Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Such a wonderful night tonight. Here by the fire, the stars seem so close, so bright.

Shall I tell you a story?

Once upon a time there lived a soldier. Born into a breaking home, he learned too soon how to take blows. When he learned how to give them in return, he left home to find the world that every happy child had been promised.

But he was born a soldier. And as any soldier would, he found himself in battle, sleeping with a weapon at the ready. That was sad, if normal. But that isn’t what this story is for. What matters now is this: Night after night, on the battlefield, he dreamed of voices. As troubling as this was, he could never remember what they said or who they were, for they faded by sunrise, as if banished by the glow of welcome light. So he chose not to worry.

He would’ve ignored them entirely, except his fellowmen worried about him, telling him about how tormented he seemed in slumber. Curious, as the intelligent healer he was, the soldier took to carrying a notebook by his side, ready to record what these strange voices told him. But when he ventured back from beyond the veil, the bizarre inspiration never struck him.

And so it went for almost a fortnight, until the day he took another’s life.

It is peacetime now, but you may ask any man what it feels like to kill. Whether they will answer is another matter, but should they be kind enough or whole enough to say instead of demonstrate, then you would know why the soldier lay wide awake that night.

You would know how he learned to hear the voices.

When he woke the next morning, he saw a passage, scrawled onto his notebook.

Sleeping in naive delusion,

better than the mass confusion.

Thing of Void and skin and bone,

cursed are we to die alone.

He was discharged soon after for gunshot wounds. Of those who asked him how, few believed him when he answered.

He went home, do not worry. Soldiers aren’t always left behind. But the thing is, neither is the battlefield. Corpses and death, they linger on you.

Of course I’d know. Now quiet, please. The story is about our soldier, not me.

Don’t ask me what he fought for after, in the trenches in his head. I doubt even he knew at times. What he did know was how it would end. He dreamed it almost every night. It’s how every war ends, anyway.

But then he found someone. Someone who took the battlefield out of his head.

I wouldn’t say he was pulled from perdition. You’re thinking of a different tale. For the man who saved him wasn’t the kind who used such words. But he saved the soldier, nonetheless. And the soldier saved him in return.

Oh? Well,  I suppose you’ve heard of them by now. The tales of their exploits are many, I know. But this tale is different.

————

This was madness. John stood amongst the flashing sirens, red emergency lights playing over his face. He was calmly standing there, but only out of necessity. Behind his neutral mask was a whirlwind of thought.

What had he done? If he weren’t such a restrained professional, he’d likely be staring at his hands right now, convincing himself that they were covered in blood. Mere minutes ago, he’d been standing in the school, firing a bullet through a man’s head. He’d killed a man on public property. That just wasn’t done, soldier or not. This was London, not Kabul. He was supposed to be a civilian. And yet he’d taken up arms. Why?

John’s eyes focused on the nearby ambulance. Across from him, sitting on a gurney, was Sherlock, his coat covered by a garish orange shock blanket. The DI stood beside him, interrogating. He didn’t see to be getting much success; it was more of a semi-antagonistic banter. A tiny smirk worked its way onto John’s face.

A part of him knew he shouldn’t be acting this way. In the eyes of the law, he was a murderer. Lestrade would surely imprison him, and being locked up…John saw the walls again, watching them slowly get covered in spidery handwriting. Thing of Void and blood and stone. Cursed are we to die alone.

He shook his head. Not now. Surely, Sherlock would know who’d pulled the trigger. And he was discussing the case with a DI. If John worried about his health and state of being at all, he should’ve walked away. Just down the street, back to the flat. That’s what he should’ve been doing.

Instead, he stood there, noticing where the policemen were walking, the looks of interested passerbies.

Sherlock abruptly cut off his talking, looking straight up at him. Exactly as he had before taking the pill. Again, John merely stood there, knowing exactly what would happen. It would be better to just come quietly, really.

But that didn’t happen. Lestrade didn’t follow him. And John watched Sherlock walk steadily up to him, tall and imposing and grand.

"Nice shot," he said, quietly. As they made banter of their own, John felt this strange warmth. This was a secret shared between them. John knew and Sherlock knew, and no one else.

When he asked how well John would sleep,  Sherlock tilted his head a fraction of an angle, and John saw the implicit question. Why?

I do not know. What he said was, “He must not have been a very nice man.”

Sherlock smiled. And John followed him down the rabbit hole.

Some holes are too deep to climb out of. He would know.

Chapter Text

Really now, I said no interruptions. You’ll make me forget where I was. This isn’t even the story. It’s just a place to start.

I’ll skip the part about their adventures. Such a shame, really, that we don’t have time. Very few know as much as I do about them.

The stars? Everybody knows about that, dear. And it’s true, that the detective was never one for astronomy. Not even the closest star of all. What others might not say is how often he stared up at them anyway. When he could spare a moment and catch his breath, his eyes would often stray upward.

Yes, I suppose he did think them beautiful. Especially on a night like tonight. Can you see them twinkle? So close and yet so far away. What would it be like to touch them?

Oh! Shame on you for distracting me so. The tale still has a ways to go.

————

"John?"

He looked up from the morning paper. Interesting. Today he managed to get to the third page without an interruption. “Yes? What?”

Sherlock’s face had a distinct expression of distaste. “Have you been… having nightmares recently?”

He blinked in surprise. “No.” The answer came out as a reflex, and Sherlock chose not to question it. He hadn’t, actually. The odd poems running through his head had stopped. He’d actually been able to write in his blog without deleting the words that spilled out. Which made no sense. When he’d been in Afghanistan, the words came when he killed, or watched someone die. And even without the terrifying incident at the pool, they seemed to be visiting Molly and the morgue more and more often recently. All those horrible deaths should’ve been prompting nightmares of the war at the very least.

Sherlock scowled. “Well. That’s…good.” John waited for a followup question or three, but Sherlock remained impassive and silent. He actually looked very tired. Listless, almost.

The doctor in him began taking notes. “Have you been sleeping at all?”

That earned him a nasty look. “If I needed it, I would’ve. Don’t be stupid.”

"Sherlock, you’ve got to get rest. It’s not healthy for you to run yourself into the ground like that."

"I don’t need sleep," Sherlock insisted, a strange edge on his voice.

"It seems more like you don’t want it."

Sherlock froze in his seat, an expression of near-terror on his face. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

John, puzzled, stared back for a moment, not quite comprehending. Then sighed in mild annoyance. “Please don’t be so childish.”

Sherlock promptly broke out of his stupor and proceeded to sulk for the rest of the afternoon. And John forgot about the odd moment that morning.

————

John went to bed that night knowing what would happen next. He’d seen Sherlock contemplating his violin case. So he locked the bedroom door shut and brought extra sheets and pillows. Just enough to muffle the sound without accidentally smothering himself or causing brain damage through oxygen deprivation.

Though he had this down to a science, he inevitably woke up with exhausted resignation at some unholy hour in the morning. He tried burrowing his head, but it didn’t work. The screaming from downstairs seemed to bypass every barrier he threw up, even going so far as to go past his ears entirely and just lodging itself into his brain. That might explain how distorted it sounded, actually. It sounded nothing like a violin at all.

John bolted to his feet. The wailing intensified.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He grabbed for his gun, yanking the drawer open so fast that it almost came out. Cursing, he readjusted it, all the while imagining the most horrible, gruesome fantasies about what was happening downstairs. He could almost see what type of knives were being used, how thick the dried blood coated them, how raggedly they tore in…

Blood filled his vision. John found himself squinting at a nonexistent sun. He shoved the intruding memory back into the shadows. Now was not the time.

With his feet mutually tripping over themselves, John rushed down the stairs, adding his voice to the cacophony. With a parting screech, the noise stopped short. There, in his nightgown, stood Sherlock, his violin and bow frozen in place.

The two men stared at each other in a shared moment of bewilderment.

John recovered his voice first. “Sherlock, what the hell was that?”

The detective wasn’t as fast. He continued staring at John, occasionally mouthing something. Probably in an attempt at analyzing the strange exclamations that had issued from his mouth. John flushed red at the thought. Had they even been in English? That likely didn’t say flattering things about him and his state of mind. His arms dropped suddenly, and then he realized that he’d been brandishing his alarm clock, of all things. He blushed harder.

"For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, it’s three in the bloody morning!" He shook the clock for emphasis. "What in God’s name have you been doing with your violin?"

Sherlock blinked, jolting a little as he was pulled back to the present. Whatever inklings of a theory he’d developed vanished. “I need to occupy myself somehow while you waste time sleeping,” he snapped, none too happy.

"Sherlock. You. Need. Sleep." John attempted his best stern doctor face, which was promptly interrupted by a large yawn. Sherlock raised an imperious eyebrow at that. "Forget it," John muttered in reply. "If you’re too childish to handle yourself in a healthy manner, fine. Not my fault if you run yourself into the ground."

