered the spatter of little red dots across his torso. They were all over Sherlock, too. The doors behind Sherlock banged open and Moriarty strolled back in, brighter than ever.
"Sorry, boys. I'm so changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." He raised his hand and John saw a ruby on a chain dangling from between his fingers. The large stone swung hypnotically and Sherlock, who had turned and raised the gun, lowered it a fraction.
"The Dreamstone," he breathed. Sherlock's fingers switched, as if he subconsciously wanted to snatch it from Moriarty. The psychopath looked positively delighted that Sherlock recognized it.
"So it is. Very strange for you to know that, sweetheart, when you don't even know that the earth goes round the sun."
For the first time since John had brought it up, Sherlock didn't seem the least bit bothered that his lack of astronomical knowledge was being rubbed in his face. He only had eyes for that ruby, and it made John strangely nervous.
"Came across it on a case once," said Sherlock cryptically.
"Must have been quite a remarkable case."
Moriarty grinned and the stone began to glow and pulse, a sick imitation of a heart. Sherlock tensed and-
Bombs.
John blinked, confused. What in the hell were IEDs doing in London? But this wasn't London, was it? London didn't consist of head and sand.
There was blood on his hands. He wiped them on his uniform pants but it wouldn't come off. Oh, god, how his shoulder hurt. John's shirt was soaked with perspiration and his own life's blood.
"...Watson...John..."
His hand was shaking too much - he wouldn't be able to operate today, but he had to. John couldn't just sit back in the middle of a burning camp surrounded by dead or dying soldiers and not do anything about it. He was a doctor, and there were lives at stake.
"Sherlock? What are you doing here?"
His friend seemed sad and decades older than he really was. Sherlock sat down next to John and sighed.
"I'm here for you, idiot."
"You can't be here," said John. "It's not safe for civilians."
"Warzones aren't exactly safe for anyone, John," he said dryly.
That, thought John, is a very good point. Why hadn't that occurred to him before?
"I can't get rid of the blood, Sherlock. No matter how hard I try..."
Sherlock took John's hands in his, and studied them as if he'd never seen anything quite so captivating before.
"My own Lady Macbeth," he murmured fondly.
"You know Shakespeare?" asked John, surprised. He had assumed that poetry would be the sort of thing that Sherlock would deem irrelevant and worthy of deleting.
"Of course I know the Bard. I knew him personally, and was the one who commissioned him to write A Midsummer Night's Dream."
John laughed. "No way! You're taking the piss out of me."
"That is a disgusting phrase and no, I'm not. There. How's that?"
His hands were spotless and his shoulder was numb. John hadn't even noticed the change.
"That's amazing. How'd you do that?"
"I'll explain later, but right now we have more pressing matters to attend to."
"Moriarty." Suddenly the strangeness of this reality hit him and John felt like he'd been doused with cold water. "This isn't real."
"No."
"None of this is real."
"Correct," said Sherlock. "Do you know what is real?"
"Moriarty," he said slowly, thinking. "The snipers."
"And the bomb."
Afghanistan was gone in a flash, replaced by the scent of chlorine and the chill from the pool. Sherlock had the gun trained on Moriarty, who still had that hateful stone.
"Fascinating," said Moriarty, blatantly intrigued. "But as I've said boys, you can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."
"Probably my answer has crossed yours."
Sherlock aimed the gun at the coat on the floor and fired.
>>>
"What was that thing?"
It was night and, as far as John could tell, all was quiet outside of their hospital room. Thanks to Mycroft's influence they had managed to stay together after the bomb, which had proved to be mildly anticlimactic. Sherlock had a broken arm, minor burns, and a mild concussion while John, the luckier of the two, was suffering from the sensation that someone had jammed cotton into his ears.
"Shhh, John. You're shouting."
He'd never imagined that Sherlock could be so amusing while on painkillers. Completely against his will, of course, but no one on the medical staff had had the balls to stand up against Mycroft.
"Sorry," he said, trying to manage his volume. "But don't think I'll let you change the subject that easily."
"Of course not," Sherlock slurred condescendingly. "How dare I use such tricks with a mind like yours?"
"Insulting me won't do it either. Just makes me even more curious. What in the hell was that thing, Sherlock? You recognized it."
"I would, wouldn't I? The Dreamstone was mine, once, and it'll be mine again after I take it from Moriarty's cold, dead hands." He sounded almost delighted with the prospect.
"What do you mean when you say it used to be yours?" asked John, unable to stop himself from picturing Sherlock and Moriarty getting into a fistfight over the ruby.
"Really, John, do try to keep up. It was my Dreamstone, back when I was much more. But then an egotistical bastard caged me like an animal, thinking I was my sister and I...well, I lost my muchness."
"You have a sister?" Good god, as if Mycroft wasn't enough. Just the thought of another Holmes sibling running about was practically terrifying.
"From my first family," said Sherlock, like it was supposed to be obvious. "Mycroft and I are related by blood, but my sister and I? We're endless."
John really wasn't sure what 'endless' meant. He wondered if Sherlock was trying to imply that he'd been adopted or something.
"I was more powerful than a god," Sherlock continued. "And I went by so many names: Kai'ckul...the Dream Lord...Morpheus..."
The drugs, it had to be the drugs talking. John wanted to stop thinking about how earnest Sherlock sounded, because what was spewing from his mouth was absolute insanity. But so had that reality he'd experienced by the pool, locked away in a world that could only be described as John's worst nightmare.
"You're not making a bit of sense. Will you please explain this to me in the morning? Although I generally have a hard time following your line of thinking even when you're sober."
"It depends..."
