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.

But monsters, like men, come in many shapes and many sizes, and it is not always easy to tell which is which.

Hurry. The figure checks the time again. It is a long drive to the village, but the owners of the cottage will be back from dinner soon. Best not to be caught snooping when the three returned.

The thinnest notebook, the last, is flipped open.

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

Interminable thy quest take thee, diseased and dwindling

Till twain of oppos'd temperament meet and know

And betwixt two, trust and truth be returned

Heart for heart, man to monster, monster to man

~~~~~

Sherlock sleeps, flushed and snoring lightly on the lowered seats in the back of the Rover much of the way to London, courtesy of John's cache of drugs. When he wakes, he insists on sitting up front to talk about the curse.

"So, your heart is reincarnated in a human. And you go under if you took too much flesh, or if you died prematurely. What if the host dies?"

"I'd follow soon after. Sudden death, natural causes. You know."

"Two of opposite temperament meet..."

John snorts. "If I'd met you even three centuries ago, I don't think it would've worked. I was still too - well, I was ungentle." He broods. "I've changed. Started caring. Probably down to your kind and loving disposition."

Sherlock's lips twitch. "So they meet and know. Aside from knowledge, it implies understanding, and that's repeated. 'Betwixt two, trust and truth be returned.' You know me, and now I know all about you."

"I don't frighten you? Disgust you?" John answers his own question. "No, of course not. It's you." There's a wealth of affection in his deepened voice.

"You gave me a bad moment there. But it's you, John. You would die - are dying for me, when you could have just -" Sherlock's voice catches and he straightens in his seat. "Oh. Oh."

John looks over, brows wrinkling. "What?"

"He told me. Moriarty. He said, 'My doctors are very good.' He was going to have the hearts switched, mine for his. 'Heart for heart, man to monster.'"

"But he killed himself!"

"That wouldn't matter. John, if he'd done it and been buried, returned to the earth, he would have woken whole, don't you see?"

The steering wheel groans in plastic complaint under John's hands. "You wouldn't have. Returned."

Sherlock reaches with his good hand and rests it on John's, feeling the warmth. "It wouldn't have worked. I didn't have his heart. Well, I did think he was insane." John is silent, and Sherlock presses on, "And even though he trusted me to take my own life, by compelling me to do it against my will goes against the wording of the curse. Trust. Trust and truth returned. Blackmailing me into suicide by using the lives of my friends as a threat in no way engenders trust."

"I trust you, Sherlock. Completely. I would never ask you to kill yourself for me. I am not my brother. Dóiteán was mad." John's voice is rough. His face is grey and sheened with sweat. He looks dreadful, a man whose days are marked. "I don't even want you to die for me."

"I don't think either of us will have to go that far."

"Sherlock. I'm dying anyway." John's voice is gentle. "I don't have much time left. I can feel the pull."

Sherlock snatches his hand away. "You are going to have all the time in the world, John Watson. One last trick, and it ends. I swear it."

~~~~~

They fight about Sherlock's idea the rest of the way into London, John's voice overpowering Sherlock's and the timbre causing the rear-view mirror to tremble. Sherlock snaps at him not to get worked up and kill both himself and John in an auto accident, and didn't John trust Sherlock?

John submits with bad grace. Terror for Sherlock makes his human heart tremble within him. But Sherlock is brilliant, a genius, and in that great mind, in those hands will John place his trust and his life. Hope is another agony to bear, but John hopes anyway. Sherlock can save him. Save them both.

He always knew Sherlock was a great man. Now Buthal knows that Sherlock has made his giant heart great as well.

~~~~~

Sherlock presses the buzzer of the flat. John's arm holds him against his body to take most of his weight from his injured foot. The door opens. Molly sees Sherlock, bruised, bandaged and rumpled, and gasps.

"Sherlock! Oh my God, are you okay?" Her gaze travels to John's arm, and up. Her eyes widen and she presses the back of a hand against her mouth.

"Hello, Molly," John says. "Long time."

"...John?" she whispers. His great head dips in a nod.

"Molly," says Sherlock. "Once, you said you'd do anything. I - we need you."

The moment hangs as she looks between them. "Okay," she says. "You'd better come in."