"Why the sudden change in beliefs? You were so adamant before."

"You’re only getting worse. Right now, I can’t handle that." He turned around and trundled up the stairs back to his bed.

He did not sleep well after, his nerves wound as tight and thin as a violin string, his thoughts plucking at them with rough hands.

Chapter Text

After much too short a time, John got out of bed. He stumbled down the stairs, yawning widely. Hopefully he’d be astute enough to make a much-needed cup of coffee without poisoning himself.

Down in the kitchen, he found Sherlock, pacing like some windup toy. John was about to mutter something about how normal people needed sleep when Sherlock turned and saw him.

"John!" He was grabbed by the shoulders, dragged close enough to feel him breathe. "What took you so long?"

"It’s not even eight yet! What the hell are you going on about?"

"We have a case! Lestrade called." Sherlock dragged him up the stairs, John only able to follow. "Murder victim, middle aged businessman, blood mostly drained from the body." He yanked John’s door open.

"This early?" Instead of an answer, John received a quick shove, falling into his room. "Christ, don’t cripple me again!" Sherlock’s vibrating energy was becoming more than John could handle. He looked longingly toward the kitchen, trying to see if he could materialize a full coffee mug through wishful thinking.

Sherlock whirled around, his excitement compressed into a sharp point of intensity. “The body was left on Lestrade’s doorstep.”

They were out the door not a minute later.

————

A taxi ride later, they found Lestrade standing at the scene of the crime, staring vacantly at the front of his house, a few meters away, where a veritable swarm of policemen and policewomen were investigating the scene. The body was still there, lying awkwardly in front of an open door. The foyer was just visible behind the wooden door. He may have been within the bounds of the police cordon, but he was removed from everything, dressed in civilian clothes. John didn’t quite recognize him at first, and when he did, he had to give himself a moment of pity. It wouldn’t do to show Lestrade such a disservice when he was in such a state.

Sherlock barged over, his coat flaring a bit behind him. “You didn’t tell me they were here!” he said, indignant. His voice drew the attention of a few officers, all of whom shot him dirty glares before returning to their duties.

Lestrade looked up with weary eyes. “It’s an official investigation, Sherlock. Don’t cross the tape,” he interjected, as Sherlock grabbed the yellow cordon. “I’m only allowed in because I’m a DI and it’s my house.” He lifted the tape and walked out. “Come with me. It’s better if you’re not seen here.” They set off on a brisk walk down the block.

“You promised me that I could see the body,” Sherlock argued.

“I will, when I’ve been assigned to this case.” He gestured to himself. “As you can see, I am sort of off duty.”

“But they’re going to be bungling everything up!” Sherlock cried, pointing back at the receding crime scene with a sweep of his arm.

“I’m positive you’ll find a way to see the body anyway.” Lestrade reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “In the meantime, you’ll have to make do with what you’ve got. Here, have a look at this.”

John might not have been a deductive genius, but he could tell by the way Sherlock stared at the screen that there were pictures. He couldn’t see them very well, but he could recognize the image of the victim’s striking blonde hair and oddly mottled skin. “What’s his name?” he asked.

“Charles Enderby. That’s all I really have for you at the moment, besides the photos and what I’ve already told you,” Lestrade said, looking apologetic. “Maybe we can get a look at the CCTV footage later.”

“It’s alright,” John said, a bit rushed. Poor man. It was a Wednesday morning, which could be awful in its own right, and though his home hadn’t been broken into, it certainly had been violated. “How exactly are they going to handle the scene?”

Lestrade sighed. “It’s definitely an inconvenient spot. But forensics is doing the best it can. They do have to get it all cleaned up, as it is a residential area—God, I wonder how many people’s mornings I’ve ruined,” he added, with a wry smile.

Sherlock groaned. “I won’t get a chance to see the scene!”

“You’ve certainly been making yourself busy with those photos,” Lestrade retorted. “You will get access to all the photos of the crime scene as well. Will that be enough?”

“It’ll do,” Sherlock huffed. “But still…”

“Trust me, it’s been hard for everyone,” Lestrade muttered, darkly.

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. “So it’s the exact same?” he asked instead.

"As far as I can see." Lestrade gestured toward the phone. "Same incisions. Similar patterns. The victims may be very different, but it’s certainly looking a lot like a repeat job."

"When did you find this?"

"About twenty minutes ago." Lestrade rubbed his forehead, looking shaken. "Do you think it’s gang related? Like the triad. The victims had—"

"The same tattoos. No, it’s not gang related. Those marks were inflicted post mortem."

Lestrade’s eyes flew wide. “How did you know?”

Sherlock scowled. “The ink, idiot. It’s too fresh. If it was done while he was alive, he would’ve bled and the pigmentation would be different. You should be asking what the symbols mean.”

John chose not to correct him. Neither of them really wanted to press in that direction. “You don’t recognize them?”

"Would I ask if I did? They appear to be a foreign language, possibly based on pictographs. But I need more research to be sure." He did something with Lestrade’s phone that made the DI stop and lunge to get it.

“Stop! I only let you see the pictures, not rifle through my inbox,” he snapped.

Sherlock dodged out of the way, fingers flying dextrously over the screen. “Calm down. I’m just texting myself the photos.”

“Could you at least give me a warning?” Lestrade grumbled, snatching the phone out of his hand as soon as he was done. Sherlock’s phone buzzed as he pulled it out of his pocket.

“There is a definite connection between the two murders; I agree with you on that. And I know precisely who to ask about it.”

————

None of them had expected to ever see Jacob Arlington’s sallow face ever again. It made John very uncomfortable to watch the wretched man pace in his cell in that oddly looping figure eight. He needed help, and badly. But he refused to enter an Asylum, choosing to plead guilty and accept prison after the crazy chase that had lead to his capture and arrest. The twisted look of relief John had seen in those haunted black eyes had stayed in his mind for a long time afterward.

The jailer had warned them about the man’s fragile state on the way to his cell, and refused to come within three meters of the cell. But that in no way prepared them for the knowing look that Arlington gave them as they approached. He didn’t speak. John shivered, even though the air was far from cool. The bars between them were suddenly not enough.

Sherlock remained unperturbed by this display, walking right up to the murderer. “So you’ve heard of the killing?” he asked, wasting no time with pleasantries or acting. They’d been used before.

Arlington nodded. “Aye,” he rasped, soft voice still filling the room. “It was not me. But I knew. You know. They know.”

"And who would ‘they’ be?"

"Doesn’t matter. Not now. You wanted the murder. So I’ll answer that." He pulled up a sleeve, showing a tattoo composed of familiar glyphs.

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly in interest. “What does it say?”

Arlington reached out and traced it with a gentle finger. “Sacrifice to bind the tomb/ warp the universe’s loom," he recited. "The two victims were marked with something different."

Sherlock motioned impatiently for him to continue.

“Thing of tears on altar stone/ cursed to die to help atone." He pulled up his sleeves again. "It is a quatrain, see."

John’s gut dropped. So the murders were part of some fanatic cult. The killings were ritual murders, in sacrifice to some barbaric god. He found himself breathing a little faster, hand twitching as if to write.

Sherlock latched on to this lead. “And why would you write this on your victims?”

"Madness is its own poetry," Arlington said, dark eyes fever-bright in his cell. "You do not understand. What we do is a mercy."

Both the doctor and the soldier were reeling in disgust. “Mercy? In what way is this mercy?” John demanded.

He shook his head like a wet dog. “Things are happening. Great, terrible things.” He kept shaking his head, crossing his bony arms over his chest. “We do what we can. A sacrifice. Great sacrifice indeed. But we need to take control. We will end on our own terms.”

"End…" It kept getting better. It was an apocalyptic cult too.

"The stars are watching. They will see. We will make them." He shuddered, eyes closing.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in realization. “Astronomy. You’re waiting for some sort of celestial alignment. That’s what links the murders.”

Arlington said nothing, only retreating to the back of his cell.

Sherlock clapped his hands together. “Well. That makes things clearer, if inconvenient.” He spun abruptly on his heel and started to leave. John, still staring at the hunched figure leaning on the wall, tried to catch up.

"Where now?" he tried to say, eager to leave. But then that reedy voice floated out once more, almost too soft to hear.

"Are you not afraid?"

The unprompted question came as a surprise. “What?” John said, turning around.

Sherlock, however, had heard him. “Why should I be afraid?” he asked in return, walking back up to the cell. “I’m the one who’s solving the mystery.”

"But it is still unknown. And aren’t you afraid of the hand who holds the knife?"

The murderer’s brown eyes stared at Sherlock’s in a challenge. John shifted his stance, moving to go between them. But it wasn’t necessary.

