Buthal - Part Two

[jessamygriffith]

Title: Buthal
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: Teen (for mild slash, disturbing themes)
Word count: 21K +

Summary: Every story needs a good, old-fashioned villain. Every legend needs a hero.  Every fairy tale has magical curses. Every good adventure story has a man fighting a monster.

In the cottage, the intruder picks up the second notebook. Unexpected. What had looked like a strange fairy tale for adults had suddenly turned into - what?

The names of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are very, very well-known to the intruder. The tone is half-dark dream, half-biography, with notes referencing Malory and the old English verse. It's bizarre.

The intruder wonders what further tidbits about Sherlock and John can be gleaned.

The gloves are tugged off. A finger trails down the page, and turns it.

=========================================

=========================================

The first crack in the close bond John and Sherlock have occurs when a madman decides he wants to play a game. Moriarty doesn't want to be caught, he wants to be distracted. Moriarty is the calm at the centre of a vortex of violence and deceit. Moriarty is a challenge, a puzzle like no other, and Sherlock just can't help himself.

John is furious with Sherlock. "There are actual human lives at stake! Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

Sherlock is genuinely puzzled by this question of caring about unknown people. John cannot stand Sherlock's detachment, and Sherlock sneers at John's naivete.

Sherlock is not a hero. Heroes don't exist.

Well, not in these modern times. Heroes were better known for slaying giants, in other times. The parallel will come later.

They have a bad moment when they encounter the Golem. But the Golem is only human, pituitary abnormality aside, and John throws himself against him as the assassin is throttling Sherlock. He is thrown off, hitting the floor with a grunt of pain. The Golem flees, all of Sherlock's shots going wild in the strobing lights within the planetarium. The detective is left thwarted, punching the floor in frustration. Behind, the body of Professor Cairns is a broken doll with staring eyes, discarded and unimportant.

It is easy for Sherlock not to care - to him it is a weakness. Why should he pretend when there's somebody so interesting and ready to play? His stance is a wilful blindness that Moriarty exploits ruthlessly.

He takes John.

"I can stop John Watson, too... stop his heart." John's voice breaks and Sherlock whirls in panic.

On this, their first meeting in the flesh, there is a sense of occasion. There should be. It is a family reunion.

Jim Moriarty enters the pool room, and the tiles creak underfoot.

(Dóiteán, o my brother, what do you here?)

How had Buthal been so blind, how had he not understood? Moriarty was clever, Moriarty was powerful, Moriarty washed in the blood of innocent humans without regard. Moriarty was chaos incarnate, like a giant.

Like himself.

Worse, Moriarty knows his weakness.

Moriarty's eyes on Sherlock are avaricious, hungry. "I don't like getting my hands dirty," he says, (liar, o lies! I see you for what you are!) "I'm a specialist, like you." (No, not alike, my heart is with me and you, Dóiteán, you are lost.) "So I'm going to give you a little advice: Back off."

No one ever gets to Jim, and if he continues down his dark path with mouth and hands dripping blood of innocents, no one ever will. He is as bright as a comet, as destructive, as short-lived.

John's heart is in his throat, Sherlock's blindness lifted. He cares now, oh he cares. "People will die."

"That's what people do!" roars Moriarty, and the room echoes with the power, utter belief in his strength, utter madness.

John leaps to save Sherlock, but it does no good. Sherlock won't leave John, and John can't protect Sherlock. Moriarty laughs, calls John a pet (so weak, so loyal, so useless), and the targeting lights play over Sherlock like red fireflies.

"I'll burn the heart out of you," Moriarty promises, and John shudders at the look in Sherlock's eyes.

"I have been reliably informed I don't have one," says Sherlock, and Moriarty only smiles.

The moment teeters on a fulcrum. If they all die now, only one of them is all too human to come back from that darkness. Moriarty is on the brink - his insanity and blood-debt may ensure he never wakes again. He will dissolve into the earth, unfulfilled.

(O my brother, it pains me to see you thus. How came you to this pass?)

To kill his mad brother before his flesh-toll rises high enough to pull him under... But if Sherlock and John die together, in one accord, perhaps, perhaps -

It might end.