~~~~~

Molly doesn't want to do it, but is convinced. Buthal is not surprised. Sherlock points out that John is going to die unless they do something, and it warms the space around Buthal's heart to hear his arguments for prolonging the life of a monster. It is not an easy thing, to ask a modern human to believe in magic.

Buthal shakes his head. Sherlock is is brilliant, but all too unaware of one facet of his character. Sherlock prefers to think logic and persuasion accounts for his winning the argument. It's not, though.

Sherlock has the gift of inspiring other to follow his lead. He is - trustworthy. They believe in him.

~~~~~

John and Sherlock wait in Molly's flat while she gathers the things they will need. John checks Sherlock's injuries, makes him join him for a meal of tea, sandwiches and painkillers. Sherlock lays on the couch, drowsing. John sits on the floor next to him, watchful, hand resting over Sherlock's heart protectively, as though now he's come this close, he can't bear not to touch him, not to be as close as possible. His face is weary, and hope and fear carve deep lines of strain into his pale skin.

When the call comes, John drives them to Bart's, the suspension on the Rover groaning when he squeezes in.

~~~~~

"Where did your heart come from? I mean, you have a human heart. Whose was it?" Sherlock is fumbling with the buttons on his shirt one-handed. Molly brushes his hands aside and takes over, easing the sleeve over his splinted fingers.

"Dunno. I wasn't in any condition to ask," says John. He is sitting bare-chested and incongruous on plastic sheeting on the floor, none of the examining tables in the morgue being strong enough to support him. "Maybe some ancestor of yours?"

"He didn't die, did he?" asks Molly.

"He better not have, he got my heart, the jammy bastard. King Arthur was all kinds of a murderous arse, but I can't see him forcing one of his knights to actually die for the curse." John looks thoughtful, but Sherlock shakes his head at him.

"That's why we're taking precautions. Molly, if you could help me arrange this."

Molly clips a cannula to Sherlock's finger and a machine begins beeping his heart rate. She pulls a cap of sensors over his head and plugs the wires in. A screen flares with data as the EEG begins picking up Sherlock's brain activity.

"How does it look?" asks Sherlock. He is talking to Molly, but looking at John.

"Brilliant," says John. "You're brilliant."

John's head is too large for the cap, so his electrodes are attached with gel. The EEG is Sherlock's idea - technology to bolster belief for Molly and safeguard their lives.

Molly suits up in borrowed scrubs. Sherlock lies back as the drip is started. The drugs will keep him calm yet conscious. Molly swaps his chest, then bends to wipe John's. She picks up the scalpel from the tray - it's a silver one, a trophy for excellence in surgical training she's lifted from a surgeon's office. "Are you sure I won't need the saw?" She gestures with blue gloved hand. "I've got, you know. Spreaders and everything. For, for my work, they're very clean -"

"Molly." Sherlock's voice is slow, deep from the drug. He lifts a hand and she grabs it convulsively, the tremors running down her arm to his. "It's okay. You can do this, I know you can. It'll be all right, if anything goes wrong you can stop."

Molly inhales deeply, trying to control her breathing. She nods several times. "Okay. Okay. I'm - I've got this. I just don't want to hurt..."

"It won't hurt," John lies. It will. The price is pain, and pain is a lesson, after all. Let it be the last price he or Sherlock would pay. "Just do it fast. The magic will take care of the rest."

Her giggle is hysterical, but relieves the tension. "Oh God. I can't believe... I mean. Magic. But I believe you." She kneels, the plastic sheeting rustling.

John lies back. He turns his head. Sherlock has moved, is looking down at him. Dark blue eyes meet grey for a long moment. John reaches up and brushes his fingertips to Sherlock's down-stretched hand. His arm drops, and he looks at Molly. "All right. Just like we talked about. Believe it. You'll be fine." John is not fine. He is terrified, and glad he refused the heart-monitor. He doesn't want Sherlock to hear how the human heart within him is beating with the franticness of a trapped rabbit's.

Molly takes a breath and leans over John. "Buthal..." she begins, and stops. She shakes her head and begins again, voice determined. "Buthal..."

Ended thy quest be, o Buthal the Red,

Twain of temperament have met, lives twined."