"When I know, I will no longer be afraid," Sherlock declared. "I will know and I will find him. The mere act of obtaining knowledge is the antithesis of fear."

The murderer burst out into raucous laughter. “He knows!” he crowed, in mean amusement. “As if he could!”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I will.”

They left, walking down the hall with Arlington’s laughter echoing after them. “Absolutely starkers, eh?” the jailer said, uneasy. Sherlock said nothing.

Chapter Text

Oh, please don’t be afraid. We are alone here, you and me. You will scare me, if you keep jumping at every noise, staring at the woods. 

It’s not the story, is it? I know you’re used to these tales, but sometimes if it’s dark out and your lights are flickering, everything seems somehow more terrifying.

I don’t know. Perhaps it seems different when you know how it ends.

————

They got to Scotland Yard, only to find Dimmock in Lestrade’s place.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded. For all his rationality, their animosity was rather well deserved.

"Taking the case from Lestrade for the moment," the DI answered, returning the look of disgust. "He’s being debriefed."

"You can’t be idiotic enough to think that he did it, did you?"

"We need him to tell us what he knows about the situation. It’s procedure. But you’ve ‘deleted’ that, haven’t you?"

"I could tell you far more—"

"We’re not looking for your input."

At that, Sherlock stopped, drawing himself tall and exhaling louder than strictly necessary. “Fine then. You have the right to stupidity. I despair of your ever finding the pattern.”

That made Dimmock cut off whatever retort he had. “How?”

"Interviewed the criminal from the last murder," Sherlock said, tilting his chin in a quiet "up yours" that Dimmock noticed.

"I’m not on the case—"

"I know."

"I’m not on the case," Dimmock repeated intentionally, "but I’m the only one you can tell."

"Lestrade is the DI on this case though. Isn’t it procedure that I report to him first?” Sherlock snapped.

"He just had a f—a goddamned body appear on his doorstep! Give the man a break! I’ll tell him later, after he’s done talking with his family. God, you’re worse than the press.”

John, though he felt otherwise, knew that punching Dimmock would be a bad idea. So he kept quiet.

“Fine.”

"Another space case, eh?" DI Dimmock sneered, once he was filled in. "Your spaced out genius brain capable of handling this?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Considering I captured the suspect last time, yes.”

“Well,” Dimmock said, crossing his arms, “then I wish you good luck.”

“That’s it?” Sherlock asked. “Really? As much as I’d loathe to take it, it would make more sense to at least offer assistance.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not Lestrade,” Dimmock said, sneering. “You’re getting no help from me.”

“Tell me when Lestrade will be back,” Sherlock ordered.

“I don’t know.” Dimmock’s face was still, but his shoulders were smirking.

“Hold on a minute,” John said. “Dimmock, if I could have a word with you for a bit.”

“Certainly,” the DI said, pulling a face at Sherlock as they walked to a corner of the room.

“Look, Dimmock,” John said, ignoring the melodramatic look of betrayal Sherlock was sending his way, “I know Sherlock’s being a git with you, but we do need some help. We’ve got reason to suspect that there will be another killing soon.”

“I know,” Dimmock said, nodding, his voice more rounded. “But I can’t stand him, really. It hasn’t even been a day yet. I can’t really do anything for you.”

"Could you at least get us the case file for Arlington’s murders?" John asked. "Especially his diary."

"We’re going to need it, though," Dimmock replied. "You’re not the only one who’s noticed the connection between the cases."

"It’s okay. You can take the transcript, and we’ll take the actual diary."

Dimmock gave him an incredulous look. “That mess of scribbles?”

"Sherlock could read it last time," John said, shrugging.

"I’m not entirely convinced he wasn’t making it up as he went," Dimmock remarked.

"But you have to admit that he did solve the case. I’d say it was accurate." Dimmock just shrugged. "Look, it’d be better if both of us were working at the same time."

Dimmock bit his lip. “I’d have to check with the higher ups. They’ll need to know why I’m checking out the file.”

"But you can do it, yeah?" John repeated. "If not for him, then at least for me."

"I can hear you both, you know," Sherlock sniped.

This time, John wanted to smack himself.

"It’s none of your business," Dimmock snapped.

"I’m making it my business. I’m the one solving the case. I should know what’s going on."

"Why don’t you run off to the morgue?" Dimmock suggested, with strong undertones of Bugger off. “You won’t find the body from today, but you can gawk all you want at Arlington’s victims.”

"I need information on the crime scenes, not the bodies themselves," Sherlock sneered. He still turned to leave.

John looked beseechingly at Dimmock. “You’ll do it?” he asked once more. Thrice and done. He knew Sherlock rarely left him behind on purpose, but he was almost in his little zone now.

"Fine," Dimmock agreed. "The sooner we all can get this over with, the better."

————

Much to John’s surprise, the following cab ride didn’t take them to St. Barts. After some rather annoying traffic, they found themselves at the Royal Observatory. Which was a bit much—really, they could just go to a library, but Sherlock never did things halfway.

Two almanacs and one astronomer later, (“Why didn’t you know about Pluto and the moon?” “I’m a doctor, not an space expert!”) they found what they were looking for.

John knew that Sherlock had a bit of a running grudge with space after his ignorance of heliocentrism had been revealed, but this was a bit much.

"I don’t quite see the point with the whole ‘House of Scorpio’ and that silly astrology nonsense," Sherlock huffed as they walked out of the Royal Observatory.

"That’s not what the Observatory’s about, Sherlock," John said. At times, it was hard to tell if Sherlock genuinely didn’t know, or simply didn’t care.

"But that’s what the diary was going on about." He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. "All that rot about fate and celestial powers. What effect could a planet light years away possibly have on people’s development and personalities?"

John thought about the times he had read a horoscope in idle curiosity and conveniently forgot about them for the duration.

"Even the part that was actually about the planet—it’s not even a planet, actually. It’s a dwarf planet—and those constellations was very illogical.” He gestured at the sky, even though the only star that was out was the sun, and even that was buried under heavy cloud cover. “He spoke of those constellations as actual entities. Even the Observatory talked about them like that. It’s nonsensical! The stars aren’t anywhere actually near each other—they’re spaced out hundreds and thousands of light years apart.”

"We would need some way to keep track of them all, though," John tried to explain. "There are so many stars, it’d be impossible to really do anything if they weren’t sorted into groups."

He also had fond memories of summer nights with his grandfather in the country, the old man tracing shapes in the sky. But that wasn’t the type of thing you could bring into an argument with Sherlock.

"But why those groups? Why those pictures? It’s so arbitrary. Ursa Major doesn’t even look anything like a bear."

"I don’t know. I’m not the one who made them," John said, starting to get aggravated. "What’s the point? Why does this matter?"

"That’s what I’m saying! It’s just this silly human construct, imposed on something that’s far more complex than we can accept."

"Don’t you do that with your mind palace? Arranging everything into rooms—it has it’s uses, you know," John retorted.

Sherlock had nothing to say in return, only hailing a cab.

—————

They had just enough time to make it to the morgue to see the previous victims. Well, pictures, anyway.

"I can never see an actual body, it seems," Sherlock grumbled, seated at the lab table with the lurid photos arrayed in front of him. He scribbled notes on a pad nearby, pen rasping loudly against the paper. "It would be so much easier if I could have the body in the room with me."

"We can’t really give you those bodies," Molly said, uneasily. "I mean, not anymore. They’ve gone where they should be."

That sentence caught John by surprise. He should have known. He was a doctor, and even good ones became familiar with what happens after death. But it never really occurred to him when he was at the morgue that the autopsy bodies were people, who would go into caskets and be buried just as any dead person would.

"They should be here," Sherlock insisted. "You lose things if your depth perception isn’t there."

Molly started squirming in discomfort, shooting a glance toward the door. “I guess.”

"So," John prompted, steering the conversation to somewhere safer, "what do you think?"

"Two things, mainly," Sherlock said. Molly edged toward the doorway in the meantime, keeping an ear turned toward them. "First of all, it’s clearly meant to send a message, but to whom?"

"Lestrade?" John guessed. "It was left on his doorstep."

"Just because he was given the message doesn’t mean he was the intended recipient. So many people are involved in this. The message could have been for any of them."

"In fact, a lot more people have gotten involved with this case than the one before," Sherlock realized. "Leaving the body by a camera, dumping the body at a DI’s house, disrupting the morning commute in a residential area—all the bodies had been tattooed with that poem, but this is far more visible. Arlington’s murders were really discreet in comparison."

"Definitely not dumping things on doorsteps, for that matter," John remarked.