In complete understanding, John nods and Sherlock raises the gun to sight at the explosives. They trust each other in this. It might be enough.

The entirely inappropriate ringtone shatters the tension and Moriarty snarls threats at the unknown caller, teeth white between drawn-back lips. Make shoes from someone's skin? It should be funny.

Buthal watches his giant-brother's black eyes, feels the twist of hunger in his own belly. There is nothing to laugh at here.

The night ends with no giants being slain. At least there's that.

~~~~~

A package arrives some time later at Baker Street. Within is a copy of 'Jack the Giant Killer," a tiny tissue sample, and an unsigned note in a spiky script. It reads, 'I'm giving you just a teensy taste of what you are missing out here in the big, bad world. Go on, you know you want to. It hurts me to see you in that pathetic state, o my brother.'

Sherlock lays the objects out on the kitchen table and stares at them, fingers steepled.

John's face sets like stone when he sees the package.

"It's a sick joke. I mean, I know Jack is a nickname for John. So if he wants to imply... you know, I don't want to know what he's trying to say."

Sherlock's eyes are intent. "That you are are a killer? Of foolish giants?"

"I'd be more than happy to kill him. I'd rest easier,' says John flatly. He burns the book and paper and insists the tissue be turned over to the police, over Sherlock's protests.

~~~~~

Buthal dreams of his sister Réalta, smiling and strong, hair and eyes shining in his memories. He cries out with joy and moves to embrace her. But in his arms, she begins to shrink, growing feeble, skin sagging, eyes dulling as her strength drains away. She slips from his grasp and falls, tiny, starved. Her hair falls away, blackened straw on frosted grass, and her expression is resigned, defeated, beyond despair. He falls to his knees, reaching for her but before his eyes her body turns dark and dissolving in his arms. He shouts, cries for her to fight, keep going, but she is gone - not under. Just - gone, her elements taken back into the earth. Beyond hope, beyond striving, her cursed life is ended. She gave up the will to continue. She will not return.

Dead.

He wakes and scrubs his salt-stained face. He does not want to be the death of even one more of his people. Even insane Dóiteán deserves better, for all that he threatens Buthal's heart until it squeezes in terror.

His race dies, and it is his fault, his taint that kills them by degrees.

So few, so few left.

~~~~~

The events at Baskerville cause a rift between John and Sherlock that aches. Sherlock's drug-induced panic attack is bad, and the way he thrusts away John's friendship erodes John's sympathy. Sherlock's seeming apology helps, until he gives John a cup of coffee and uses him as a test subject for the same drug, leaving John shuddering in a cage with hallucinations stalking him. It ends well enough, case solved. Never mind that the drug wasn't in the coffee, it was in the laboratory room with the hissing pipes and warnings. But Sherlock thought the drug was in the sugar, and he'd given the poison to John with a smile, thinking it wouldn't matter. John is a paragon of normality, after all.

But now there is an edge of distrust between them. Sherlock hadn't meant for that to happen, heedless as always of the consequences of his behaviour.

He doesn't apologise. John seems to forgive him. Neither say the words.

It was only a cup of coffee, after all.

But the space around Buthal's heart seems larger, his human heart bruised.

~~~~~

Ah, the Woman. Buthal's heart throbs in a strange hunger. Irene Adler is so like his sisters, both before the curse and after. She burns brightly, a presence scarcely contained by her delicious-looking skin. So sharp and clever, and the dart of her tongue over the scarlet slash of her mouth seems as if she is collecting wayward blood drops from a feast. A real man-eater, though by her own words she prefers the flesh of females. He feels faintly envious of that, and supposes her clients willingly offer her up blood as well as other liquids. What a fine repast. What a giantess she would have been, powerful and fierce.

Buthal wonders if it is due to the passage of time or finally finding his heart that he feels softened towards humans. Terrible to care, he really shouldn't, but there it is. More weakness.

He likes her, in spite of himself. He savours the anarchy she brings into his life, for he thrives on chaos. It is too bad for her that, like a giant, her hungers brought her to ruination.