The score of the silver scalpel cutting into skin and muscle is a white-hot poker of agony laid across his ribs but Buthal cannot move or breathe, caught in the sudden lassitude of the spell. Oh. Oh, this is worse than the claustrophobia of being under the earth, this is utter helplessness. Buthal feels the heart he has carried so long jolt, then un-moor itself, rising, pushing between ribs in a twist of pain. Molly gasps as the organ crests in river of blood as though it were eager to return to its rightful owner. Buthal feels the tickle of warmth snaking down his ribs. Cool hands lift the heart away. Above, he can hear Molly's questioning tone, and Sherlock's reassurance, something about the EEG.

Dimly Buthal hears the crinkle of plastic as Molly stands. He hears Sherlock's low cry, bitten back, the moan trailing to silence. The heart monitor goes flat, beeping its long tone. Please. Please, o ye gods, let him live. Molly is breathing in short pants. Her scrubs rustle as she moves. There is the clatter of the scalpel on the tray.

Silence. Molly whimpers.

Then Buthal hears a great inhalation, Sherlock coughing as the heart monitor goes wild. Oh. Thank you.

Tears drop on Buthal's face as Molly leans over him. Her voice is shaky but strong.

"Knowing, thy trust and truth be returned truly,

His heart for thine, thine for his, exchanged."

"Is he all right? How is he? John!" he hears Sherlock calling. "John!"

There is a great heaviness on Buthal's chest, pressing. With a pop more felt than heard, the weight slips in, hot and burning, and for the first time in over fifteen hundred years, Buthal feels his true heart begin to beat in his chest. His back arches up, fingers spasmodic as he cries out. He falls back, wheezing.

"Buthal, o Buthal! Long live thee and thine!" Molly finishes, voice thick with tears.

"Long live thee and thine," echoes Sherlock. He has pulled his I/V and slipped off the examining table to kneel next to Molly. His chest is pale and smooth.

Buthal looks at his own chest. There is no scar, no visible sign he ever lost his heart. "It's... it's over."

"Yes. How do you feel?" asks Sherlock. He guides Buthal to a sitting position and puts an arm around his shoulders, his unbroken hand holding Buthal's painfully tight.

"Whole. Less empty, in my chest." Buthal considers. "Lighter."

Molly sniffles, pulls her mask down to wipe at her eyes and nose. "You look smaller. More like John. But still big."

Buthal shrugs. "I knew the curse. I never knew what came after."

Sherlock smiles. "I suppose after all this time, some change was inevitable. It's not always the smartest or strongest that survive, but those that are most adaptable. You wouldn't change your ways before you were cursed, now you fit in. Interesting thought. I wonder what will be effect of a giant having a heart that was used for so long by humans?"

Buthal glares in exasperation. "What's going to happen to a human with a heart carried in a giant for millennia?" Sherlock's eyes widen, then narrow in speculation.

"Perhaps I'll grow to crave flesh like a cannibal. Hm." To Buthal's lack of surprise, Sherlock doesn't look dismayed at the thought.

"No," says Buthal firmly. "I don't fancy undoing another curse." Molly nods her whole-hearted agreement. He continues, "Besides, I don't feel hungry myself." It's true. The constant gnawing ache that has been his companion and torment these many years is gone.

"Oh, well, that's a relief," retorts Sherlock. "That means you can leave off eating my experiments. And to think that all this time I thought you'd just thrown those body parts away."