"It may not even have a single recipient," Sherlock continued. "It could be intended for the public, at least partially. I’d considered extreme anarchy as a motive—genuine chaos anarchy, not just anti-establishment. But if he’s as high up in the organization as I believe he is, then the group is less about completely mindless destruction and more about creating some sort of twisted salvation for the rest of mankind. And there’s also his comment about the stars…" 

He stared pensively at nothing in particular. “Maybe it could mean the public? The universe? He’s certainly overestimating his reach if so.”

"He could be referring to his god." Molly stood on the foyer, not quite inside or outside. She flushed red at their sudden attention. "Erm, you said it was some cult, right? I think that’s what they’d do, y’know. Like, some kind of sacrifice ritual thingy."

Sherlock made a noise of dismissal. “That must mean he’s more deluded than I thought.”

"I-it’s not that bad an idea," Molly protested, moving her hands about as if to catch her fumbling words and put them back together. "He has to be crazy to make a cult in the first place, you know! I mean—he…you know what I mean!" Her ramble cut off in a flustered squeak.

"She does have a point," John began.

Sherlock cut him off with a sweep of his arm. “No. Don’t you remember his diary?”

"I could barely read it, Sherlock," John replied. "All the related sections were practically gibberish."

"It was also terribly convenient that the tattoos still rhymed when translated into English," Sherlock noted, looking back at the pictures. "I believe it’s a simple invented alphabet. But the letters don’t seem to match up." He went silent, probably doing some bizarre probability calculation in his head. "Quite frustrating. I need a larger sample of this code."

"You’d probably need another murder to occur for that," John said slowly.

“That will take too long,” Sherlock grumbled. “I can’t wait a week and a half.” He glared at the ceiling, even though he couldn’t see the sky and it wasn’t even night yet. “Why can’t Pluto just orbit faster?”

“Sherlock…” John sighed. He was just incorrigible. “Not good.”

“I’ve stopped caring about good,” he said, blithely. And that was the end of that.

Chapter Text

I’m sorry if I’ve been dragging on a bit. There are people far better at this than I.

Don’t ask me how the astronomer reacted to their… pleasant conversation. Needless to say, she left it just as frustrated as Sherlock did.

I hope you never have to put up with a conversation or a person like that, ever.

Sherlock’s mood did improve greatly the next day, however. Something big had happened with Arlington.

————

"Finally!" Sherlock cried. "A body I can use!"

"He’s dead?” John gasped. “What do you mean, he’s dead?"

"He committed suicide," Lestrade reported. "There is writing on the walls. In blood."

Sherlock stood abruptly. “That can’t be right,” he said, frowning. “He wasn’t suicidal. Never showed a single sign.”

John scoured his mind for any information on Arlington’s mental health. No one denied that he was insane, but he hadn’t been suicidal, had he? True, he had been part of an apocalypse cult, but this was definitely suspicious.

Lestrade shrugged. “Until we can find who could sneak into a high security prison and commit murder without leaving a single trace of their entry, it’s a suicide.”

"That makes even less sense, though!" Sherlock started pacing. "The guards are idiots, but surely they’re intelligent enough to protect inmates from self-harm."

"That’s the second problem," Lestrade interjected. "We have absolutely no idea how he could’ve killed himself."

"Been killed," Sherlock corrected. "No weapons of any kind, yes?"

Lestrade shook his head. “There are no detectable wounds on his body. And it’s highly unlikely that he could’ve concoct—” Sherlock gave him a pointed glare. “Sorry, been poisoned.”

"The blood has to have come from somewhere else." Sherlock closed his eyes, giving himself a moment to plan. He looked up at Lestrade. "Where’s his body?"

"Coroner’s having a look at it right now.”

"That makes things much easier."

“Wait,” Lestrade said, knowing that Sherlock already had both feet out the door, “I need a suspect list.”

John knew that they hadn’t been doing anything related to finding actual suspects, but he still assumed that Sherlock had some kind of ideas in mind. But Sherlock merely scowled. “I—I don’t have one yet,” he admitted.

“What have you been doing?” Lestrade demanded. “I need a suspect list.”

“You can’t rush these things,” Sherlock said, words curling into a sneer. “Unless I have Arlington’s diary, I cannot tell who was involved.”

“Not even from the body?” John asked. “I thought you’d—”

“It was a group effort,” he answered, not looking at either of them. “Multiple people with small, silver knives.” He gestured at his torso. “There were stab wounds, all over the body, and the angles of impact indicate that the murderers were of various heights. Also, that they continued stabbing after the man had fallen down dead.”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Lestrade asked, his voice rough with frustration. He pointed out the window. “I have the entire press after me for these murders, saying that I’m complicit in not doing anything about them. As if I’d let murderers continue killing.”

There were no photographers or reporters outside, but both Sherlock and John understood the sentiment. Very well.

“It’s only been a day, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, softly.

“I know that too,” Lestrade said, averting his eyes for a moment. “But they don’t seem to realize that.”

He nodded briefly. “We will do what we can.”

It could never be said that Lestrade was relaxed, but his shoulders loosened with some small relief. “If you can come with me to the Yard, I could give you the diary. Dimmock’s been holding it for you, actually.”

John almost smiled.

————

There may not have been reporters on Baker Street, but there were plenty waiting by the Yard. A crowd of men and women in suits and dresses crowded near the doors, a few hassling the people who came and went through.

"Buzzards," Sherlock spat, glaring out the window. Lestrade said nothing, but the hard set of his mouth was more than enough agreement.

"How will we get in?" John asked.

"I thought you might know something about press evasion," Lestrade said, glumly.

"There is very little the media won’t do," Sherlock said, coldly. "And coming from me, that must mean something."

"Did you have a plan?" John asked.

"Besides park the car and run? Not really," Lestrade said.

They pulled into the parking lot, a few sharp-eyed reporters noticing their entrance. They began making their way over. Sherlock’s leg started twitching. Lestrade said something unprintable.

"I doubt speaking like that will make us any less of a target," John remarked. While it didn’t lighten the mood, they still chuckled. Sherlock might have smiled.

"Well, let’s do this," Lestrade said. "Once more unto the breach."

They opened the doors almost simultaneously. As one, the horde of reporters closed in.

"Mr. Lestrade, what do you have to say about the death of Robert Arlington?"

"Mr. Holmes, this has been your first public appearance in a Scotland Yard case. What made you take up detective work again?"

"Mr. Holmes, it is suspected that you were involved in the Arlington case. Does it have anything to do with these killings?"

“Mr. Lestrade—”

"Mr. Holmes—"

They forged on ahead through the crush of reporters, dodging microphones and cameras and, from the boldest, limbs. Slowly, the glass doors of the Yard inched closer. John kept his face neutral in the supersaturated light, exposing no emotion, not even the annoyance and anger that continued to bubble beneath. As soon as they seemed to come close to the end of the mob, the reporters would follow them, throwing themselves back in at the front. It was disgusting. And they would have to do it again to leave the building.

They were right in reach of the door handles when a single voice cut through the crowd.

"Dr. Watson, was it you who killed that man?"

And then the pavement was rushing up at his face, a dull roar filling his ears as the words burst forth from whatever dark corner they had hidden.

Thing of blood and Void and stone.

Cursed are thee to die alone.

—————- 

He woke up in a white, sterile room, with a panicked gasp.

"John!" Sherlock stood from his seat nearby the bed, almost knocking the chair over.

"What happened?" he asked. "Are you alright? Where’s Lestrade?"

"He’s back at the Yard. He left after they’d gotten you to St. Bart’s." Sherlock pulled out his phone, likely texting the man about him waking up. "After you fainted, the reporters fled en masse. Seems like they don’t want to face anything messy, especially when it’s their fault." He finished the text, pocketing the phone. "How do you feel? You seem alright enough—pupils focusing, breathing rate steady, regular heart rate too, if the monitors are correct."

"I’m fine." Which was sort of a lie—he was physically fine, but mentally, he was reeling still. "What happened with the diary?"

"Dimmock dropped it off. I’ve been reading it while I waited for you." The red leather notebook was sitting innocuously on a table nearby. So much trouble for something that small. "What happened to you? You just…fainted."

"Someone…" His mouth froze on him. Could he really tell Sherlock about this? True, it was no secret that he had suffered from nightmares for a long time in the first months of their living together. But John had kept the exact contents of those nightmares tightly under wraps. Even Sherlock would find them disturbing and strange.

"They’re not here now, are they?" Sherlock turned and scanned the room. It was empty, besides them and another patient, sleeping in a bed behind the separating curtain. "You think you’re still under threat. Someone did this to you, and you’re worried that it will happen again."

"It’s nothing," John said, automatically.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “It’s definitely something. Don’t lie to me, John. You can’t be that stupid.”

"It’s not stupid," John said, looking at the sheets instead.

"You’re in perfect health. The doctors have no idea what caused your collapse—all your brain functions are normal. No toxins in your system. Nothing. If you can’t tell me about what happened, then we can’t help prevent this from possibly happening again." His tone of voice threatened retribution for any attempts at argument.