He regrets her, for the necessary secrets he now carries from his heart bearer, causing the chasm in his chest to ache and grow even more. It makes his stomach throb, the old flesh-hunger growing again. It is a set-back, forcing him to regress to old habits.

He is both sorry and not sorry for her absence from his life.

~~~~~

A second package arrives at Baker Street. There's no sender, but the name is unnecessary. They know who it is from. It contains a Finnish children's book of fairy tales, with a story bookmarked. Sherlock translates online, John looking over his shoulder.

"'The Giant Who Had No Heart in His Body,'" says Sherlock slowly. John's lips compress into a thin line.

"Now he's come down to simple mockery? I mean, I know you told him... " John pauses. Neither of them like to bring up the pool incident. "You said you'd been told you don't have one. But this - Sherlock, he's playing with you. With us."

Sherlock is quiet. The book is opened next to him, and his fingers trace over an illustration in the story.

"Sherlock, are you even listening to me?" John's voice rises. "He's dangerous. Just take the damned book and... I don't know. Throw it out, give it to the police, give it to Mycroft, even! Just... just don't. Don't play his games, don't do this."

Sherlock murmurs, "Fairy tales again. Giants."

"Sherlock, why can't you... God, it's like I'm talking to myself. You cannot afford to rise to his bait and run off half-cocked, you're going to get yourself killed! You'll die and then what -" John breaks off, red-faced. "Fine. I'll take care of it." He grabs the book from under Sherlock's hand, the page tearing from under Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock scowls at him.

"You're damaging evidence."

"Like you ever give a toss, when it's you trampling all over it," John snaps back. He smooths the crumpled page. He pauses, mouth twisting.

"What is it?"

John looks at the illustration. "It's... well, it's a sleeping giant. Different from the usual version of the story. Of course, you've probably deleted fairy tales." A snort is his answer to this jab. "In the original, the two brothers rescuing the lady just squeeze the egg the giant's heart is in, and he dies. But in this variation..."

Sherlock leans back, eyes piercing. "Well?"

John returns his look steadily. "The giant promises to be good. But the egg with his heart is broken anyway, and a hill rises where the giant falls."

Sherlock snorts. "The anthropomorphising of naturally-occurring features in nature is hardly uncommon."

"Fine. Laugh if you want. But I'm giving this to Lestrade." John reaches over and plucks up the bookmark, looks at it and marks the story, closing the book firmly. Sherlock's hands are pressed together and touching his lips in his favourite thinking pose, John doesn't want to push the issue any more. They have both read the inscription on the bookmark.

You will never keep him. I know where my heart is, o my brother.

Neither mention it again.

~~~~~

How? How? how how how HOW?

Buthal is weakening. He does not wish to eat, though the cull of dead flesh from the pathologist's collection stocks their fridge and tempts him. Dining will revive and make him stronger, but he will grow greater, weightier, and his human heart will struggle. Too much, and someone will notice. Won't do to make a splash in the human world, not like his Dóiteán.

Amazing that they pass for human at all, really. They are woves in people-skin.

Dieting - starving - has never seemed more odious. Buthal treads a fine line, eating tiny nips of chilled rubbery flesh when no one is around, pulling discarded bandages from the bin and pressing his tongue to dried brown smears.

Buthal is together with his heart bearer. But how will the curse be broken? If it is meant for Buthal to love, then he does, inasmuch as he can love with his small borrowed heart. If it is trust, then he is sorry they did not die together when facing Dóiteán, for that tide ebbs and wanes between them. John and Sherlock lead dangerous lives, but it is rare such an opportunity for mutual sacrifice occurs. Are they meant, then, to live out their lives together? Or end at the same time?

What comes after?

After the murders of so many of his brethren and the loss of more still through despair and madness to the elements, there cannot be more than a handful of giants left. And none of them have succeeded in breaking their own curses. None. Buthal is perhaps the first to come so close, and it feels like failure. Even if they were all freed, would there be enough to continue as a people?

Buthal is beginning to doubt the curse can be ended. Perhaps it is the final revenge, the cruel jest of those long-dead sorcerers. Enmity undying, until all his kind are gone.