"Depends on what?" No reply. John sat up, aggravated with the silence. "Depends on what, Sherlock?"
But Sherlock was out like a light, mouth hanging slightly open and more than likely snoring. He wanted to be mad, but felt a surge of affection for his friend instead. There was no telling when Sherlock had last got some sleep.
>>>
"It's not funny."
"Yeah, well I have to disagree."
Sherlock glared. "This is your fault. It appears that not only do indolent police officers read your blog, but dim-witted nurses do as well."
John winced at that. Perhaps Sherlock having a neon pink cast wasn't quite so hilarious after all. No, it was. He just didn't like having Sherlock angry with him. It made sharing a flat unbearable.
"You said you'd explain things last night."
"I did."
"But you weren't making any sense, so I asked if we could talk about it later."
"Yes."
He huffed, in no mood to play games. "It's later, Sherlock. I want my explanation."
"And I told you it depends."
"Depends on wh-"
"Ah, there's Mycroft."
A sleek black vehicle pulled up to the curb outside of the hospital. Sherlock, who had rejected every attempt to force him into a wheelchair, swept dramatically out the front doors with John trailing behind him, still fuming. The back door opened and the chauffer waited until they were inside before driving off.
Mycroft sat smugly across from them, trademark umbrella resting with arm's reach. Anthea was sitting next to him, tapping away on her phone, and ignored them as usual. Sherlock self-consciously tugged on the sleeve of his coat but it was too slim to completely cover his alarmingly bright cast.
"May I applaud you on your choice of color?" asked Mycroft amicably.
"And may I applaud you on cheating another diet?" came the snarky reply. Not very creative since Sherlock always attacked his brother's weight. As if he had any right to criticize people's eating habits, the skinny twat.
"I should arrest you for treason," said the elder Holmes breezily. "As you were more than willing to hand over top secret missile plans to a terrorist. But since you only offered Moriarty a blank memory stick, I suppose I could let you off easy. Mummy would hate to have to spend Christmas dinners as a family in prison."
"How kind of you," replied Sherlock acidly.
"My people are sweeping the flat as we speak," said Mycroft. "They should be done by the time we arrive."
"What? Going to make sure the only cameras in our flat are yours?"
"Only the best for you," said Mycroft, ignoring Sherlock's bait.
The rest of the trip was quiet but painfully tense, especially on Sherlock's part. Being around Mycroft, John had learned, always put him on the defensive. He knew that if they had been having this conversation back home, Sherlock would already be screeching away on his violin. As the car turned onto Baker Street, Anthea's phone suddenly burst into song as she received a text. Both she and John jumped in surprise but the Holmes brothers only looked vaguely interested as Mycroft's assistant tried to quickly silence "Don't Fear the Reaper."
Two men in suits stood guard outside of 221 Baker Street, and were sore thumbs compared to the morning foot traffic. Their postures straightened as Mycroft's car drew near and John knew them to be ex-military. Amazing what one could pick-up by spending all of their time with a Holmes. Three more men filed out of the building and they were all standing at attention when the car stopped. Sherlock appeared unimpressed by this display.
"In the future, do try to avoid situations that involved explosives."
"I'll take that under advisement," he said dismissively.
"If not for my sake, than for Doctor Watson's. Not all of us have a deal with death, Sherlock."
John felt the spiteful look Sherlock shot his brother was a little excessive, but it did cause him to wonder if Mycroft knew about his younger brother's so-called "secret identity". He waited until the British government was gone and they were inside before asking.
"When I said heroes don't exist I was not insinuating that I'm some sort of cloaked vigilante," Sherlock said to him, full of scorn. John opened his mouth to deliver what was sure to be a less than spectacular retort when a kettle upstairs whistled.
They froze, instantly on guard.
"Didn't Mycroft just say that this place was safe?"
Sherlock held out his hand but John ignored it, preferring to be the one to hold the gun. There was still a chance that the person upstairs was only Mrs. Hudson, but John believed it was always better to be safe than sorry when it came to firearms. What were the chances that Moriarty had decided to drop in for a cup of tea anyway?
For once Sherlock ceded to him, and allowed John to take point as they moved up the stairs. John could now hear someone moving around in the kitchen, setting things on the table. The kettle had been silenced and when they rounded the corner a young woman was in the middle of making tea.
She wasn't very tall - about John's height at the most - and dressed completely in black with a tank top and skinny jeans. The girl's skin was paler than Sherlock's and her hair was blacker than sin. When she turned, he saw a small tattoo at the corner of one of her eyes and a familiar looking symbol hanging around her neck.
"Doctor Watson?" she queried politely, as if John wasn't pointing a gun at her.
He really had no idea what to say. What were you supposed to do when a total stranger showed up out of thin air in your kitchen and made you tea? It was so preposterous that John had to bite back the urge to laugh. He didn't have too long to consider it, because Sherlock quickly put himself between her and John's gun.
She grinned at the sight of him, a grin to put all grin's to shame, and launched herself at Sherlock with awe-inspiring enthusiasm. The girl hugged him until Sherlock's tender ribs caused his complexion to turn pale green and he let out an undignified yelp.
"Oh! Oh, sorry, I'm so sorry! I just got carried away, you know?" She swatted his uninjured arm, furious. "You idiot! You scared the hell out of me!"
"My apologies," said Sherlock sincerely. There was an awkward pause before he hesitantly asked, "Are you here for John?"
The girl actually seemed taken aback by the question, as if it hadn't occurred to her. John wasn't sure what Sherlock meant but it certainly didn't sound pleasant.