"You said it yourself—I’m completely fine. There’s no point in trying to find anything."

Sherlock stared at him, as if trying to wrench an answer from John himself. “Don’t think that this is done.”

"Shouldn’t we be focused on the case?" John said.

"You are in a hospital bed, John. This is not something to be treated lightly."

"Get started on the case first. Then I will tell you something," John said. "I’m in no threat of dying, but there are other people who will be if we can’t catch the killers."

Sherlock scowled. “Are you sure that you’re fine?”

"Can’t you tell?" John asked in return.

An uneasy silence fell. “I’ll call the nurse,” Sherlock said.

Chapter Text

Needless to say, the walk to the morgue was more than a little awkward. The hard silence from the hospital bed continued to hang over them as they left the front desk. 

"I think someone in his group went and killed him. Arlington, I mean," John said, conversationally.

Sherlock blinked in mild confusion, coming back from whatever part of his brain he’d been sequestered in. “Yes,” he said. “No one else would know the code the message was written in. But…”

"But what?"

"It was either a power play, or a way to keep him quiet," Sherlock pointed out. "Likely both."

"But he’d already talked to us."

"That doesn’t mean he wasn’t going to talk more." They headed down a set of stairs, to a somewhat unfamiliar hallway. "In any case, this means that they can enter and exit the prison without being caught. And that they can tell who comes and goes to his cell. Namely, us."

"So one of them must have been in the press mob," John thought aloud.

It wasn’t really possible for people to stutter when they weren’t talking. But there was no other way to describe how Sherlock reacted.

"What?" His exclamation drew a few stares, though they were quickly dropped when the people realized who it was. John kept walking, as if nothing had happened. But Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulder and stepped into his path. "Explain," he growled, voice dropping impossibly low.

"We shouldn’t keep Molly waiting," John replied, trying to shake Sherlock’s hand off.

If anything, Sherlock loomed closer. John met his eyes and couldn’t quite look away. “You are being patently ridiculous John. Answer me. What happened outside Scotland Yard?”

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Someone in the crowd—a man, I think, triggered a war flashback.”

Sherlock scanned his face, analyzing it for any hints of a lie. “It wasn’t just a flashback, John. You would’ve reacted much differently.”

"It was a flashback," John insisted. It was over. Gone. The voices and the words were no longer there. He would not let them come back.

"I never did ask what happened in Afghanistan," Sherlock murmured. "I see now that may have been a mistake."

"I will not tell you." In the recesses of his mind, a strange tingling began to occur. Stop. "I can’t, Sherlock. It’d happen again."

The click of shoes on tile came down the hall. Both of them turned toward the sound. Molly’s surprised face looked back.

"Oh! Hi. There you are." She clasped her hands in front of her, looking anywhere but at them. "I was wondering where you were. Um, are you alright, John?"

"I’m fine," he replied stiffly, pulling himself out of Sherlock’s grasp. Molly was certainly a sweet person, and he had choice words for anyone who thought badly of her, but the way she was starting to blush boded ill for everyone.

“He is by no means alright,” Sherlock said, still glowering.

“I’m a doctor. I should be able to tell when I’m alright,” he snapped.

Poor Molly just looked between the two, not quite sure what to make of this. “Um, well, if you do end up fainting again, you couldn’t pick a better place to do it,” she said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “The morgue?”

With a strangled “Eep!” she clapped her hands over her mouth. “Not what I meant—not what I meant at all. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, Molly,” John said, doing his best to smile. It must’ve worked somewhat, as she looked a little less deer-like. “Let’s just go see the body, okay? We’re sorry we kept you waiting.”

“Not at all,” she said. “I thought you’d just gotten lost.”

“I’m never lost,” Sherlock argued.

“Right this way, then,” Molly said, leading them down the corridor.

————

Arlington’s body was cold. Very cold. Sherlock reached down to inspect his arm, and pulled his hand back out of surprise.

“Why is this so cold?” he asked, looking up at Molly.

“I don’t know either,” she said, shrugging. “The transport’s not exactly refrigerated. Could’ve been something with the cell.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “It wasn’t when we went there.” Making a mental note, he moved on.

While he was looking over every inch of the body, John stared at Arlington’s face. While it had been bony yesterday, today it was positively skeletal. The eyes were closed, but he didn’t look like he was sleeping. Not even close. They were squeezed shut instead, as if he had a headache. The jaw was clenched tight, lips parted in an expression of what was very obviously pain. His fists were clenched too, knuckles white and straining up against the skin.

It was too soon for rigor mortis  The body was still movable, more like some cumbersome doll than a bone hard corpse. But the fingers were locked up, and Sherlock was still trying to get Arlington’s mouth open.

John looked at something safer, the tattoo on his left arm. Sherlock was right—the old ink looked very different from the marks left on the businessman.

Molly wasn’t unnerved—civilian or not, it was her job, after all. But even so, she leaned slightly toward the door. “So, what do you know about this?” she asked, looking to Sherlock for answers.

“This is…very strange,” he said, a hint of excitement in his voice. He didn’t look up, still poking around with the body. “The body is colder than room temperature, yet it hasn’t reached rigor mortis. It should still be above room temperature. And the stiffening has been rather…selective, shall we say. I don’t know if this was due to chemicals and poisons or something else, but it is very interesting.” He looked to Molly. “Any ideas on the cause of death?”

"Hypoxia," John blurted out. "Sorry," he said, sheepishly.

Molly nodded. “Yes, that’s what I was thinking.”

"But from what? Sarin?" He made another attempt with the mouth, leaning in and sniffing when it stayed stuck.

"What are you doing?" Molly asked, confused. "It’s odorless, isn’t it?"

"Yes. Meaning it could still be sarin. It is a paralytic—stop the diaphragm, stop the breathing. But how would they get the gas in? Or prevent it from accidentally spreading?" He stepped back from the body, brow wrinkled in thought. "I should have waited for the toxicology report. The media pressure is making a mess of this."

“I can do it,” Molly said, quickly. “But…what will you be doing in the meantime?”

“Figuring out the code. It is frustrating enough to keep me occupied in the meantime.”

—————

John was quickly conscripted into the code hunt. After a crash course on matrix-based cryptography and letter frequencies in the English language, he was left with a sentence and a few ideas. None of which actually panned out, of course. All it did was make him feel frustrated. But he continued making attempts. It was better than letting his mind wander.

Sherlock had the diary next to him, cross-referencing it with the photos of the tattoos. At one point, he burst out into a ten minute rant on how unhelpful it was.

"I swear it was completely legible when we were solving Arlington’s murders," he ranted. "And yet now, I can’t determine anything about the cult besides the members’ eating habits!"

"Eating habits?"

"Apparently, Arlington was responsible for bringing food to the cult gatherings," Sherlock said, sounding completely offended. "You would not believe how many grocery lists I’ve seen in this journal. Can’t you have given me some other clue?"

John, unable to say anything in response beside a comment on how Sherlock was slipping, brought silence back to the room for another fifteen minutes. At which point he gave up with his code.

Sherlock had begun humming something tunelessly beneath his breath, which made John feel very uneasy for some reason. It was very odd, but he supposed that it would be the nearest substitute for his violin. Hopefully, Sherlock wouldn’t be picking it up for a while. Just thinking about the odd incident—or had it actually happened? John frowned. He couldn’t quite remember anymore. Even if it had been a dream, it still made him feel strangely about Sherlock’s instrument.

Their little code breaking session was interrupted by a soft cough from the door of the room. It was Molly. ”The blood tests came back,” she said, standing in the doorway. Right away, John felt something was off. She held her right arm across her torso, clutching her left tightly. Her mouth was bent in a small frown. And she was blinking rapidly, trying hard to keep her breathing under control, and failing.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. This was a fairly uncharacteristic reaction from Molly. “And?”

The girl gulped nervously, trying visibly not to shake. “Sherlock. It’s John’s blood.”

"What?" He was sitting, but his legs went numb.

Sherlock had jumped out of his seat. “Let me see,” he demanded. “There must have been a mistake. That couldn’t have happened.”

He was so suddenly forceful that what remained of Molly’s composure began to slip. “I—it’s accurate. The machine—”

"Why were you even testing it? Let me see. Show me the gel." He loomed over her, almost touching, and Molly’s mouth failed completely on her. "Show me!"

"I didn’t do the test—it wasn’t me, they just gave me the results."

"Who’s ‘they’? Where—"

It was too much.

"Sherlock." John’s voice stopped them both cold. Sherlock stared at him intently, and John met his eyes. He was still here. He wasn’t dead yet. "Please, leave her alone. She had nothing to do with it."

"We need to find the one who did the testing," Sherlock said, not moving.