Between the two, trust and truth must be returned. Truth - what does that mean? Reveal everything?

He pictures telling the story. 'Behold me, o my heart, and fear me not - for I am of the ancient race of giants, yet I would never harm you. Oh - maybe I should mention - I am eternally cursed, and I think we may either need to love and trust each other beyond reason, or simply just die together. You have my heart. Literally. And before I forget, that missing toe from the fridge? That was me. Tasted like a stale crisp.'

He imagines the look on his flat-mate's face. No. The old beliefs and superstitions are gone, no modern man would credit Buthal's story. It would ruin everything. But what if... is that what he must do?

It's ridiculous. It's terrifying.

But every deception and omission of truth between Buthal and his heart-bearer causes the space in his chest to expand and contract like a third lung. He cannot lie to his own heart, apparently, without hurting himself.

How can he end this?

How can Buthal tell the truth?

~~~~~

It's true, caring is not an advantage. Buthal's heart makes him weak, inasmuch as it also comforts him. But Buthal cares for the one who has it, and by extension he is beginning to care for others. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Molly. Those who call him friend. Even the ones who are victims of humans even more creative in their cruelty than any monster of legend.

This incarnation, the one with a heart so close, it is changing him. It begins to feel - empathy. It hurts.

He almost wishes he could stop. But the alternative is too dark.

~~~~~

Dóiteán returns, and he will not be forestalled.

There is no time for the words that should pass between John and Sherlock. There is danger, and Buthal must protect his friend, lest Dóiteán squeeze his heart until it cracks. At all costs, he must protect his heart-bearer.

John throws himself into the case, a constant presence at Sherlock's side, steadfast and strong. Sherlock is at his best, working tirelessly. They have never been better together, their disparate skills enmeshing perfectly as they track Moriarty. Sherlock pieces the puzzles, John works as his hands. But even with the police behind them, it is not enough. Not against a being like Moriarty.

Thanks to Moriarty, Sherlock finds himself out of his depth again for the second time since John has known him.

~~~~~

John stares at Mycroft and thinks, 'Useless.' Four international assassins are camping outside Baker Street. Moriarty is involved. What is Mycroft doing? Talking to John.

"Why don't you talk to Sherlock, if you are so concerned about him?"

Mycroft feigns an interest in his drink and John smiles through his anger. Oh, god. The old same old whingeing excuses, overplayed by both brothers. Too much history. Old scores. He started it, Mummy.

"Nicked all his Smurfs? Broke his Action Man?" John mimics Mycroft's solemn self-pity.

The expression on Mycroft's face is a picture. John lifts his brows, but Mycroft says nothing further.

John stands. He is done with this. Mycroft stirs.

"Moriarty is obsessed. He has sworn to destroy his only rival," Mycroft says.

John turns back. He doesn't think Mycroft quite gets it. "And how is that different from every other day of his life? There's always something, Sherlock is always in danger of dying. Any of us could just go at any moment. Why is this any different?"

Mycroft opens his mouth, but to hell with it, John is going to have his say. "Because it's Moriarty, and he wants Sherlock. You -" he jabs a finger in the air, "you have the whole government behind you, you have the motivation and the means. Moriarty is a man who not only has involved himself in affairs of state before, but is also threatening the life of your brother. And you sit there and refuse to be involved. Am I missing anything?"

Mycroft drops his eyes. Sod it. Useless, ineffectual thing. Call yourself a brother? But at least John knows where they stand.

"So you want me to watch out for Sherlock?" John asks, just to be clear.

Yes, that is what Mycroft wants.

Stupid of him to ask. As if John weren't going to do that anyway. As if he hadn't always done that right from the start, and always would.

~~~~~

The steps bow and groan under footsteps, and the door of 221B swings open. Sherlock doesn't turn 'round.

"Most people knock. But then, I suppose you're not just most people." Sherlock gestures with his bow and stiffens when Moriarty deliberately takes his own leather-and-steel chair, leaving John's for Sherlock.

Moriarty's lips curl up.

