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"I-I'm going to jump! I w-will jump!"
He yawned through the back of his fingertips, his head tipped back to allow the mild breeze caress the back of his neck. They (rather He ) stood in front of a glass building with the bright sky painted over it. There was life unravelling behind them (the bustling noises of the queue, relentless chatter - the world was indeed populated, after all), but their particular interest (at the moment) was on the mortal standing on the rooftop.
By now, he would’ve thought that somebody would take a gander on what they were on about, but so far, nill. Even a half-blind armadillo would notice something so appallingly obvious.
"The dedication you have for your profession is quite astounding." Sherlock muttered from beside him; half-floating with his back hovering a couple of feet over the concrete, hands tucked beneath his head. As to how he even managed to conjure a mildly transparent projection of himself without instructions was slightly jarring. What else could Sherlock Holmes be capable of that He himself was unaware of? Was he some unknown entity with untapped potential? He had to know.
"Pot-to-kettle." He tucked a hair strand behind one ear, looking up at the sky with a firm glare in place. "Though it's not for a lack of trying." His eyes drifted towards Sherlock Holmes' astral projection made up of stars and exploding supernovas framed in blue. It was both tragic and beautiful all the same. "Enthusiasm is a dead concept utilized solely to measure productivity."
But then, that was the same instance that Sherlock Holmes’ projection disappeared within a wisp of clouds. Was this some kind of elaborate game to him? Taking and relinquishing control whenever he wished? This wasn’t part of the plan.
“I believe this is what you mortals call assisted suicide, is it not?” He chimed in, just when Sherlock pressed the button in the elevator that led to the rooftop.
The footsteps kept on its insistent stride.
“Reply when you are spoken to!” A corner of his lip pinched. Oh. It would seem that this human had yet to know of his position. An intervention, perhaps? Wouldn’t that be interesting?
“I said -” Heat drifted to his palms, his power stirred under his ministration; Sherlock Holmes’ body froze instantaneously, just when they’d reached the rooftop door. “- cease this immediately.”
Something like childish irritation danced on Sherlock Holmes’ consciousness.
“Are you quite aware that defying me is an equivalent to treason?” There should’ve been a written agreement about this. In complete detail. “And that your constant breach of our agreement could very well be your end, quite literally?”
“Oh, I highly doubt that.” The mortal sounded confident, which was...unexpected.
“How could you be so sure?” He challenged.
“As per agreement, this body is still within my possession, so if you would be so kind as to -”
A chuckle escaped his lips, short and sweet.
“And what makes you think I would be inclined to following what we’ve agreed upon, when you yourself are incapable of adhering to them in the first place?”
Silence.
“Nothing?” He tilted his head “Don’t tell me those stimulants were your only source of obtaining marginally decent intelligence.” How could he have done this wrong? Again? “My oh my, maybe I could find someone of a more equal caliber? Your brother, maybe? What does he do any -” A lie, of course, there was no way he’d ever grovel at his brother’s feet anymore. Not after the last time.
“Don’t ever compare me to him.”
“And why ever not, dear boy? It’s not as if I’d ever have any use for you anyway.” My, how finicky emotions were.
“You want me to prove it to you, yes?”
He side-eyed his double, goose-bumps unknowingly rose up his arm. Wouldn’t that be interesting?
“I believe the better question would be: would you rise up to the challenge, hmm?”
There was a brief pause to Sherlock Holmes’ thought process as though unable to comprehend the actual sentence, or had too many vitriol than insults at one time that the comment itself was deemed idiocy-incarnate. He should be offended, but amusement won overall.
“Now, how does this go?” Sherlock took a moment to decide what he would do, before he held out a hand and inhaled.
Okay, not so amused.
“Now hold on, it doesn’t work like tha -” Only it did work, however, his treasured scythe - all mighty and glorious, and feared by many - was reduced to a size that was slightly lengthier than a cheap dagger, though just as dangerous. “What have you done?!” His poor, poor scythe, reduced to this plain shade of black with tints of navy blue hues. Oh, he will eviscerate this mortal once this whole charade was over.