Molly's mouth drops open, and Buthal begins to laugh, bending forward and clutching his belly. Sherlock begins to chuckle, and Buthal laughs harder. The transition to tears and racking sobs is unexpected, yet as natural as life. Buthal clutches Sherlock and weeps, body shaking, as his heart-bearer holds him tight and Molly hugs him from behind.

~~~~~

The after-effect of the curse is a bit disappointing, depending on one's point of view. Some would say it was fitting. As John's life was saved,Sherlock counts it as a personal triumph, and John lets him.

The hunger does not return. John's hair return to its sandy blond, to Sherlock's dissatisfaction. John's body is larger than he was, but less grotesque in stature. When Lestrade asks about it upon his and Sherlock's return to work with the police, John passes it off as an unusual case of acromegaly, well under control, though he'd had to go abroad for a year for treatments.

"Very unusual case," says Sherlock. "One in a billion. Utterly unique." His tone is serious, but his eyes crinkle with affection as he looks at John, then Lestrade. Lestrade lifts a shoulder.

"I'm just glad to have you both back. Can't have one without the other, you know. It's just not natural."

"I completely concur," says Sherlock, and John smiles.

Both Sherlock and John have keener senses - hearing, eyesight. They are also stronger. Much stronger. They make this discovery during a case where they unexpectedly find themselves facing several large and knife-wielding gang members. Lestrade keeps shaking his head after the police arrive and ambulances arrive.

"Think of me. Think of my paperwork. What the hell did you do?" Lestrade glares. "Are you on something? Give over."

"Clean living," says John at the same time Sherlock says, "Bartitsu."

"Gesundheit," says Lestrade. "Bar what?"

John coughs and hides his smile as Sherlock explains how he and John have taken up martial arts. Lestrade lets it go, and they are more careful in the future.

They also heal faster, which is useful, but not a reason to go looking for trouble, as John explains to Sherlock after splinting yet another broken finger. Sherlock scoffs, but John picks up his unhurt hand and clasps it, fingers twining between Sherlock's. Their hands are the same size now.

"I want to hear you playing your violin for a long time to come," John says. "I love your music."

Sherlock gives in.

~~~~~

John is distant on some days.

He has not met any of his brethren again since Dóiteán. He is terribly afraid that the giant race is no more, absorbed by the curse back into the elements. With the waning of magic in Britain, he wonders if he is the last.

Sherlock argues one evening that there the odds of finding one again in the population at large is small, that they just haven't been fortunate yet. He says there is no way to tell that John's race is extinct, that they may be waiting under the earth for their hearts to be born again into a human.

The thought of his brethren still lying awake under the earth is not one John enjoys, and he suffers one of his worst nightmares after Sherlock tells him this. Sherlock wakes him, sits with his hands on John's shoulders and their foreheads touching, breathing with him. John rests his hand on Sherlock's heart.

Sherlock does not know how to say he is sorry. Instead, he asks, "Tell me a story. About them."

John swallows. He is quiet a while, then begins, the words halting at first, then smoothing as his tongue falls into the old speech patterns of a time long past.

"Once... once I had a sister. Her name was Réalta, which means 'star' in the old tongue. Shining and brilliant as a star was she, with hair black as night and glossy as a raven's wing. Strong and slim and straight was she, but think you not on this, but on how her laugh was as loud and long, bright as bells. Haughty looked she - much like you, Sherlock - yet I knew her as lively and loving and as full of jests as any child." John's hand slips up, fingers twining through Sherlock's hair. "Just as you are, my heart. One day, we happened upon our older brother, Seasmhach slumbering unsuspecting by a stream. This was in the time before the Romans came to Albion, bringing their customs of bathing with them, and Seasmhach stank like a dead steer in the sun, even flies flitting away..."

John smiles as he tells the tale of how he and his sister tossed their brother into the shallow stream and fled giggling like children as Seasmhach flailed, thinking he was drowning until he stood up, dripping and furious.