Sherlock hands Moriarty a cup and saucer. They will have a civil discourse. After all, there is tea involved. But for the most part, Sherlock sits in silence, tight-lipped. He knows how this will go. Geniuses love to talk about their schemes, and Moriarty is no exception. But this visit is very personal, he doesn't like it. His skin prickles at the other's proximity.

"You need me, Sherlock. We're just alike, you and I." Moriarty's tone lilts between earnest and flippant. Every tilt of his head, every smile exudes instability. "Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain."

Sherlock's mouth twists. "Well? How are you going to do it? Burn me?" He drawls the last, provoking.

Moriarty's eyes shift away and his expression is sly. "Aren't ordinary people adorable. Well. You know. And you've got John! Clever John - you know, I should get my own live-in one." His teeth look very white and sharp as he runs his tongue over them. His expression goes blank as he tilts his face up to Sherlock's. "Your pet is a problem. I know you're quite fond of him, but he can't keep up with you. No good putting your trust in John - there's just not enough to him. Though he has his uses, I suppose." He grimaces, shoulders rolling in a shrug.

"Leave John out of this."

"Oh, my dear, I can't, I really can't, it'd be remiss of me. Wake up, Sherlock. John's not anything like you. What you have with him will never compare to what's between us." Moriarty's dark eyes are coals burning in the ash of his face. "Cut him loose. He's dragging you down to his level, trying to absorb you in his sordid low life, can't you see it?"

Sherlock's mouth is stiff as he whispers, "Why are you doing this? What is it all for?"

"I want to solve my problem. Well, it's actually our problem, the final problem. It's going to start soon, Sherlock. It'll be magical. I promise."

Sherlock stands in a quick motion. "I've never liked riddles." He turns away and crosses the room to hold open the door. "Well. That was tedious. But thank you for dropping by. Don't let me keep you."

Moriarty pushes himself upright, face ugly, the metal legs of the chair scraping backward with a ripping sound. He moves to the open door, but before Sherlock can twist away, Moriarty has the taller man's wrist in an iron grip and twists it up behind his back. With blinding speed, Sherlock's face is slammed against the wall and his body pinned. He bucks, but Moriarty is an immovable weight pressed against his back.

"Hush, hush, little one, poor weak thing. You mustn't upset me like that," croons Moriarty. "You made me so angry before, at the pool. Think of me, it's not good for me to be angry. Not that I will ever be truly angry with you, my dear."

"Get off of me," Sherlock gasps. He can't move, Moriarty is much stronger than he'd ever supposed. Sherlock can feel the heat of the man along his back, the sharp chin digging into his trapezius. His heart is tripping too fast. He lowers his voice, attempts reason. "Jim. Stop it."

Moriarty chuckles. "Oh, you are sweet like this. Don't be scared." His hand traces Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock shudders, a noise of protest escaping him. "Let me take care of everything, our little problem. It'll all be over soon. All right?"

Moriarty leans harder against him, the pressure crushing. Sherlock can feel his ribs bending, spots dance in front of his vision. Then the weight is gone. He is alone in the flat.

He moves on shaking legs to look at his chair. There are rips in the old wool rug beneath the legs and deep scrapes in the hardwood beneath.

He drops into John's chair. His hands are trembling. He presses them together, hard, and rests the tips against his lips. He sits there for a long time, looking at nothing.

~~~~~

"You look sad, when you think he can't see you." Molly's voice is quiet.

John is looking through some folders. Sherlock lifts his head and watches to be sure he isn't listening. John.

Was he sad? Perhaps. Sherlock has a great mind, and he knows what is coming. He regrets the necessity.

He's going to miss John.

~~~~~

To: Sherlock Holmes

- Hurry up, they're dying! -

The irony of the next puzzle Moriarty sends is perfect.

Two children, kidnapped, fed on sweets. Hansel and Gretel. Fairy tales again. Buthal thinks of the witch in the story, burned alive in her own oven. So all monsters end, in such stories. There is no happy ending for them.

Chocolates, laced with mercury. The hungrier these living children became, the more they ate. The faster they would die.