“Oh, do relax.” Muttered the arrogant plebian, caressing its flawlessly polished handle, and traced carefully at the small inscriptions that was retained from its precious design. “Much more convenient this way, don’t you think?”
“I have forged that weapon from the remnants of my enemies, how dare you sully -”
“Tradition’s boring. Don’t tell me you’ve been lugging this plank of wood all this time?” Plank of woo- How dare he insult the very fabric of design that He had worked so tirelessly to attain?!
He didn’t anticipate for humans to be so, so...Ugh...Why had his brother enjoyed ruling over these unworthy mammals?! Should He be allowed his say, he would just abandon the profession altogether, and allow these ungrateful mortals to suffer eternity encased within their rotting, mangled flesh.
At His silence, Sherlock studied Him for a second before the handle grew to at least a metre in length.
It was irrational. It was irrational to feel the tiniest bit of gratitude for the human, however, the release of the tightening on his chest spoke otherwise.
There was a moment’s pause where either of them said nothing. Something changed, and neither could pinpoint what it could possibly be. The feeling was a bit...off-putting.
“So.” He began.
“So?” Mirrored Sherlock, somewhat distractedly whilst fiddling with His weapon at hand.
“Now that we have come to an understanding, I believe that it’s time, isn’t it?”
“Time for what?” He began swinging towards the wall, the elevator doors, and some malnourished potted plants. “This is utter rubbish, it’s hardly a machete.”
He eroded the scythe with a wave of a hand. It wasn’t used for that . Patience. He must have patience.
“For you to relinquish control of this body.”
“I never did agree to that.”
"Yes," he corrected, leaning towards the closest wall, his arms crossed. Why did this even have to be an argument? "- and we have also come to an agreement that I would be the sole user of this body until -"
"I had done no such thing!" Quite a petulant one, as well. But then that should’ve been obvious, given his vindictive streak.
"The mark would have indicated otherwise." He quipped, studying the perfectly trimmed nails and strong calluses from the index finger to the pinky. A musician of a stringed instrument, he surmised. A violin , Sherlock barked out regardless. Ah. At least it’s not a cello - the symmetry he’d envisioned would just be off .
"I have agreed to lend you my body, but it did not pertain to my own usage. I merely extended the courtesy. " A flicker of irritation danced at His skin.
"In order to be used as a vessel, I should think that it is within the implication -"
"Implications are for the vast masses - are you indicating that you share the trait with morons incapable of rational thought?"
When He had not replied, Sherlock took that as a cue to continue.
"Case in point; there was not a list of do's and don'ts provided, so I have taken the liberty of -"
"- doing whatever you like." He sighed mournfully. Oh, for the love of - He should've seen this coming. Truth be told, he had been too careless with most of his bargains after the first few, realizing that humans were deigned with some form of neurological impairment that he became careless. Too careless, apparently.
When he sought for a reflection like his own, he hadn't anticipated the factor of possibly being outwitted himself. He would have Mycroft's head for not bringing this fact within his attention. Though the idea in itself was a feat: Him actually meeting with his brother over a cup of tea, like civilized dunces. His skin trembled in revulsion at the thought.
“Precisely.” There was a self-satisfied rumbled that accompanied the voice. “Glad we could get you caught up; I was starting to question your level of intelligence, did you know? Whether it’s really on par with my own.”
“And modest too.” He pointed out with an eyeroll. Only Sherlock Holmes would dare to question His authority, and not be deterred by the consequences.
A blood curdling scream brought him out of his reverie, and it took him just a split second for reality to sink in. Right. He was suppose to do something about that.
“What exactly is it that you do?” Oh? So they’re back to speaking normally, then?
He already had his eyes closed, and was about to materialize familiar strings of his power; the strange tingling all too familiar, accompanied with the soft-feel of silk that ran through each fingertip.
“Perfect timing, fancy some chips as well?” Now, how was this going to go? It really had been a while since he’d done suicides, ever since the three ‘serial-suicides’ he’d collected. The results were...unfavourable; simply put, their ‘self’ had eroded into nothing instead of mending back with the world. Should there be anymore of that, even He was apprehensive of the results; ‘end’ was a fictional concept told by those who valued a god above themselves; there was only the recycling of power, not some permanent fixture trapped in the modern man’s likeness.