"What? No! I just came to make sure my brother was still in one piece." She held Sherlock's face between her slim hands and studied him tenderly. "You are still in one piece, aren't you?"
"I am according to the doctors," he answered, although he made it sound like he wasn't quite sure if he agreed with their assessment.
She rolled her eyes, obviously well-acquainted with Sherlock's contrary behavior.
"I feel very sorry for you, John. My brother can be such a handful."
"It's alright. Does a good job at staving off boredom."
Sherlock scowled as they had a good laugh at his expense. John was already taken with his sister and he hadn't even known her for five minutes. It reminded him of the first time he and Sherlock had met. There was something so familiar about her, but he couldn't put his finger on it.
"I think I've met you before," he told the girl. "I just don't know where."
Giving him an impatient look, Sherlock said, "Of course you do, John. Just use your brain for once and think."
So John looked at her, really looked at her. She reminded him of something he had desperately been trying to forget.
"Afghanistan," he said suddenly. John wasn't sure where that conclusion had come from but he could tell that he was right from the expressions on the siblings' faces.
"You have also no doubt encountered her in hospitals, and at the antiquities museum the night Soo Lin Yao died."
"It was her time," the girl said quietly. "She wasn't afraid."
But John was, although that didn't stop him from asking, "Who are you?"
"I'm Death," she said calmly. The girl wasn't large and threatening, or wielding a scythe while wearing a black cloak. She wasn't even morbid or ominous. Death seemed like a normal, albeit perky teenager to him.
"Okay. Well...would you like some biscuits with your tea? I don't think Sherlock's had the chance to eat them all yet."
The pair stared at him. He supposed it was because most people would panic if they came home to find Death making tea in their kitchen. But John wasn't most people, so he shooed Sherlock and his sister to the table and finished the tea. Just because she was Death personified didn't make it acceptable to be a rude host.
Sherlock and Death sat closely together, and she ran her fingers through his wild curls fondly. John's fingers twitched slightly as he imagined how Sherlock's hair felt. It hadn't exactly escaped the bombing unscathed and looked a bit dodgy.
"It's so long. How on earth do you manage to run around with it hanging in your eyes like some skinny sheepdog?"
"Practice," said Sherlock with no amount of modesty.
"Can I trim it? Please?" asked Death hopefully.
John knew from the look on Sherlock's face that he found the idea repulsive, but relented with a long suffering sigh after she gave him what could only be described as puppy eyes. He told her to fetch the scissors from the bathroom and when Death rushed off to find them, he noticed John's smile.
"What?" he asked defensively.
"Nothing. I just think it's sweet how she has you wrapped around her little finger." John stirred his tea with a biscuit and casually inquired, "Were you and Mycroft ever like this?"
"No. We simply tolerate each other for mummy's sake."
"Harry and I used to be like that, when our parents were still alive. Now that they're gone we feel guilty about not getting on."
Sherlock's face was unreadable but Death reappeared in the doorway with a pair of scissors before either of them could say something.
"Come to the bathroom, Dream. I'm sure John doesn't want us to dirty his kitchen unnecessarily."
He considered mentioning Sherlock's mold experiments and the body parts in the fridge but Death had already dragged her brother off. Sherlock went with the resignation of a death row inmate to a firing squad.
John spent the next few minutes staring out of the kitchen window, thinking. Sherlock's sister was Death. His flatmate was related to Death herself. If John and Sherlock ever got married, he'd have Death for a sister-in-law. Shaking his head, John put a swift end to that train of thought. As if he would ever seriously consider marrying that incredible maniac. John turned to go back to the table and stopped dead in his tracks.
"Well? What do you think?"
John gaped and Sherlock squirmed under his stare. Death had trimmed it a little close to his scalp, but left just enough so that someone could run their fingers through it with ease. Now, instead of resembling a feral nutter, Sherlock looked more like a distinguished one.
"Amazing! He looks like he could actually pass for one of us lesser mortals now."
Death beamed at him, pleased. It seemed that everyone related to Sherlock enjoyed some form of flattery.
>>>
Death didn't stay for much longer after that. The three of them talked of trivial things, which she found enthralling. She wanted to hear all about John's work at the clinic, his rows with the chip and PIN machines, the crap telly he watched with Mrs. Hudson. Neither she nor Sherlock made any mention of murder, Scotland Yard, or Moriarty. John couldn't remember the last time he had talked so much about himself - he never did in therapy.
Sherlock walked his sister downstairs while John stayed in the flat to tidy-up the kitchen. He heard a brief, murmured conversation just outside the door and then footsteps on the stairs. His flatmate returned a short time later and threw himself onto the couch.
"You didn't tell her about the Dreamstone," said John, surprised by how certain he was.
"No. I decided it was best to not get her hopes up."
"Ah." John stared at the untouched tea and biscuits on the kitchen table. "She didn't eat anything."
"No need to. And she knew that you wouldn't take it as a slight. It's just the nature of being Endless."
This time he could hear the capital letter, and a faint shiver went down his spine. John left the kitchen and joined Sherlock in the living room, taking a seat in the armchair near the couch.
"Now I know why you resent having to eat and sleep so much. To go so long without needing it and then finding yourself a victim of human weaknesses must drive you mad."
Sherlock gazed at John with a look of awe, and he blushed in response. It was the same look Sherlock always wore whenever John said something he found unexpected or interesting. John could almost admit that he lived for moments like this.
"I was very hard at first," said Sherlock. "I'd never experienced hunger before, and nearly starved on several occasions. It wasn't uncommon for me to work until I collapsed from exhaustion either. I would spend days sleeping afterwards."
"I guess some things never change," John said good-naturedly. "So does Mycroft know?"