Killing themselves in small degrees - the parallel with the curse is obvious and insidious. What audacity.

"Neat," breathes Sherlock, eyes wide. John gives him a grim look, unamused.

"Don't do that. The smiling. Kidnapped children, remember."

~~~~~

He feels his borrowed heart fluttering inside his chest. There is a distance growing between Buthal and his heart-bearer, a strain, and no way to stop it. They are constantly side-by-side, shoulders brushing, yet so far in the ways that count.

He is being destroyed inch by inch. The constant threat makes him regress to old hungers, longing for the power and strength to shelter his heart-bearer. Resisting that siren call is difficult, yet he must or his life above-ground will end sooner rather than later. If his heart-bearer dies, Buthal will go under regardless.

But he has this at least - if he is separated from his heart this lifetime, he knows that it is possible to find it again. Now he has done it once, he knows he can do it again. Buthal does not truly die. He will be back, though this particular heart-bearer will not.

The thought hurts him. He wonders at himself, this attachment to one person.

The costs to keep his heart-bearer alive are high. But if that is what it takes, he will pay them.

~~~~~

Moriarty's web draws closer about Sherlock. Fake. False. Fraud. The lies are subtle and all the more believable for it. Sherlock exists in a state of frozen anger, but John can see the uncertainty beneath, the fear that he will lose this game.

So thin, that edge. Rumour cannot be killed, and now the great detective is the great fake, and even those closest to Sherlock are beginning to doubt. The strain is beginning to tell on both John and Sherlock.

Sherlock refuses to go to the station for questioning concerning the kidnapping of the children. Lestrade takes the refusal with resignation, but it doesn't look good. John watches Donovan and Lestrade leave and his face is tense. They will be back with a warrant, he knows.

"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're -"

Sherlock's voice is low. "That I am what."

There's a beat. "A fraud," says John.

Sherlock tilts his head back. "You're worried they're right about me. That's why you're so upset" John rejects this, but Sherlock presses on, voice rising, "Moriarty is playing with your mind too. Can't you see what's going on!"

John expels a breath and looks away. His left hand clenches. "No. I know you are for real." His voice is flat, certain. He turns back to hold Sherlock's gaze. "No one can fake being such an annoying dick all the time."

Sherlock believes him.

Mrs. Hudson brings up the next package, sent by 'some fellow with fairy tale name.' John opens it and tilts out the contents. A gingerbread man, crumbling like dark earth at the edges.

"Burnt to a crisp," says Sherlock. "His usual threat."

John's face is stricken.

~~~~~

The cuffs go on Sherlock. John watches, jaw clenched. Sherlock does his best to comfort him, voice tight. "It's all right, John." But it's not all right, nothing can make this right. They are being separated.

Buthal's human heart is pinching, he can feel the accelerated beat of his own across the room.

Sherlock's face is set as he looks at John before he roughly turned and taken downstairs.

Within two minutes, John is shoved against the patrol car next to Sherlock. The chief superintendent glares at him as he pinches his bleeding nose, and Sherlock relaxes.

"Joining me?"

~~~~~

They run. A man who is an assassin saves them, then dies in front of them. Sherlock snarls. Moriarty is cutting them off from all paths of escape, all help. The stain of lies is spreading, and the key is Richard Brooks, Kitty Riley's source for her libellous newspaper articles.

But - Richard Brooks is Moriarty, playing a down-at-heels actor with consummate skill, cringing as he faces Sherlock and John.

John's rage swells to fill the narrow confines of Kitty's flat. "No, he's Moriarty, we've met! You were going to blow me up!"

Kitty's eyes dart, recording all this for her next scoop. "Sherlock invented James Moriarty. His nemesis. It's capital - he's a master villain."

It's ludicrous that she thinks Sherlock is the only monster in the room. Kitty thrusts the actor's CV at John as proof, and Moriarty nods in frantic agreement.

"It's true. I tell kids' stories. I'm The Story-teller."

Buthal's skin crawls. Oh, what stories he and Dóiteán could tell. They are the stuff of stories, the true ones that gave nightmares.