“Surely you’re the least bit tempted?” He was sure there was an odd sort of lift to the voice. Was this - was this mortal trying to manipulate Him ? Much as the performance was laudable, there was no way he would be influenced to do just as this human had asked, no, he had to get something out of this as well; a trade off, maybe? Yes, that would be much amusing.
“Just the once.” He carefully kept his voice steady. Didn’t need further suspicion.
It didn’t take long for the air to lighten, the unbridled - that it was almost childlike - excitement that he hadn’t anticipated from the detective, to come into fruition. Interesting. Why was it interesting?
Without further introduction, he tugged on the material of the veil to allow his power to manifest. Yes. This was familiar now. Even beneath flesh and bones, the electricity sang under his ministration, coalesced with every fibre of his - and now Sherlock’s as well - very being.
This was His specialty, His domain, His title.
He could imagine Sherlock’s enraptured attention when he traded the quality suit for robes tailored specifically from his many treasures: it comprised of banshee hair (the young ones, obviously), calcified bones (finely roasted), a dash of carnations, a pinch of wilted roses, a hint of chrysanthemums and a small sprinkle of his magic to add sheen, and protection to both the fabric, and himself; all compacted into the shape of a dark mantle that concealed the majority of his body, and most of his face.
He was impenetrable for the most part, however, the garment had provided a certain degree of whimsy to his craft, so he’d stuck with it; the fact that survivors had boringly distributed their findings to their religion was a bit of a compliment, it was at least an improvement from regularly worshipping a god created for the sole purpose of controlling society.
With each deliberate step, He shed his humanoid appearance, and had materialized a helm of polished bone; constructed intricately to mimic that of Sherlock Holmes’ skull, only finer, and more precise with its overall look. It was only through the incessant murmuring in his own mind that he’d realize the detective was set off to do his own study of the man’s suicide.
“ ...early 40’s, single-kidney, occasional alcoholic, recently divorced but not happily…” And so on.
Then a particular imagery had popped onto his head; he felt the making of a smirk tug at the corner of his lip. Oh. How had he not foreseen this? Maybe he could make use of Sherlock Holmes, after all.
As a puppet master would his marionette, He shaped a doll fitted to a generalized frame of women, and had labelled the wood-work: wife. With this material, it would take on the appearance of what He had deemed it to be; in this case, the form of this man’s wife.
“Very original.” Quipped Sherlock in the background. Only he waved the sound away as though it was another fly.
Meticulously, he plucked another memory from Mr. Doe to take shape as their setting for the show.
They stood at the ledge, appearance masked completely by his original form for any passerby to overlook.
“Now, if you would just hold still for a second, we can -”
However, his forewarning had come a second too late, for Sherlock himself had unknowingly began a link toward the dying human’s ‘being’ the moment their eyes had met; humans for centuries had entertained the concept of the eyes being the window to one’s own soul, in this case, however, was His entry to accessing everything the mortal had ever held dear.
Stupid, stupid, why did this have to happen now of all times?! He didn’t even know whether this human shell could handle such an impact; landing may very well be Sherlock Holmes’ death sentence.
The gates towards the mortal’s ‘self’ had creaked open, and sashes of colour immediately pulled at each limb, leading them towards a large vacuum with a spectrum of colour trying to latch at every part of them. It wasn’t restricting for Him , however, the very human lungs within the body he’d inhabited throbbed due to the lack of breathing space.
The other end came faster than he’d anticipated, and they had crashed (thankfully) onto a few acres of grass, which softened the blow for the most part.
“Am I to assume that this body will forever be my own?” He inquired towards his eerily silent counterpart.
“Not a chance.” The tone came in pained gasps, and he was clutching at one end of his rib with shaking fingers. This was exactly what he’d expected. Why did humans have to be such faulty beings? Even He wouldn’t have done such a stupid mistake.
“You’re injured, and yet you’re still willing to go on?”
“I believe you did promise me a demonstration of your abilities.” Sherlock replied through gritted teeth. They shared the same pain, however, pain was only a psychological effect due to an injury, and He was perfectly capable of tending to that need. This human, though, not so much.