"He's always known, as has mummy. My past life is a Holmes family secret," said Sherlock. His tone made John wonder if he was missing out on an inside joke. He decided to let the matter drop, for now.
"So how exactly did you become human in the first place? And what does Endless mean?"
Sherlock rolled onto his back and laced his fingers over his chest. The position reminded John of the first time he had walked in on Sherlock pondering a 'three-patch problem'.
"Death is only one of my many siblings," he began. "Although she's about the only one I get along with, really. There are seven of us: Destiny, Death, Dream, Destruction, Desire, Despair, and Delirium. If one of us is destroyed then we're replaced, but if we're simply missing in action our realm will fall into chaos. We were here before the beginning of everything and we'll be here after the last of the gods die. We each have our own place in the universe, which is called a realm. Mine was...is called the Dreaming. I suppose I could be called it king, although I don't have much in the way of subjects - just a few outcasts and beings of my own making."
He paused, his gaze distant. John guessed that Sherlock was thinking about his realm and the people he had left behind.
"In 1885, a man named Roderick Burgess decided he would capture Death after his wife died in childbirth. He made his first real step towards this objective in 1900 when a foolish professor gave him a book which would help Burgess achieve his goal. You see, it was the death of Dr. Hathaway's only child that convinced him to give Burgess the Magdalene Grimoire.
"The Magdalene Grimoire is a dangerous book, John. It contains information on occult ceremonies, incantations, mystic rites, and summoning spells. It's since gone missing, but before Hathaway had fallen prey to sentimentality, it was under his care at the Royal Museum. Burgess promised Hathaway that he would use the book to resurrect the man's son, a promise he never intended to keep.
"That was June of 1900, according to Burgess's diary. Later that month on the night of the next full moon, Burgess and other magicians from his Order of Ancient Mysteries gathered in the cellar of his estate in Wych Cross to summon and bind Death."
"Something went wrong," said John before he could stop. He didn't want to distract Sherlock from his narrative, and mentally smacked himself for uttering such an obvious statement. Sherlock wouldn't be telling him the story if the summoning hadn't gone wrong in the first place.
"Yes. To this day I have yet to figure out what caused the ceremony to go awry, but it did. Instead of getting Death the Order called me, her younger brother, Dream. They stole my totems of power and kept them like trophies of war." Sherlock's eyes became stormy, no doubt remembering how his captors must have sneered at him, or so John imagined. "There were three items: my helm, pouch, and ruby. Later, after I was free, I discovered that they had been stolen by Burgess's second-in-command Ruthven Sykes and his own mistress Ethel Cripps in 1906, along with over £200,000 in cash. Hathaway committed suicide in 1909."
"So tonight was the first time in over a hundred years you've seen the ruby?" asked John, his mind incapable of comprehending such a thing. Sherlock nodded. "Christ. How much damage can that thing do? I mean, besides make people hallucinate."
"We not only oversee our realms, but also define our opposites. Death is there is when a person dies and when someone is born."
"The Dreamstone gave Moriarty control over some dreaming. What else could it give him control over?"
"Reality, John. If Moriarty manages to tap into the full power of the stone he'll be able to manipulate reality."
John must have looked very faint, because Sherlock was instantly at his side and had a firm grip on his face, forcing John to meet his gaze. Sherlock's eyes were pale and determined.
"Listen to me, please. I refuse to let that happen. I'll go back to searching for the helm and pouch before I let Moriarty get his way."
"How did you escape?" asked John, desperately seeking a distraction. "Did Death help you?"
Sherlock's grip eased but he didn't move away.
“No. I remained trapped in his cellar for thirty-three years before I was freed. A life was sacrificed so I could escape, and I avenged it by wiping out Burgess and his Order. Before he died, Burgess cursed me with humanity, and I’ve been this way ever since.” Sherlock stood up and ran a hand over his hair, obviously missing his tresses. “I’m sorry to have gotten you involved, John. I’ll understand if you wish to seek new lodgings.”
John spluttered at him. “Are you kidding? If you think something like this is going to chase me off, then you don’t know me at all.” He reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s hand without a thought. “You’re my friend, Sherlock. I want to help you. What the hell are friends for, if not to help?”
The tension in Sherlock's frame vanished, leaving him looking exhausted and about ready to keel over. John forced the man to use him as a crutch and lead Sherlock to his bedroom. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock’s bed was uncluttered though appeared disused. He didn’t quite have the strength to tuck Sherlock in but gave it his best shot. John considered undressing his friend for a moment before discarding the idea entirely. Sherlock had shared enough of himself with John – there was no need to press for more.
Before closing the door of Sherlock’s dark bedroom behind him, John noticed that the same symbol from Death’s necklace had been drawn on Sherlock’s cast along with a heart. The sight of it made him smile. He hoped that perhaps one day Sherlock would be unafraid to share the whole story with him.
>>>>>
Next: The Persistence of Memory
Fandom: Sherlock BBC & Neil Gaiman's Sandman
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Jim Moriarty, Mycroft Holmes, Death (hint of Sherlock/John)
Warnings: bombs, overnight hospital stay, Death herself
Spoilers: "The Great Game"
A/N: While I do recommend Gaiman's work, foreknowledge of the Sandman universe isn't strictly necessary. I've changed the dates from the graphic novels and added an OC who will be introduced later in the series. The title is from the last chapter of the first Sandman volume, Preludes & Nocturnes.
>>>>>
Previous: Being Human
>>>>>
Honestly, if John had to run for his life at a moment's notice right now, he was dead man. His legs no longer felt like flesh and bone but of something a lot less solid than jell-o. Any sort of movement that would require him to stand on his own two feet simply wasn't feasible.