"Just tell him. It's all coming out now, it's all over. Just tell him." Dóiteán's voice is convincing, shrill.

I can't tell him, not like this, not now.

But Dóiteán knows this, and the smile that flickers over the giant's face is whip-crack fast before being covered with human-terror again.

Buthal had been reluctant before, but now he is more than ready to kill his own brother. The chaos Dóiteán is seeding is nourishing his power, tearing at Buthal's heart-bond.

Sherlock lunges, and Moriarty shrieks.

"Stop it, stop it now!" roars Sherlock. Moriarty scrambles away up the stairs, the bannister rail splintering under his hand. The bathroom window is cracked and swinging wide when Sherlock throws back the door. John swears.

~~~~~

John visits Mycroft while Sherlock hides himself from the police. There are a few things John would like to say to Sherlock's brother. There are a few things he'd like to do as well, but he'll settle for this.

"Kitty Riley really did her homework." John's entire demeanour shouts his disgust. "There are two people in the world Sherlock trusts, and I know Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me. Your own brother, and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac."

Mycroft shifts. "I never intended- I never dreamt..."

"And this is what you were trying to tell me. 'Watch his back.' You made a mistake." John leans forward, armchair creaking, fingers denting the leather. His blue eyes burn with cold fury at Mycroft. "And now his circle of trust is so small it excludes even family. Do you have any idea what that must do to him, that his own brother -?"

Mycroft's reasons for betraying his brother's trust are inexcusable. John will never forgive him.

John smiles without humour. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, and even his own brother is helping to stick the knife in. So, I suppose now it's all down to me. Well, rest your mind on that score. You can be sure I'll do a better job protecting than you have."

Mycroft is as off-centre as John has ever seen him. "John. I'm sorry."

John shoves back his chair with a violent scrape, laughing. "Oh, please."

"Tell him, would you," says Mycroft.

John turns back at the door. "You're his brother. Tell him yourself."

Mycroft says nothing.

Later, John will understand why.

~~~~~

To: James Moriarty

Come and play. Bart's hospital rooftop.

SH

Sherlock looks up. John is pacing between the desks in the lab where Molly has hidden them. He thinks of Moriarty's fingers when they met, tapping out a code - the code to break any security system in the world. Now Sherlock has the key to the puzzle, it's time to play this out. His face is blank as he sends the post-script.

PS. Got something of yours you might want back.

Not that Moriarty would enjoy it long.

~~~~~

"Mrs. Hudson's dying, Sherlock."

"You go. I'm busy."

John should have known better. He should have seen that Sherlock was deliberately goading him, driving him to such blind fury that he left him at the lab. Misdirection. Lies to drive him away.

"You machine. Sod this, you stay here on your own."

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." Protects you.

Liar.

"No. Friends protect people."

Any way they can.

~~~~~

To: Sherlock Holmes

I'm waiting.

~~~~~

One man returns to the dark.

One man falls from a great height.

One man's trust is broken.

No one dies.

Not really.

~~~~~

The headstone is plain, glossy black. 'Sherlock Holmes,' it reads. There are no dates. John rests his fingers on the cool surface. "I was so alone. And I owe you so much."

He swallows and turns away, then back. "No. No, there's just one more thing, just one more: Sherlock, don't... don't... Why did you - why?" He closes his eyes, fists his hand and rubs it over his breastbone. "Would you please... stop it. I know. I know. So stop this." Roughly he scrubs at his eyes, takes a few breaths.

He coughs. He stands to attention, nods and walks away.

Sherlock watches from a distance.

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The investigator shuts the notebook, stunned. It sound like fantasy, it ought to be - but the level of detail is incredible. Only someone who know those involved could have written this. The notebook is set aside. Another is within reach, and the need to know is imperative.

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Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four  / Appendices

Comments

[sunny-rainfall.livejournal.com]

omg this is brilliant and really really creepy. I keep feeling like the investigator is gonna die or something too

[jessamygriffin.livejournal.com]

Oddly, my beta reader was the same.

"KILL HER, kill the investigator! Eat her up!"

It was her idea, to add in that extra tension, of one who may be caught any moment while reading.