"And we can do that better with Molly’s help," John explained. "Now please, give her space and stop pressuring her. You’re doing yourself no favours."

Sherlock’s shoulders were taut with tension as he backed away from Molly. She continued stealing nervous looks at him out of the corner of her eye as she spoke to John. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, John, please—”

"It’s not your fault," John repeated. "You didn’t put the blood there."

"Someone did," Sherlock snapped, banging a hand on the table. "Someone took enough blood from you to write that ridiculous message on the wall. And he’s probably the same person who made you collapse earlier, right?"

John gripped the table. “Freaking out won’t help,” he said.

"And what brilliant ideas might you have, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock said, caustically.

"Namely, telling Lestrade. We need to get this information out. I need protection, yes, but so do a lot of other people, potentially." He closed his eyes and took a breath. "If they can get to me without noticing, what else do you think they can do?"

He thought of the cold, skeletal body, sitting on the coroner’s table in the next room. Clear as day, he could hear Arlington laugh.

Chapter Text

Oh, please don’t be afraid. I didn’t want to make you afraid. It’s just a story, see? It’s only real because I tell you so. 

Here. Take this hot chocolate. Feel it warming your hands? Smell the wood and listen to it crackle. This is the now. What I tell you has already happened. And no amount of worry will change things.

Perhaps you can make the fire bigger, if it makes you feel better. It will scare off the monsters that aren’t there.

————

After the blood test, it all went downhill. John knew that he was, by nature, a large target. But even though he kept his hands steady and still went to work the day after, it was starting to wear him down. It was different from running through the streets of London in a reciprocal pursuit. This was a more insidious foe, not one he could strike at with either his gun or medicine. There were moments where he’d walk past a camera, and become acutely aware that someone was giving him unwanted attention and that he couldn’t reach them in return.

But he at least knew who was behind the CCTV cameras. Arlington did have a point.

Sherlock, in the meantime, had become absolutely frantic. It was oddly touching, how much he cared, but at the same time, it was beginning to hurt him.

They called Mycroft, of course. While Sherlock continued pursuing the case with a vicious intensity, John collaborated with Mycroft to set up protective measures. Security would be stepped up at the Yard, especially for those involved on the case. Baker Street was no longer safe. Everyone was to be moved somewhere safer. Within a day of finishing the plans, their belongings were packed and they stood in their flat, waiting for the sleek black car to come and take them away.

“You don’t have to do this, boys,” Mrs. Hudson said, bundled up in her coat and holding her carpetbag in both hands. “No one would go after a little old lady like me. You’re wasting your time.”

“Protecting me is more of a waste of time,” Sherlock said, pacing the room with the exactness of a copper on his beat. “I’ll put you all in danger.”

“But you’re young! You’ve done so much for this city. And your brother could never just let you go.”

John had already tried to convince them otherwise. This wasn’t something they would change their minds about, but that didn’t stop him from giving it one more shot. “Both of you, just stop. You’re both important and worth protecting. Right?” he said, daring them to challenge him.

Sherlock sneered. “Don’t be so noble, John. You’re the one who’s put us through all this trouble in the first place.”

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson cried.

“It’s true.”

It meant nothing. It was a reflex, nothing more. Him and his habit of pushing people away to protect them. “Sherlock, I know this is a troubling time, but for God’s sake, could you just keep quiet for the next few minutes? I want to get this over with as soon as possible.”

Sherlock merely stared at him coolly, shutting down the ire that had burst forth. Then he went back to his pacing. Back and forth and back and forth before him, as if neither he nor Mrs. Hudson were there.

Mrs. Hudson looked up at John with pleading eyes. “I worry for him,” she said, soft enough for Sherlock to hear.

“He’ll come back,” John said, putting an arm around her and hugging her briefly. She had a gentle perfume on, as if she was only going out for a night on the town. He squeezed a little tighter. “We’ll fix this, Mrs. Hudson. I promise.”

A knock came from the door. “It is I,” Mycroft called.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Always so dramatic,” he muttered, going to the door.

“I have little choice,” Mycroft said, opening it himself. “Are you all ready?”

John looked around at the walls. Most of the furniture was still there. But the skull was gone from the mantlepiece, the tabletops were cleaned of junk, and even the notes on the board were taken off. He had been in his room not fifteen minutes ago, staring at the cleaned off walls and his empty closet. The bookshelves had so much space in them now.

They would come back, of course. They had to.

“Yes,” he said.

Mycroft observed him impassively. John didn’t quite care. “Right then. This way, please.”

The three of them walked out the door, shutting off all the lights as they went. The door was locked. They didn’t bother with 221A. Mrs. Hudson had taken care of that already.

Once outside, they loaded their belongings into the cars, one for each of them. If there was one thing you could say about Mycroft, it was that he did security well.

 Sherlock knocked on the driver’s door to his car. “A moment, please. I left something inside.”

It was a bald-faced lie, of course. John had helped him pack everything. And Sherlock had been for more meticulous than any of the three. But Mycroft said nothing, and the driver nodded. He would’ve gone up the steps unopposed had Mrs. Hudson not run up to him and hugged him tight to her chest.

"You can’t let me go without saying goodbye," she scolded, beginning to cry a little.

Sherlock didn’t smile. “I apologize,” he said, gravely. “That would’ve been a massive oversight.” He hugged her back.

John went up to join them, and the three of them stood there in each other’s embrace. When they let go, she kissed them both on the cheek.

"You be good, boys. And don’t go shooting up any walls."

Then she walked to the car and stepped in. The driver started the car, and with that, Mrs. Hudson left Baker Street.

————-

Mycroft rode in John’s car. Or rather, Mycroft brought John into his car. It wasn’t exactly unexpected, but never before had they held one of their meetings in the actual car. He supposed it was better, as it wasn’t quite as awkward as sitting there and making passes at Anthea or Otulissa or Imogene or whoever she was. But that was a silly little game. This was far more serious.

"Before you ask, no, I have no idea what he’s going into that house for," he said. "I could’ve stayed and found out for you.”

"Asking you would be a formality," Mycroft said. "I could find out easily enough. What I do need is—"

"Case information? Spying? We have nothing, Mycroft," John snapped. "Nothing. And it’s driving Sherlock and me up the bleeding walls."

Mycroft waited out the outburst, barely even frowning in response to his wording. As soon as the words left his mouth, John buried his head in his hands. “God, I’m sorry,” he said. “But what can I do?”

"I understand you’re feeling frustrated?" Mycroft said, lightly.

John snorted. “You could say that.”

"Which brings us to the matter at hand: my brother."

"I thought you said you knew where he was going," John said, confused.

"That I do. But I don’t know how he’s been taking the case." He paused for a moment, gathering words. "This peculiar case has been very distressing indeed, for the public as well. How extreme has his reaction been?"

"You don’t know?"

"Would I ask if I did? You know how well he can track down bugs. It’s almost not worth the effort putting them there."

That made John shudder. And then he began recalling the days before.

————-

"You’re on a case!" John shouted. "Why do you need drugs?"

Sherlock, to his credit, did seem ashamed. “I have my reasons,” he said, waving a hand impatiently.

"This is ridiculous! As a friend and a doctor, I must say no."

"I’ll find them, then. Just like I always will."

John’s heart beat faster. “Why? Why do you need them? You’ve never needed them before.” He had absolutely no idea what went through his friend’s brain on even the best of days, but his own brain was a whirlwind of worry. Sherlock only resorted to cigarettes and the heavier fare when his thoughts became too much for him. They were used to turn him off, mute his brain. But on cases, he didn’t even dare eat, lest he reduce blood flow to his brain by diverting it to his digestive system. For Sherlock to want drugs during a case like this, when lives that he would die for were on the line, would imply things that horrified John.

Sherlock stared at him, bright eyes boring into his brain and plucking out the thoughts in a way that could only happen if Sherlock had thought them himself. “I need them,” he said. “Please.”

John shook his head. Seeing the apartment trashed would be more merciful than this. That would at least be normal.

Perhaps it was stupid to delude themselves that things were okay, but he had lost control for fear once before. That had been Baskerville.

And by God, he would do better this time.

————

Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly in alarm.

"Tell me," he demanded, "did he take any narcotics?"

John shook his head. “What do you take me for?”

Mycroft sat back in the seat, leaning into it without regard for posture. “So I was right to bring sedatives.”

"What?" John almost jumped out of his seat.

"Do you see any other options?"

The worst part was that he was right. “So if you’re desperate enough as to drug him, why the hell are you letting him run free in London? He’ll be trying to track down the cult—”

John didn’t even know what to think of the culprits anymore. At the beginning, they had been cowled figures, holding bloody knives and chanting in strange languages, black hoods hiding faces as demented as Arlington’s. Now, he wasn’t even sure if they were human. Perhaps it was the time of year, but chills ran down his spine when he thought about them now. They had done what even Mycroft couldn’t do.