"I'm glad no one saw that."
"Mm?"
For goodness sake, he thought irritably, watching Sherlock scratch his head with a loaded weapon, use some common sense.
"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."
"People do little else," Sherlock replied with a shaky smile.
John liked it when Sherlock smiled. It was a rare occurrence, like a double rainbow, and just as stunning. John's heart gave a small jolt when he realized that Sherlock hardly ever gave anyone who wasn't John a genuine smile. He resolved that if they got out of this mess alive, he'd never take advantage of them again.
Sherlock stopped smiling. It took John a moment to figure out why, and then his brain registered the spatter of little red dots across his torso. They were all over Sherlock, too. The doors behind Sherlock banged open and Moriarty strolled back in, brighter than ever.
"Sorry, boys. I'm so changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." He raised his hand and John saw a ruby on a chain dangling from between his fingers. The large stone swung hypnotically and Sherlock, who had turned and raised the gun, lowered it a fraction.
"The Dreamstone," he breathed. Sherlock's fingers switched, as if he subconsciously wanted to snatch it from Moriarty. The psychopath looked positively delighted that Sherlock recognized it.
"So it is. Very strange for you to know that, sweetheart, when you don't even know that the earth goes round the sun."
For the first time since John had brought it up, Sherlock didn't seem the least bit bothered that his lack of astronomical knowledge was being rubbed in his face. He only had eyes for that ruby, and it made John strangely nervous.
"Came across it on a case once," said Sherlock cryptically.
"Must have been quite a remarkable case."
Moriarty grinned and the stone began to glow and pulse, a sick imitation of a heart. Sherlock tensed and-
Bombs.
John blinked, confused. What in the hell were IEDs doing in London? But this wasn't London, was it? London didn't consist of head and sand.
There was blood on his hands. He wiped them on his uniform pants but it wouldn't come off. Oh, god, how his shoulder hurt. John's shirt was soaked with perspiration and his own life's blood.
"...Watson...John..."
His hand was shaking too much - he wouldn't be able to operate today, but he had to. John couldn't just sit back in the middle of a burning camp surrounded by dead or dying soldiers and not do anything about it. He was a doctor, and there were lives at stake.
"Sherlock? What are you doing here?"
His friend seemed sad and decades older than he really was. Sherlock sat down next to John and sighed.
"I'm here for you, idiot."
"You can't be here," said John. "It's not safe for civilians."
"Warzones aren't exactly safe for anyone, John," he said dryly.
That, thought John, is a very good point. Why hadn't that occurred to him before?
"I can't get rid of the blood, Sherlock. No matter how hard I try..."
Sherlock took John's hands in his, and studied them as if he'd never seen anything quite so captivating before.
"My own Lady Macbeth," he murmured fondly.
"You know Shakespeare?" asked John, surprised. He had assumed that poetry would be the sort of thing that Sherlock would deem irrelevant and worthy of deleting.
"Of course I know the Bard. I knew him personally, and was the one who commissioned him to write A Midsummer Night's Dream."
John laughed. "No way! You're taking the piss out of me."
"That is a disgusting phrase and no, I'm not. There. How's that?"
His hands were spotless and his shoulder was numb. John hadn't even noticed the change.
"That's amazing. How'd you do that?"
"I'll explain later, but right now we have more pressing matters to attend to."
"Moriarty." Suddenly the strangeness of this reality hit him and John felt like he'd been doused with cold water. "This isn't real."
"No."
"None of this is real."
"Correct," said Sherlock. "Do you know what is real?"
"Moriarty," he said slowly, thinking. "The snipers."
"And the bomb."
Afghanistan was gone in a flash, replaced by the scent of chlorine and the chill from the pool. Sherlock had the gun trained on Moriarty, who still had that hateful stone.
"Fascinating," said Moriarty, blatantly intrigued. "But as I've said boys, you can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."
"Probably my answer has crossed yours."
Sherlock aimed the gun at the coat on the floor and fired.
>>>
"What was that thing?"
It was night and, as far as John could tell, all was quiet outside of their hospital room. Thanks to Mycroft's influence they had managed to stay together after the bomb, which had proved to be mildly anticlimactic. Sherlock had a broken arm, minor burns, and a mild concussion while John, the luckier of the two, was suffering from the sensation that someone had jammed cotton into his ears.
"Shhh, John. You're shouting."
He'd never imagined that Sherlock could be so amusing while on painkillers. Completely against his will, of course, but no one on the medical staff had had the balls to stand up against Mycroft.
"Sorry," he said, trying to manage his volume. "But don't think I'll let you change the subject that easily."
"Of course not," Sherlock slurred condescendingly. "How dare I use such tricks with a mind like yours?"
"Insulting me won't do it either. Just makes me even more curious. What in the hell was that thing, Sherlock? You recognized it."
"I would, wouldn't I? The Dreamstone was mine, once, and it'll be mine again after I take it from Moriarty's cold, dead hands." He sounded almost delighted with the prospect.
"What do you mean when you say it used to be yours?" asked John, unable to stop himself from picturing Sherlock and Moriarty getting into a fistfight over the ruby.
"Really, John, do try to keep up. It was my Dreamstone, back when I was much more. But then an egotistical bastard caged me like an animal, thinking I was my sister and I...well, I lost my muchness."
"You have a sister?" Good god, as if Mycroft wasn't enough. Just the thought of another Holmes sibling running about was practically terrifying.
"From my first family," said Sherlock, like it was supposed to be obvious. "Mycroft and I are related by blood, but my sister and I? We're endless."