He released a breath through his nose. The single house was all the way on the centre of the grassfield, and there may have been more than just a broken rib.
With slight reluctance, he mended back every tissue, fixed every crevice of the area affected; in seconds, the body was once again fully functioning, along with a few visceral modifications to dissuade underlying diseases that may arose, and disregard aging with its poisonous effect towards overall mobility. Consider it a temporary blessing.
“Anymore enlightening ideas?” He asked after a moment.
At that, there was a tug to the corner of his lips.
“One.”
And he bolted towards the doors with renewed vigour.
“Idiot!” He forced the legs to a stop, just before Sherlock Holmes had gone in through the front door. Some detective this human was. “Not yet.”
“...and I would look after little Chia, and I won’t drink anymore, and -” The more deceptive the man spoke, the more irritated He became. This was taking too long. He needed to wrap this story up, however romantic it may seem on the surface.
He willed his puppet to echo back inane promises, and weak-willed professions of love, and blahblahblahblahblah. When was this man going to stop talking?
Without so much as a knock, He finally opened the doors to their home and crept up behind one corner. 3...2….
His servant just nodded back at him, when he approached.
The man noticed the exchange, and curiously turned his head; he went stalk-still, blood drained from his ridiculously plump face. Good, he recognized Him .
“Mister..” He looked over his list briefly before continuing. “..Monroe; it’s time.” ….1.
The pudgy man shrieked like a hyena, and jumped from where he hoovered over his wife to cowering like a small dog seeking protection from its mother.
“Y-Y-You can’t get me! I-I w-w-won’t let you!”
“Spinal cord injury, extreme blood loss, skull hemorrhage, and given enough time would probably choke on your own blood.” Really, he wondered why this man would commit suicide if he was unable to cope with the matter of his own death. “The paramedics are about 10 minutes away, and the impact of the fall had caused severe issues with your breathing pathways. Your death is imminent, sir. So if you would be cooperative as to surrendering your remaining lifeline, we could go about on our merry way.” He ended with a curt smile hidden from view.
Distantly, he felt a twinge of hesitation, and anxiety bubble up on Sherlock Holmes’ consciousness. Curious. A moment ago, he was willing to liven the pace, now he was regretting his own decision. Interesting. Maybe Sherlock Holmes felt more than he led on. Hmm. Maybe he could find some amusement beneath all this monotony. Retrieval was guaranteed, effort or no.
“AGGGGHHHHHHH!” The man screamed in agony, when He had began ticking off the symptoms one-by-one, watching as blood crept up to his feet. He kept on going, noticing the rising discomfort within the detective, only -
“Daddy!” His hand twitched at the sound of the child’s voice, and it was then that he realized what was happening. “Daddy!”
“Stay back!” He spat at the child (he didn’t need to see, to know who this child was), waving a hand to the little boy where he knew a veil would began forming. There were bees buzzing by his ears, and scorching heat at his chest. His head spun, and his powers ran rampant: electricity splitted furniture, and dark clouds hovered over the once-peaceful dream. “Stay back , I say!”
The puddle that was Monroe took another gasping breath, before he glowed, and disappeared from sight; his consciousness, no doubt resurfaced. Damn it. His fist slammed down hard towards a wall; the memory crackled as would a mirror when struck with a hard object, fragments unhinged, and cracked at his feet. Damn it.
“Daddy!” There were definitely tears leaking out of his eyes, as the boy fumbled blindly for the father that wasn’t his. ShutupShutupShutupSHUTUP! “Daddy, daddy, daddy!”
Teeth clenched, he sliced at the picturesque image of tragedy with his scythe, and the whole scene evaporated altogether; they were back on the rooftop, simultaneously when Monroe’s body was placed inside an ambulance. Damn. it.
“Quite a lurid show you’ve put on back there.” He didn’t allow himself to turn at the sound of footsteps from behind. “Don’t suppose you’d make a habit out of it in the near future?”
“You made a promise, Sherrinford.” In place of the small child was a decrepit old man, barely in his 80’s, though just as agile. He had no time for this. For all of this. He had failed to collect, and yet the world kept turning, completely unaware of its impending consequence. “Interference was necessary if you’ve yet to adhere to our agreement.”