Sherlock listens.

~~~~~

"Sherlock! John!"

They both turn as Mike Stamford hails them. They are in front of Bart's, and Mike is smiling to see them. "You look wonderful, both of you. Like you haven't aged a day. I guess all that running about keeps you young, right?"

John shakes Mike's hand. "Mike, good to see you again." He looks down. "Who's this?"

A small boy of about four or five clutches Mike's hand tightly. He doesn't look up at them, dark head bent as he toes a crack in the pavement. Mike smiles at the boy's behaviour. "This is Jamie. "

"Jamie," repeats Sherlock. His gaze doesn't leave the child.

"Thought you weren't planning on kids, Mike," John jokes, but he is looking at the boy too.

Mike shrugs, embarrassed. "It was never a plan, the wife and I always always wanted them, but... you know how things go." John nods, and Mike goes on. "Amazing thing, really, we were up in the Lake District for a holiday, and we found him. Well, I found him - he was in the woods and crying. Naked and black as a coal miner from dirt. Who would do that to a kid?"

John can't speak. Sherlock speaks for him. "Nobody with a heart would ever do that to a child."

"Nobody seems to know who he belongs to, so we're taking care of him for the time being. Foster care, but we're hoping to adopt. Who would have thought it, a father at my time of life!" Mike laughs.

"I think you'll be brilliant at it, Mike," John manages. Mike beams.

"I'm just taking him along to the Children's Hospital now, get some tests and check-ups done. Jamie, won't you say hello? He's a bit shy of strangers, doesn't like to be parted from me, really."

Sherlock goes down on one knee on the pavement. "Jamie." The boy looks at him then. His dark eyes are huge in his thin face. They contain such a wealth of suffering, of untold age that Sherlock's breath catches. He tries for a smile. "My name is Sherlock, and this is my friend John. It's nice to meet you."

Jamie looks up at John, and an expression of hatred crosses his face almost too quickly to follow. He looks back at Sherlock, and the anger melts to sorrow. His lip trembles. He stretches a thin arm out, and pats Sherlock's chest. John stirs, but Sherlock doesn't move.

Jamie's mouth works. "Was nice to meet you, too. Sherlock." He drops his arm and looks up at Mike, tears shimmering in his eyes. "Da." He tugs Mike's sleeve. Mike sighs and bends. Jamie clambers into his arms. Sherlock straightens up, still watching Jamie.

"Well, after you see the doctor, I hope Mike takes you out for a nice treat. You're not hungry, are you, Jamie?" There is such a wealth of meaning in Sherlock's voice that Mike's brows draw together.

Jamie shoots John another spiteful look and speaks to him directly. "No. Not hungry." He buries his head against Mike's chest, pressing close.

"I hope -" John clears his throat. "I hope we'll see you again, Jamie. Mike."

It's not until Mike and his burden have turned the corner that John begins to shake. Sherlock grabs him, holds him up as his knees begin to give way. "John. John, it's all right."

"I know it's all right, Sherlock. I know." John's voice is half-choked. "It's him. He's back, so soon, that never happens. Do you know what that means? Do you know?" His voice rises.

"The curse continues, but in a diminished form. He died, but his heart was still alive, so he came back. Was able to come back. And now he's found his heart. Or rather, his heart found him." Sherlock's voice is fierce. "You did that for him, John. You made it so he wouldn't have to stay beneath and wait."

John's laugh is wild. He closes his eyes, rests his forehead against Sherlock's. "It wasn't me, it was you." There is a pause. "I don't know whether to be happy or scared for Mike."

Sherlock rubs the tips of his fingers against the back of John's head. "A little of both. I understand that comes with the territory, when one becomes a parent. But you know Mike. He has a good heart, for all that it apparently belongs to Moriarty. He'll change him for the better."

John sighs and pulls away. "We can keep an eye out."

"Yes. I think it'll work out. Jamie needs someone like Mike. He needs a father. When the time comes, when he's older, we'll talk about how to break the curse with him."

"Sherlock." John lifts pained eyes. "If he could come back, there may be others. Other kids. I - I -"

"We'll find them. Take care of them, take them in if needed." Sherlock rubs a hand up and down John's arm, grips his wrist. "More importantly, you are not the last. Your race isn't dead. You're not alone, John."

John rests his hand over Sherlock's heart, feels the warm bump of it against his palm. "I know. I wasn't, really, before." His lips twitch, but it's not quite a smile. "I had you."

"And my heart," Sherlock says. "Though not in a literal sense these days. Only metaphorically." He winks.

"Nice way to say you care," grumbles John. Sherlock grins and leans in to brush his cheek against John's, catching his lips in a brief kiss as he pulls away.

"Is that better?"

"You want me to rate it against my vast history of kisses?"