John really wasn't sure what 'endless' meant. He wondered if Sherlock was trying to imply that he'd been adopted or something.
"I was more powerful than a god," Sherlock continued. "And I went by so many names: Kai'ckul...the Dream Lord...Morpheus..."
The drugs, it had to be the drugs talking. John wanted to stop thinking about how earnest Sherlock sounded, because what was spewing from his mouth was absolute insanity. But so had that reality he'd experienced by the pool, locked away in a world that could only be described as John's worst nightmare.
"You're not making a bit of sense. Will you please explain this to me in the morning? Although I generally have a hard time following your line of thinking even when you're sober."
"It depends..."
"Depends on what?" No reply. John sat up, aggravated with the silence. "Depends on what, Sherlock?"
But Sherlock was out like a light, mouth hanging slightly open and more than likely snoring. He wanted to be mad, but felt a surge of affection for his friend instead. There was no telling when Sherlock had last got some sleep.
>>>
"It's not funny."
"Yeah, well I have to disagree."
Sherlock glared. "This is your fault. It appears that not only do indolent police officers read your blog, but dim-witted nurses do as well."
John winced at that. Perhaps Sherlock having a neon pink cast wasn't quite so hilarious after all. No, it was. He just didn't like having Sherlock angry with him. It made sharing a flat unbearable.
"You said you'd explain things last night."
"I did."
"But you weren't making any sense, so I asked if we could talk about it later."
"Yes."
He huffed, in no mood to play games. "It's later, Sherlock. I want my explanation."
"And I told you it depends."
"Depends on wh-"
"Ah, there's Mycroft."
A sleek black vehicle pulled up to the curb outside of the hospital. Sherlock, who had rejected every attempt to force him into a wheelchair, swept dramatically out the front doors with John trailing behind him, still fuming. The back door opened and the chauffer waited until they were inside before driving off.
Mycroft sat smugly across from them, trademark umbrella resting with arm's reach. Anthea was sitting next to him, tapping away on her phone, and ignored them as usual. Sherlock self-consciously tugged on the sleeve of his coat but it was too slim to completely cover his alarmingly bright cast.
"May I applaud you on your choice of color?" asked Mycroft amicably.
"And may I applaud you on cheating another diet?" came the snarky reply. Not very creative since Sherlock always attacked his brother's weight. As if he had any right to criticize people's eating habits, the skinny twat.
"I should arrest you for treason," said the elder Holmes breezily. "As you were more than willing to hand over top secret missile plans to a terrorist. But since you only offered Moriarty a blank memory stick, I suppose I could let you off easy. Mummy would hate to have to spend Christmas dinners as a family in prison."
"How kind of you," replied Sherlock acidly.
"My people are sweeping the flat as we speak," said Mycroft. "They should be done by the time we arrive."
"What? Going to make sure the only cameras in our flat are yours?"
"Only the best for you," said Mycroft, ignoring Sherlock's bait.
The rest of the trip was quiet but painfully tense, especially on Sherlock's part. Being around Mycroft, John had learned, always put him on the defensive. He knew that if they had been having this conversation back home, Sherlock would already be screeching away on his violin. As the car turned onto Baker Street, Anthea's phone suddenly burst into song as she received a text. Both she and John jumped in surprise but the Holmes brothers only looked vaguely interested as Mycroft's assistant tried to quickly silence "Don't Fear the Reaper."
Two men in suits stood guard outside of 221 Baker Street, and were sore thumbs compared to the morning foot traffic. Their postures straightened as Mycroft's car drew near and John knew them to be ex-military. Amazing what one could pick-up by spending all of their time with a Holmes. Three more men filed out of the building and they were all standing at attention when the car stopped. Sherlock appeared unimpressed by this display.
"In the future, do try to avoid situations that involved explosives."
"I'll take that under advisement," he said dismissively.
"If not for my sake, than for Doctor Watson's. Not all of us have a deal with death, Sherlock."
John felt the spiteful look Sherlock shot his brother was a little excessive, but it did cause him to wonder if Mycroft knew about his younger brother's so-called "secret identity". He waited until the British government was gone and they were inside before asking.
"When I said heroes don't exist I was not insinuating that I'm some sort of cloaked vigilante," Sherlock said to him, full of scorn. John opened his mouth to deliver what was sure to be a less than spectacular retort when a kettle upstairs whistled.
They froze, instantly on guard.
"Didn't Mycroft just say that this place was safe?"
Sherlock held out his hand but John ignored it, preferring to be the one to hold the gun. There was still a chance that the person upstairs was only Mrs. Hudson, but John believed it was always better to be safe than sorry when it came to firearms. What were the chances that Moriarty had decided to drop in for a cup of tea anyway?
For once Sherlock ceded to him, and allowed John to take point as they moved up the stairs. John could now hear someone moving around in the kitchen, setting things on the table. The kettle had been silenced and when they rounded the corner a young woman was in the middle of making tea.
She wasn't very tall - about John's height at the most - and dressed completely in black with a tank top and skinny jeans. The girl's skin was paler than Sherlock's and her hair was blacker than sin. When she turned, he saw a small tattoo at the corner of one of her eyes and a familiar looking symbol hanging around her neck.
"Doctor Watson?" she queried politely, as if John wasn't pointing a gun at her.
He really had no idea what to say. What were you supposed to do when a total stranger showed up out of thin air in your kitchen and made you tea? It was so preposterous that John had to bite back the urge to laugh. He didn't have too long to consider it, because Sherlock quickly put himself between her and John's gun.