"Rest assured that he is not alone in his efforts," Mycroft said. "It is likely that I have even more information on them than he does."

"I—you never told us!" So they could’ve gotten help and resources from him, and prevented all this insanity from happening. And now Sherlock was likely being restrained and forcibly sedated by Mycroft’s henchmen.

It was only because John had gone incoherent with anger that the rat was able to continue talking. "It’s true I haven’t been entirely forthright with you," he admitted. "But I did have the best intentions. You see—"

A phone rang, emitting an incessant steady beeping. Even the driver froze at the noise. Slowly, Mycroft reached into his pocket, pulling out an innocuous looking smartphone. He brought it out carefully, reading the message on its screen. John looked away in politeness, but he swore that from his angle, the screen was completely black.

"Mr. Jones," Mycroft said, addressing the driver, calmly "change our course. We have a Code Rhubarb on our hands."

With a harsh squeal of the tires, the car took off at double the speed. John fell back in his seat, sputtering in surprise.

"What happened?" he asked, feeling a panic start to rise out of his chest.

Mycroft pocketed his phone. “The situation has gotten dire indeed.”

Chapter Text

The car careened down the streets of London, with Mycroft either staring out the window, or at the dashboard clock. He clearly had some sort of exemption from traffic laws, but whenever the car had come to pick John up, the driver observed them all, including a few that John wasn’t even aware existed. 

Now the driver was going twice the speed limit in a crowded city, and looked to go even faster. Outside the window, it was like time lapse photography of a decaying city. There were boarded up windows, broken glass, and faded graffiti. Not a place he recognized, but it certainly wouldn’t be alien to Sherlock.

Stupid, he thought, clenching his fist. He knew that Sherlock had been threatening a relapse, and he’d still left him alone.

Five minutes later, the car screeched to a stop in front of a decrepit alleyway. John flew forward, choking on the seat belt. A black van pulled in next to them. Mycroft was out the door when John was still struggling with the seat belt. A very peculiar smell came into the car.

A very familiar voice let out a string of curses.

“Sherlock!” And there he stood, in the middle of an alleyway. He was yelling at Mycroft, watching and trying to decide whether it’d be better to attack or just run. That smell was stronger now, disrupting John’s thoughts as he tried to place—oh.

He looked at the walls. It wasn’t fresh, but it certainly smelled like it. The bricks looked pale in comparison to the dark, rust tinted message painted on them. Perhaps this was what the message on Arlington’s cell wall had looked like.

The words came roaring back, clawing their way from wherever it was they hid.

Cage of flesh and seal unbroken,

with one prick he will be woken.

With a hiss of pain, he grabbed at his head and felt his pulse pound in his temples.

Someone rushed to his side, calling his name. He couldn’t hear clearly, for the fuzzy murmur of uncountable voices speaking at once was making the world seem a little blurred on the edges. He felt a hand grasp his shoulder, catching him as he slowly slipped toward the ground. The hand was pulled away by someone else.

Was he starting to see things too? Fleeting impressions of color danced in front of him, growing more intense with the pain. He heard people arguing, a man begging for something, and another man refusing.

“It’s the only way. He won’t be harmed, I promise.”

“You lead him here.”

“To show you how dangerous it is. Sherlock, you can’t continue down this road.”

“Fine. Just take him away. Please.”

————

When he came to, he couldn’t move at first. Though he drew panicked, non-existent breaths, he knew what to do, instead waiting for his body to realize he was awake.

Sleep paralysis. Apparently, it could occur when you were knocked out too.

“Ah, good. You’re awake.” Clearly, the room belonged to Mycroft. The couch John was currently lying in was velvet soft, some Victorian thing that oozed class. He sat up, and saw a bookshelf on the other side of the room, filled with leatherbound, thick tomes. A Persian carpet covered hardwood flooring. Mycroft sat in a tall sofa, looking as much a part of the room as the furniture. All very expected.

But of course, Mycroft could always manage to surprise him. John pointed at the ceiling as he got up. “Tell me: have I gone mad, or is there a reason for that pentagram?”

“What do you think?” Mycroft asked. “You’re not my brother, but you can be very perceptive when you want.” He waved a languid arm at the walls. “It’s for the same reason as the concrete here.”

“Awfully prison-like,” John snarked. “What with the lack of windows and everything.” Mycroft didn’t react at all. “You were going to give me an explanation in the car. You’ve got your captive audience here. Now talk.”

Mycroft sighed. “Forgive me. If I could’ve told you sooner, I would’ve.”

“You’d better have a damn good reason, Mycroft,” John snarled. “Your brother is dying. People are dying. My friends are in danger. Unless it’s the end of the world, you can’t convince me that you did a good thing.”

Mycroft smiled bitterly. “Do you honestly think that I am not aware of that?”

“Prove it,” John said. “You knew something, and didn’t do anything.”

“Sometimes, knowing is not enough.” John thought of the sad man who had died in prison, likely in pain. “This is like the Yellowstone Caldera, in a way.”

“Pardon?”

“The Northwest United States rests above a massive hotspot of geologic activity. The area around the hotspot is essentially a volcano, 3,960 square kilometres in area. It has erupted rather regularly over history, the latest one being 640,000 years ago. According to some, we are rather overdue for an eruption.”

John had never seen a volcano before. But images of heat and smoke and choking ash were in ready supply. “Oh my god.” Hadn’t there been this Greek city, where people were literally frozen in stone, buried in burning rocks?

Mycroft continued. “It would fling enough ash into the air to create severe respiratory problems for most of North America, as well as cause rapid atmospheric cooling. Crops would fail. Nations would be crippled.” He looked John straight in the eye. “You’ve heard of Krakatoa and its 1883 eruption, I presume? Perhaps even Pompeii? This would be much, much worse. And no one on earth would be able to do a thing about it. There is no way to negotiate with it. It doesn’t follow any morality. It just is. Yet that alone is enough to threaten humanity.”

“So you see, it may be true that I knew something. And believe me, I know quite a lot about what has transpired, and what lead up to this calamity.” He paused, looking up at the pentagram. It must have been hard to put it up there. The truly effective ones were painted with blood. “But I believe you know a little about the Old Ones, don’t you?” John grit his teeth, trying to focus on Mycroft’s words. He was being completely sincere, and that made it worse. “I’ve always wondered how you earned your scars. And for that, John Hamish Watson, I am very sorry indeed.”

John bowed his head and took a deep breath. “There was no need to do that.” He felt a twinge in his shoulder, a fierce ache in his leg. “For what it’s worth I’m sorry too.” He laughed, a quick, hollow sound. “Figured there’d be some shadowy government thing going on with this. That’s why you’re involved in this, yeah? That’s why you got all that power?”

Mycroft frowned. “John. You will see that the Holmes family has a much more…personal connection to them. You are familiar, I take it, with hosts?”

John’s heart dropped out of his chest. “No. No.”

Mycroft waited. John buried his head in his hands. “Oh god. Oh my god.”

"Arlington’s cult has had a long history, I’m afraid," Mycroft said. "But what would you expect? We had Jack the Ripper. They may not keep his name anymore, but his mission, his creed—Our mother came home late that night, and…"

"So Mrs. Holmes made love with a fucking Shoggoth from a higher dimension?"

The iceman snapped. “You imply that Mummy did it on purpose,” he spat, facade breaking in the face of cold rage, “when really, it was never like that. It wasn’t her doing at all!”

John put his head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. He’d seen things, heard horror stories. Situations like these, they were never like that. And this…

"It was a natural assumption to make," Mycroft said, with great derision. Whatever standing John had held in his eyes was rapidly diminishing.

"So, is there anything…"

He got a sad smile in return, loaded with toxic pity. “I wish I could be so optimistic. Depending on how far he’s fallen, the best we could do is nuke this city into oblivion. And that might send his Sire calling.”

John shook his head. “What will happen, then?”

"The Shining One is a minor Outer deity," Mycroft explained. "Sherlock is only a human, with a human mind. The only reason he has held out for so long is through careful control of his environment and strict observation. We’ve had some close calls with the drugs, but, as you can see, it worked out."

John thought of how often his flatmate had bad days now. How tormented he looked, eyes squeezed tight even though he knew that it was all inside his head. “So it’s just gonna get worse, then?” he said, asking instead of stating, in his desperate denial.

"His brain will tear itself apart." It sounded more like a scripted report than a brother. Perhaps because that made it easier. "Any inhibitions will disappear. He’ll be at the mercy of every dark urge, every disrupting thought. You will likely be cheated of death, along with the rest of his loved ones. Eventually, he will feed on and pervert the emotions of those around him. If you wish to remain human, you must leave now. Leave, never return, and pray that he does not find you."