“That was hardly breaching any -” He angrily turned towards a dog now (an Irish settler, Sherlock’s brain had provided), only to wilt slightly at the familiar fierceness behind canine features. His brother had quite the artillery, he’d give him that much. “I did what was necessary I -”
“Played around with your own magic; concocted a scenery to attempt an attack at his psyche - you’ve done more than enough damage, brother mine. Perhaps it’s finally time for you to -”
“No.” He calmly stated, his anger coming off in waves. “No. I’ve yet to fulfill my goal, and I refuse to part from here without taking back what’s mine.” He looked back to his brother, eyes seething. “You of all people should know -”
“Yes.” His brother sighed mournfully. It was then he knew he’d won. “Yes, point taken. However,” The dog stepped closer towards the ledge, swaying slightly from the turbulence. It was an even enough trade off, he supposed. “- should you go back on your word, I too will utilize resources of my own, to remedy the lost. Am I clear, little brother?”
He clenched his eyes shut, and kept his mouth pinched. This is blackmail. He refused to be manipulated like this. In turn, the animal step an inch closer to the ledge, leaning forward slightly to watch over where the crowd was slowly dissipating.
“Okay, okay, alright.” He gritted, tone harsh. “Point made.”
Mycroft-the-dog smiled.
“Good.”
And then gave the last nudge to push the animal over the edge.
Without a second’s regard, he closed his eyes, and turned away from the seeing view. They weren’t the least bit visible, however, he’d rather not face the eyes of his failure. To gain one, is to lose another. That is fact.
Being close proximity with his brother had never brooked well with Him . And as far as resentment goes, Sherlock held equal contempt, if not more; it wasn’t exactly a complete loss. Maybe he could reach some form of arrangement with the detective? Wouldn’t that be interesting? Mycroft’s own treasured thing, playing devil’s advocate. The only thing needed now, was to get Sherlock Holmes to agree, and -
“Don’t be stupid.” The voice was just as prominent, however, the projection was nowhere in sight. No. It couldn’t be. How?! “Mycroft is not actually too much of an idiot; he would see through your ruse just as fast as he can finish a whole tub of ice cream to himself.”
His mouth opened to voice his quiry.
“As to how I’ve access to your thoughts as you would mine, is child’s play.”
It took a moment for him to recall the precise moment, before sighing.
“The boy.”
“It’s a thing my-our brother’s an expert in. Annoying as it may be, once the opening had been made, it took minimal effort to gain access to the rest.” Sherlock explained smugly. Wasn’t he the least bit surprised to learn about his brother’s secret? At all? To which Sherlock had already rationalized as equivalent to being the British Government - what difference would it be to the rest of the world? “Really, I could’ve done it without his help, eventually; he merely expedited the process.”
At his rising irritation, the detective willed the transport to shake its head.
“I will not go back on my word, if that’s what you’re worried about. It would serve as collateral for my own protection, just that.” He explained, whilst he set off towards the elevator once more. It’s only fair. “Think of it as a co-habilitation of sorts. I’m sure you recall the flatshare you had agreed to with your John Watson; there’s but marginal difference.”
“Other than having access to most of my immediate thoughts.” He agreed regretfully. He’d definitely needed to exercise a degree of caution around this man. “And he’s not my property.” He explained with a swing of his hips to click the button for the main lobby. “Merely a passing interest.” I’ll get bored of him soon enough, he intended to add. “And might I point out that it was you who had continued the conversation yourself which extended the offer?”
“He was interesting.” Sherlock added in passing; his apparent interest more prominent in the tiny shift of pitch in his voice. “Especially that non-existent limp of his; surely you noticed his lack of need for it.”
He made a sound of affirmation, because it was true; the object was more of a prop.
“A limp that you’re already conjuring ideas for in order to ‘cure’?” He raised a brow in question.
From a passing reflection, he watched Sherlock Holmes’ face; studying the way the man’s eyes darken and glisten at the same moment; a sinister-like smirk graces his lips. And for that single moment, he had forgotten that they were two separate entities merged within one body.
“Absolutely no idea what you’re on about.”