She grinned at the sight of him, a grin to put all grin's to shame, and launched herself at Sherlock with awe-inspiring enthusiasm. The girl hugged him until Sherlock's tender ribs caused his complexion to turn pale green and he let out an undignified yelp.
"Oh! Oh, sorry, I'm so sorry! I just got carried away, you know?" She swatted his uninjured arm, furious. "You idiot! You scared the hell out of me!"
"My apologies," said Sherlock sincerely. There was an awkward pause before he hesitantly asked, "Are you here for John?"
The girl actually seemed taken aback by the question, as if it hadn't occurred to her. John wasn't sure what Sherlock meant but it certainly didn't sound pleasant.
"What? No! I just came to make sure my brother was still in one piece." She held Sherlock's face between her slim hands and studied him tenderly. "You are still in one piece, aren't you?"
"I am according to the doctors," he answered, although he made it sound like he wasn't quite sure if he agreed with their assessment.
She rolled her eyes, obviously well-acquainted with Sherlock's contrary behavior.
"I feel very sorry for you, John. My brother can be such a handful."
"It's alright. Does a good job at staving off boredom."
Sherlock scowled as they had a good laugh at his expense. John was already taken with his sister and he hadn't even known her for five minutes. It reminded him of the first time he and Sherlock had met. There was something so familiar about her, but he couldn't put his finger on it.
"I think I've met you before," he told the girl. "I just don't know where."
Giving him an impatient look, Sherlock said, "Of course you do, John. Just use your brain for once and think."
So John looked at her, really looked at her. She reminded him of something he had desperately been trying to forget.
"Afghanistan," he said suddenly. John wasn't sure where that conclusion had come from but he could tell that he was right from the expressions on the siblings' faces.
"You have also no doubt encountered her in hospitals, and at the antiquities museum the night Soo Lin Yao died."
"It was her time," the girl said quietly. "She wasn't afraid."
But John was, although that didn't stop him from asking, "Who are you?"
"I'm Death," she said calmly. The girl wasn't large and threatening, or wielding a scythe while wearing a black cloak. She wasn't even morbid or ominous. Death seemed like a normal, albeit perky teenager to him.
"Okay. Well...would you like some biscuits with your tea? I don't think Sherlock's had the chance to eat them all yet."
The pair stared at him. He supposed it was because most people would panic if they came home to find Death making tea in their kitchen. But John wasn't most people, so he shooed Sherlock and his sister to the table and finished the tea. Just because she was Death personified didn't make it acceptable to be a rude host.
Sherlock and Death sat closely together, and she ran her fingers through his wild curls fondly. John's fingers twitched slightly as he imagined how Sherlock's hair felt. It hadn't exactly escaped the bombing unscathed and looked a bit dodgy.
"It's so long. How on earth do you manage to run around with it hanging in your eyes like some skinny sheepdog?"
"Practice," said Sherlock with no amount of modesty.
"Can I trim it? Please?" asked Death hopefully.
John knew from the look on Sherlock's face that he found the idea repulsive, but relented with a long suffering sigh after she gave him what could only be described as puppy eyes. He told her to fetch the scissors from the bathroom and when Death rushed off to find them, he noticed John's smile.
"What?" he asked defensively.
"Nothing. I just think it's sweet how she has you wrapped around her little finger." John stirred his tea with a biscuit and casually inquired, "Were you and Mycroft ever like this?"
"No. We simply tolerate each other for mummy's sake."
"Harry and I used to be like that, when our parents were still alive. Now that they're gone we feel guilty about not getting on."
Sherlock's face was unreadable but Death reappeared in the doorway with a pair of scissors before either of them could say something.
"Come to the bathroom, Dream. I'm sure John doesn't want us to dirty his kitchen unnecessarily."
He considered mentioning Sherlock's mold experiments and the body parts in the fridge but Death had already dragged her brother off. Sherlock went with the resignation of a death row inmate to a firing squad.
John spent the next few minutes staring out of the kitchen window, thinking. Sherlock's sister was Death. His flatmate was related to Death herself. If John and Sherlock ever got married, he'd have Death for a sister-in-law. Shaking his head, John put a swift end to that train of thought. As if he would ever seriously consider marrying that incredible maniac. John turned to go back to the table and stopped dead in his tracks.
"Well? What do you think?"
John gaped and Sherlock squirmed under his stare. Death had trimmed it a little close to his scalp, but left just enough so that someone could run their fingers through it with ease. Now, instead of resembling a feral nutter, Sherlock looked more like a distinguished one.
"Amazing! He looks like he could actually pass for one of us lesser mortals now."
Death beamed at him, pleased. It seemed that everyone related to Sherlock enjoyed some form of flattery.
>>>
Death didn't stay for much longer after that. The three of them talked of trivial things, which she found enthralling. She wanted to hear all about John's work at the clinic, his rows with the chip and PIN machines, the crap telly he watched with Mrs. Hudson. Neither she nor Sherlock made any mention of murder, Scotland Yard, or Moriarty. John couldn't remember the last time he had talked so much about himself - he never did in therapy.
Sherlock walked his sister downstairs while John stayed in the flat to tidy-up the kitchen. He heard a brief, murmured conversation just outside the door and then footsteps on the stairs. His flatmate returned a short time later and threw himself onto the couch.
"You didn't tell her about the Dreamstone," said John, surprised by how certain he was.
"No. I decided it was best to not get her hopes up."
"Ah." John stared at the untouched tea and biscuits on the kitchen table. "She didn't eat anything."
"No need to. And she knew that you wouldn't take it as a slight. It's just the nature of being Endless."