"Ah. I see I have high standards to aspire to. And overcome. Later?"

"I'll hold you to that."

Together they turn and walk into Bart's, shoulders brushing.

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

This is gold. The intruder is thrilled. The writing is absorbing, perverse. It reads like a fantasy, but with a level of detail that gives goosebumps.

Perhaps it is only one of Ian Moore's fairy tales for adults. Leaking Moore's newest story and his abnormal living arrangements will garner as much backlash as it does fame, and that kind of press is undesirable. No, but on the other hand, the subjects of this story, oh - that is just what the investigator needs. So many new leads on dirt to dig up. After all these years, a score will be settled.

An exposé - that will satisfy the craving. Never mind the photos, hard evidence is necessary. The intruder hastily gathers papers and notebooks, stacking them on the laptop.

There is the sound of a key grating in the lock at the front door. The intruder's head jerks up, heart pounding a frantic tempo. Time to go, time to run. The desk lamp is flicked off. Scooping up the slithery bundle, the intruder spins towards the kitchen and pulls up short.

A broad figure blocks the passage, looming over the thief. "Look what we have here," says a voice with undertones of gravel and fury.

Panicked, the thief whirls, but all routes of escape are cut off. A dark figure stands silhouetted in the archway to the front door. "A guest? How nice. We rarely get visitors."

"We don't want visitors," says the other.

"Now, now, no need to be unwelcoming. Let's get a better look at our guest." The light switch is flicked, and the intruder blinks in the sudden glare.

"Well. As I live and breathe. I'd say it's good to see you again, but that'd make me a liar. And there's no way I'd debase myself to your level." Sherlock Holmes smiles a terrifying smile.

Behind her, John Watson spits the name like the vilest of curses. "Kitty Riley."

Kitty's gaze moves from one to the other, face slack with shock. The papers and notebooks slither from her grasp, fluttering to the floor and followed by the crack of the laptop hitting hardwood. Sherlock winces.

"You - you're -" Kitty cannot articulate.

"I think we're past introductions, aren't we? After all, I think I'd remember the woman who aided Moriarty." John is prowling around her, all leashed menace. "I wouldn't forget how you helped drive my heart to suicide, would I?"

"I didn't -"

"I appreciate the sentiment, John, but you know I planned -"

"You could have!" John shouts. "You nearly did, several times. After."

"What are you?" Kitty bursts out, voice shrill. "You, you - what the hell are you, you don't look any older! Why don't you look older? It's not natural!" She fists her hands, trying to control the tremors running through her body.

It is true. Seventeen years have passed, and left few marks on either John or Sherlock. Sherlock's hair is as dark, leavened by an occasional silver thread in the curls. John's face is the same slightly weathered texture , with a few more lines around the eyes. Otherwise they look the same as the last time Kitty had seen them in person..

John's smile is edged. "Must be the benefits of a life of virtue. What has your life been, Kitty?" He slides closer, bending over her. "Just look at you. How have you spent your life?"

"Get away from me!"

"John," Sherlock says, and John takes a few steps backwards but continues his restless prowl.

"What are you," Kitty repeats, but neither man answers.

"What are you doing here? In my house?" John's voice is heated.

"It's obvious. Lured here by rumours and talk of a famous author, found more than she'd ever hoped. And now she's collecting enough ammunition to finish us off," Sherlock says. He shakes his head. "Thought you would have learned your lesson by now."

"You ruined me," Kitty says, voice shaking.

Sherlock speaks over John's growl. "We never pursued you. We only let the truth speak for itself."

"That was more than enough," Kitty spits, anger sparking. "So magnanimous of you. The great detective, hero of the country. I couldn't work for ages, only sold stories to the worst tabloids."

"Peddling lies," John cuts in. "What a surprise."

"I had to change my name! You ruined me," she says, voice low, cheeks flushing red in fury. "Since I met you, my life's been destroyed. And if it's the last thing I do, I'll make sure yours is ruined, too."

Sherlock is unmoved by this threat. He clasps his hand behind his back and looks down his nose at her. "Will you."

"I'll tell everyone! You're not natural, looking the way you do! And now I know why. I read your story."

"You think anyone is going to believe in giants?" John scoffs.

"More to the point, do you think anyone is going to believe you?" Sherlock adds. "The infamous Kitty Riley, journalistic pariah?"

Kitty's hands are flexing in claws. "Photos. I'll get pictures. DNA. Anything I can dig up. And then there's the kid - what the fuck? People will want to believe me, you'll see. It'll make headlines when a sociopath turns paedophile, you sick freaks. Child Services will take her away, and then -"