He wanted to hit something. He wanted to punch Mycroft in the face, feel cartilage snapping under his fist. But what good would it do, really? It wouldn’t accomplish anything, wouldn’t make him feel better, or make the situation any better. Breaking things. Increasing entropy. That was all it was.

"So you will stay?" Mycroft asked.

"As if I have a choice."

A heavy silence feel over them.

"If it makes you feel better, he may preserve the world after the carnage of his ascension. Out of curiosity. It would be better than being snuffed out entirely for amusement."

"And that’s supposed to make it better?" John scoffed. "What if he gets bored?"

"He will at least be kind enough to allot a portion of humanity as his control group."

"And how many would that be?"

"Depends how many he will use up."

John thought of Harry and Mike and his colleagues and fellow soldiers. “How many?” He tried to ask. And then wondered whether survival would be a mercy.

Please, God, he begged, even though he wouldn’t be heard, let them live. 

Chapter Text

He stayed in the room for a while longer, leaving only when Mycroft asked him to. The man had pulled a book off the shelf—a tome of eldritch lore. John had turned back to say something, only to watch the bookshelf swivel back into place. 

A secret room in the secret room. Probably just one in a small network. So that’s where he’d been keeping all the research and information. Most likely, he was going back to work some more. Not that it’d be much use, but then again. Mycroft could be rather predictable.

The door to the concrete bunker closed shut behind John, fading into the wall. With quiet steps, he walked down the hall. It was such a beautiful house, really, like a museum that people happened to live in. He could easily spend a day getting lost inside. Maybe he would. If he was going to be living here for as long as he expected to, then he might as well get started.

Something stirred behind him. “Back from your chat?”

He screamed. An honest to god scream came out of his mouth, and the only thing stopping him from sweeping Sherlock’s legs out from under him with a well-placed kick was a last minute realization. Sherlock stared at him with shock and apprehension. A deep shame filled John’s chest. This was still Sherlock. This was still his friend. Perhaps he was dead before he was born, but wasn’t everyone dying from the moment they drew breath?

“A very interesting one, I take it.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder, down the hallway. “I’ve always wondered what was in that room. But it would never open to me, even though I knew precisely how to open it. Though how they could install such a complex DNA sampling device as to distinguish me from my brother and still allow people like you inside…”

His eyes flicked back to John. John couldn’t quite keep his breathing steady. So that’s how they kept the circle fresh then. Clever. “I…I don’t know how to get in. I can’t—” God dammit, he was still John’s friend, not a monster. “I was still unconscious when they took me in.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s hands to inspect them. There were the smallest of needle marks on the fingertips of his left hand. “The mark is there. Why would they need to test you to get in? For future reference?”

John froze. What could he say? He wouldn’t dare lie, but how could he spin the truth to make him less suspicious?

Sherlock frowned. “John. What on earth happened back there? You’re shaking. Was it like what happened at the Yard? Tell me.”

That he could do. “I don’t even know. It’s just…” He gestured in front of him, as if he could call up the sigils they’d seen. “Those signs, they make my head feel strange and I hear voices, and—”

By the time he heard himself say it, it was too late. “Voices? I haven’t heard any. Why would they do that?”

"John? What do they say?"

John took a deep breath. Forget lying. Forget trying to save the world. He owed it to him to be honest.

"Sherlock," he said, feeling so, so tired, "please. Just…there are some things that people are better off not knowing."

Sherlock took a step back. “So that’s what it was about,” he spat. “Mycroft. No matter. I can do this myself.”

"Sherlock," John repeated. "Sherlock, don’t. I’m afraid."

Sherlock stared at him. That must have been quite the monkey wrench to his thought process. “Afraid of what?”

"Everything, now. Maybe even you." Sherlock blinked, his mouth falling open slightly. John reached out and took his hands, making eye contact. "Sherlock, just stop. Please. For me. You are putting you and everyone else in grave danger by doing this case. Let Mycroft handle it. He can get rid of the cult. He can stop the killings and get this case out of our lives. It’s been driving you insane, Sherlock. Have you not realized? Your work should be making you happy, but it’s killing you. And…"

Sherlock’s haughty disdain began to crumble. "John."

He looked away, unable to speak anymore. God, was he crying?

Sod it. He was. And he probably had every reason for it. Everything was so completely out of his control, and that only made him lose himself more. He wiped the tears from his eyes with his sleeves. Laundry. He’d have to get to that, eventually. Sherlock never paid attention to mundane things like that, especially when on cases. They still had a pile of things to wash.

"John," Sherlock said. And John stopped his pathetic sniffling, forcing himself to look up at his friend. "John, I am so, so sorry."

"Don’t be," John sighed. "It’s not even entirely your fault, either." How horrible was that? To be born in the world as something whose mere existence would destroy all that you held dear. It wasn’t his choice.

"This will be, though." Before John was entirely aware what was happening, he felt a pain in his side. A hypodermic needle—the sedatives. Already, he felt his arms and legs become numb and useless. He stumbled, a look of horror frozen on his face.

Sherlock caught him and lowered him gently to the floor. “Do not worry. That was the last of it. A small dose, compared to what I gave the guards. You will all be fine.”

"Maybe it’s dangerous. Maybe it’s killing me, in a way," he rambled, not even speaking to John anymore. "But I will live in agony for not knowing. Any truth is better than indefinite doubt.” Sherlock regarded him with cold eyes. “I’m sorry. But I must go.”

John could only watch as his friend went off to his death.

————

Even the smallest amount of time is an eternity when you are paralyzed and helpless. It may have been five, ten, or thirty-five minutes later when John heard the one-two-three of Mycroft’s footsteps down the hall.

"I should’ve known," he said, looking at John. He took out a pen from his pocket, drawing sigils on John’s hand. With a drop of blood, he was free.

"Find him," Mycroft ordered, once he stood up. "You must find him.”

John nodded. “I will.”

————

John ran to the hateful building with the mindless urgency that belonged to hunted animals. Nothing mattered more than this, and maybe even this desperate race was just an exercise in futility. But he couldn’t stay his course even if he wanted to. Soon his footsteps rattled on the alley walls, which were smothered in the bizarre graffiti of the cult’s symbols. Then his hand was on the door, shoving it open. It squealed in noisy protest, the sound rebounding in the room. The gritty tang of human misery poured out. Yelling with reckless abandon, John pulled his gun. He could already see their sallow faces, targets drawn on like bullet holes. There was one prostate figure in his line of sight. He clicked off the safety, steadying his hands, finger pressing down—

The figure raised its head, flinching at the light. A pathetic whimper escaped its lips.

John’s hand jerked to the side, and his bullet lodged itself into a wall instead. The body slumped as if it had been shot, but it continued to draw shaky breaths.

"Sherlock—!" The empty room started to spin around him. John ran over, kneeling by his side. "Oh my god!"

He was completely naked, pale skin marred by ugly bruises. There was far more blood than there should have been, but Sherlock wasn’t bleeding. At least, not anymore.

His eyes—suddenly John realized precisely why Sherlock was so distraught. Their sharp blue-green had been obscured by a grey, milky film. Even though they were completely incapable of focusing on anything, they still darted around in minute jerks. John had thought they were seizures. But the movement was completely voluntary.

"John," Sherlock rasped. "Help me. I—I can’t—"

"I’m sure it can be fixed," John lied. Sherlock didn’t say anything. "It’s okay. I’ve got help. They’re coming, Sherlock. Your brother’s coming."

"I don’t know what’s happening. John. John."

He wrapped his arms around the lanky man, who seemed to grow taller each moment. “Shh,” John murmured. “I’m here.”

"You should be running." He looked dazed, eyes glassy even in the dim light. "Leave!" he demanded, sharply. "Leave me!"

He only held him tighter. “No,” John said. “I won’t.”

He felt Sherlock shudder, a spasm of some strange emotion running down his spine. “I suppose you are staying then,” he said, his voice gaining an odd timbre.

It was happening. John took a deep breath. “If that’s what you want.”

A chuckle. “I do. I want that very much.” He felt a pressure in his head. “Come here, soldier.”

"I am here."

"Closer, my soldier. My weapon."

He saw Sherlock’s eyes dilate wide, his iris contracting until it was a sliver of palest blue around the gaping pupil. Shivers twisted down his spine, amplifying into seizures.

John started to pray, never looking away from those eyes.

For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of fear in those depthless pits, a name taking shape on trembling lips.

Then those eyes exploded.

—————-

Once upon a time, there lived a soldier.

Once upon a time, there loved a maiden.

Now she is a sculpted stone,

watching as he dies alone.

As for you, whose heart is bleeding,

I’ll soon take what I am needing.

Sorry, love, but reap I will.

The Shining One is hungry still.