This time he could hear the capital letter, and a faint shiver went down his spine. John left the kitchen and joined Sherlock in the living room, taking a seat in the armchair near the couch.
"Now I know why you resent having to eat and sleep so much. To go so long without needing it and then finding yourself a victim of human weaknesses must drive you mad."
Sherlock gazed at John with a look of awe, and he blushed in response. It was the same look Sherlock always wore whenever John said something he found unexpected or interesting. John could almost admit that he lived for moments like this.
"I was very hard at first," said Sherlock. "I'd never experienced hunger before, and nearly starved on several occasions. It wasn't uncommon for me to work until I collapsed from exhaustion either. I would spend days sleeping afterwards."
"I guess some things never change," John said good-naturedly. "So does Mycroft know?"
"He's always known, as has mummy. My past life is a Holmes family secret," said Sherlock. His tone made John wonder if he was missing out on an inside joke. He decided to let the matter drop, for now.
"So how exactly did you become human in the first place? And what does Endless mean?"
Sherlock rolled onto his back and laced his fingers over his chest. The position reminded John of the first time he had walked in on Sherlock pondering a 'three-patch problem'.
"Death is only one of my many siblings," he began. "Although she's about the only one I get along with, really. There are seven of us: Destiny, Death, Dream, Destruction, Desire, Despair, and Delirium. If one of us is destroyed then we're replaced, but if we're simply missing in action our realm will fall into chaos. We were here before the beginning of everything and we'll be here after the last of the gods die. We each have our own place in the universe, which is called a realm. Mine was...is called the Dreaming. I suppose I could be called it king, although I don't have much in the way of subjects - just a few outcasts and beings of my own making."
He paused, his gaze distant. John guessed that Sherlock was thinking about his realm and the people he had left behind.
"In 1885, a man named Roderick Burgess decided he would capture Death after his wife died in childbirth. He made his first real step towards this objective in 1900 when a foolish professor gave him a book which would help Burgess achieve his goal. You see, it was the death of Dr. Hathaway's only child that convinced him to give Burgess the Magdalene Grimoire.
"The Magdalene Grimoire is a dangerous book, John. It contains information on occult ceremonies, incantations, mystic rites, and summoning spells. It's since gone missing, but before Hathaway had fallen prey to sentimentality, it was under his care at the Royal Museum. Burgess promised Hathaway that he would use the book to resurrect the man's son, a promise he never intended to keep.
"That was June of 1900, according to Burgess's diary. Later that month on the night of the next full moon, Burgess and other magicians from his Order of Ancient Mysteries gathered in the cellar of his estate in Wych Cross to summon and bind Death."
"Something went wrong," said John before he could stop. He didn't want to distract Sherlock from his narrative, and mentally smacked himself for uttering such an obvious statement. Sherlock wouldn't be telling him the story if the summoning hadn't gone wrong in the first place.
"Yes. To this day I have yet to figure out what caused the ceremony to go awry, but it did. Instead of getting Death the Order called me, her younger brother, Dream. They stole my totems of power and kept them like trophies of war." Sherlock's eyes became stormy, no doubt remembering how his captors must have sneered at him, or so John imagined. "There were three items: my helm, pouch, and ruby. Later, after I was free, I discovered that they had been stolen by Burgess's second-in-command Ruthven Sykes and his own mistress Ethel Cripps in 1906, along with over £200,000 in cash. Hathaway committed suicide in 1909."
"So tonight was the first time in over a hundred years you've seen the ruby?" asked John, his mind incapable of comprehending such a thing. Sherlock nodded. "Christ. How much damage can that thing do? I mean, besides make people hallucinate."
"We not only oversee our realms, but also define our opposites. Death is there is when a person dies and when someone is born."
"The Dreamstone gave Moriarty control over some dreaming. What else could it give him control over?"
"Reality, John. If Moriarty manages to tap into the full power of the stone he'll be able to manipulate reality."
John must have looked very faint, because Sherlock was instantly at his side and had a firm grip on his face, forcing John to meet his gaze. Sherlock's eyes were pale and determined.
"Listen to me, please. I refuse to let that happen. I'll go back to searching for the helm and pouch before I let Moriarty get his way."
"How did you escape?" asked John, desperately seeking a distraction. "Did Death help you?"
Sherlock's grip eased but he didn't move away.
“No. I remained trapped in his cellar for thirty-three years before I was freed. A life was sacrificed so I could escape, and I avenged it by wiping out Burgess and his Order. Before he died, Burgess cursed me with humanity, and I’ve been this way ever since.” Sherlock stood up and ran a hand over his hair, obviously missing his tresses. “I’m sorry to have gotten you involved, John. I’ll understand if you wish to seek new lodgings.”
John spluttered at him. “Are you kidding? If you think something like this is going to chase me off, then you don’t know me at all.” He reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s hand without a thought. “You’re my friend, Sherlock. I want to help you. What the hell are friends for, if not to help?”
The tension in Sherlock's frame vanished, leaving him looking exhausted and about ready to keel over. John forced the man to use him as a crutch and lead Sherlock to his bedroom. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock’s bed was uncluttered though appeared disused. He didn’t quite have the strength to tuck Sherlock in but gave it his best shot. John considered undressing his friend for a moment before discarding the idea entirely. Sherlock had shared enough of himself with John – there was no need to press for more.
Before closing the door of Sherlock’s dark bedroom behind him, John noticed that the same symbol from Death’s necklace had been drawn on Sherlock’s cast along with a heart. The sight of it made him smile. He hoped that perhaps one day Sherlock would be unafraid to share the whole story with him.
>>>>>
Next: The Persistence of Memory