Chapter Text
Chapter 5: Worldly
John was mobile enough after the blast to leg it with Sherlock away from the ruins of the villa. Sherlock made sure to avoid any CC cameras for the first few blocks, so hopefully there wouldn’t be any awkward questions from Mycroft (or anyone else) about what they’d been doing in the vicinity of the exploded villa. They made it back to Baker Street without having to deal with any authorities, and by the time John climbed the steps to their flat, he felt like himself again. Mostly.
“What happened?” he asked at last, after making two cups of tea and settling down into his chair. He tossed Sherlock a packet of his favourite biscuits. The ploy only worked about half the time, but apparently this was one of those, for he took two and absently started to nibble on one.
“They took our picture. Apparently it was supposed to capture our sigils as well as our physical images.”
John’s breath caught. “But it didn’t?”
Sherlock scowled and brought out his phone, scrolling one finger across its surface until it lit up with an image. “There was some kind of malfunction, or so they said. It’s supposedly the first time anything like that has happened. Personally I think they were running some kind of scam.” He snorted. “People are so wrapped up in the superstition that lies around sigils. Claiming to have invented a device that actually records them – it’s been tried ever since the invention of the camera. And before that, really, if you look at the history of alchemy.”
John’s breath caught as he glimpsed the picture on Sherlock’s phone. He suddenly remembered his phone beeping at him earlier, and hastily dug it out.
“Oh, look, they’ve also sent me a text message,” Sherlock went on. “Typical criminals, wanting to explain themselves. ‘We both think our best recourse is flight and the destruction of the machine. Even before today’s malfunction, I had come to the conclusion that the world is not ready for my invention. Worldly considerations will always rank higher than scientific advancement, and the potential for abuses is simply far too high. Please believe that we never meant you or your friend any harm. As for your client, you may tell him that he is safe. So long as he leaves off any pursuit of us, I will keep the evidence of our relationship – and his sigil – unpublished. All Jeff and I want is to love one another and live our lives in peace.’ Poppycock. All they want is to get away. And so they have, at least for now. It was a little more important to me to get us out of a building set to implode than it was to apprehend them, but I’m sure I can track them down eventually.”
John only barely heard Sherlock’s rant. The vast majority of his attention was riveted on the image that had been sent to his mobile. It showed Sherlock standing by the picture, magnifier in hand, and John standing near the door. A blur of light hovered near John, its shape vague but certainly recognizable enough to John’s eyes, seeing as he’d been staring at that amorphous not-quite-a-sigil ever since Afghanistan. The glow from John’s indistinct soul-sign glinted in the lens in Sherlock’s hand, but not off of the glossy surface of the photograph behind it…
“It’s your magnifier.” The words escaped John’s lips before his brain could catch up and think about what he was saying.
Sherlock twisted up from his usual lounging position on the sofa and sat stiffly upright. His eyes darted over every inch John’s face and body, examining, thinking. All at once they widened. “It wasn’t a malfunction.”
It was a statement, not a question, but John answered it anyway through numb lips, overpowering the shrieking instinct to remain silent. “No. Or at least I don’t think so.” He swallowed dryly, feeling the tension in his throat muscles as well as the sudden ache in his bad shoulder. “But how – how is it – how can…” John trailed off, failing to find the words to ask a question he couldn’t even frame in his head.
Sherlock was slightly paler than usual, but otherwise showed no sign of any strain or distress, any indication that this was anything more than another post-case discussion. His hand twitched, and suddenly his magnifier was there, looking perfectly plain and ordinary and nothing like a sigil. “People see what they want to see, John, and always overlook the obvious.” He glanced down, turning it – his sigil – over in his hand before looking back up at John. “It’s a family trait in the Holmesian line, the ability to mask the sigil, make it appear an ordinary object, or hide it from sight entirely even when manifested from all but the very rare few who can see the sigils of others. For example, no one will ever see Mycroft’s glasses unless he wants them to, which he never does, the vain git.” He fidgeted again, but this time his eyes never left John’s. “It just so happened that in my case, the family talent was exaggerated. I can’t manifest my sigil as something others recognize as such. It doesn’t glow, doesn’t appear as anything extraordinary to anyone without the sight. Not that it matters.”
John sat back in his chair, rocked to the core by the multiple revelations – not just about Sherlock himself, but about Mycroft and the Holmes family in general. He knew what he had to do, though, and after a moment, he found the courage and will to do it. He closed his left hand tightly and then opened it, willing his soul-form to manifest.
And it did. But this time, as he watched, it took an actual shape, one he’d never seen before. A rod, but with razor-sharp wings, and not one but two snakes writhing around it in a double helix. The tip was sharp, but instead of a scalpel, it resembled nothing more than a pen-point.
“A caduceus,” Sherlock breathed, apparently recognizing it immediately. “Or a variant on the form.” He blinked and focused his attention on John rather than the glowing sign hovering above his hand. “I take it this is new? Or can you camouflage your sigil, blur it at will?”
“It’s new,” John whispered, hardly believing his eyes. “It’s very new.”
Was it the final form? John had no idea. It felt different than it ever had before, but he had no idea what it meant – either the feeling of it inside, or the symbolic meaning of the sign glowing faintly blue and gleaming inches above his hand.
“It suits you,” Sherlock offered diffidently, almost shyly. “Thank you for showing me.”
And it did, particularly once John had a chance to look it up later. A caduceus had many meanings: a messenger/communicator; a balancer, one comfortable with life and with death, violence and peace, with eyes wide open and words to tell what he sees when he so chooses. If he were an American, it also might mean medicine, but he wasn’t. He was an Englishman, a British solider and medic, a modern-day adventurer and blogger, the man at the side of Sherlock Holmes.
That was more than enough, at least for the moment. For John Watson, and for Sherlock Holmes.