She shrieks as John turns on her with murder in his eyes. Sherlock grabs his arm with unnatural speed before he can reaching the cringing Kitty. "John, no!"

"Nobody is taking Dóchas, they'll have to go through me first." John lets Sherlock pull him away.

"And myself as well," Sherlock says. He puts his hand on either side of John's face, forces him to look at him. "It's not going to happen. This is not the way."

John shudders but holds himself still, taking deep breaths. Sherlock presses a kiss on John's lips, his forehead and draws him close, but his pale eyes are no less murderous when they lock on Kitty over John's shoulder. "Go and check on Dóchas in the car. Ms. Riley and I are going to have a conversation." He turns his head and whispers something inaudible in John's ear. John nods and turns to go, but not before he grins at Kitty with a smile Sherlock hasn't seen since a memorable night in West Carey cottage.

Sherlock is glad that smile has never been directed at him.

The front door clicks. "Sit down," Sherlock says.

"I think I'd rather stand," Kitty replies. She finds herself suddenly slammed into the desk chair with bruising force before she even saw the movement, hands digging into her shoulders.

"I don't like to repeat myself," Sherlock says. His face is right above hers.

He doesn't even look angry, one part of Kitty's mind babbles over the terror.

"I am willing..." Sherlock pauses to choose the words. "Not to forgive, no. To overlook that you were doubtless Moriarty's dupe, and inadvertently responsible for my disgrace and the pain it caused John. I am willing to pass over the fact that you came here - to our home - with the intent to pry into our privates lives."

Kitty's eyes are wide, her lips bloodless. Sherlock swallows. His hands slip to the arms of the chair, boxing her in. "What I am not going to overlook are your threats, as wild and as ill-advised as they are. Against myself, against John, and most especially against Dóchas. A child. A little girl who is as much to me as my own heart. How dare you."

His hands flex on the arms of the chair, the plastic groaning under his grip. Kitty makes a wordless noise in the back of her throat. Eyes boring into hers, Sherlock continues. "No one will believe you. You are fighting forces that you will never understand, and will never overcome. I have the means. I have contacts. More importantly, I have John."

Sherlock releases the chair and steps back in a quick movement. There is an edge of pity in the smile he gives her. "I have a lifetime's study of criminology at my beck and call. I've been called a psychopath more than once. You want to tell the world? It may be that you never get the chance. Just cross me, and find out how much of a monster I can be."

Kitty finds her voice. "You wouldn't. You can't."

Sherlock shrugs. "Well, perhaps not. It would upset John." He looks over his shoulder where the person in question is entering the room. "All right?"

"She's just woken up. Cranky. I left her looking for her shoes in the car. Didn't want her meeting our guest." John's eyes are on Kitty, hatred and a strange eagerness banked in his eyes.

"Good." Sherlock addresses Kitty again. "You think all my threats empty? One more opportunity before I turn the matter over to John. This is your ultimatum: leave. Never come back. Never speak of this to anyone."

"You can't stop me talking," Kitty says.

John steps forward, teeth bared. "Right. That's it. I'm going to give you three minutes to leg it as far as you can." Kitty opens her mouth but John overrides her. "Once those three minutes are up, I'm coming after you." His hands flex. "And then I'm going to rip you apart."

"I hope you've kept in shape," Sherlock says. "John's in excellent shape for a man of his age, as I'm sure you've noted."

Kitty's eyes flick from Sherlock to John as he advances with a predatory grace that is strange and terrifying in a man his size. Her muscles tighten, heart rate ratcheting up. He stops short of her, and his expression is terrible to behold.

"Now." John's expression twists. "Get. OUT."

The echo of the inhuman shout is still ringing in Kitty's ears as she overturns the chair in her desire to get away. There are several thuds and the tinkle of broken glass from the kitchen as she blunders out. John and Sherlock follow, steps slow, to stand in the open back door, watching the fleeing figure.

"That was a cruel joke, for you," Sherlock says.

"Who says it's a joke?" John dead-pans. Sherlock eyes him severely, and John rolls his eyes. "Think we'll get any more trouble from her?"

"No," Sherlock says. "I'll make certain."

"Thanks."

"It's nothing. Oh," Sherlock says, as a small body inserts itself between them. "Sweetling. Ready for bed?"

Dóchas yawns, and turns a melting look on him. "Can I have some ice cream first?"

"No, you little monster, and don't you look at your brother, either. I know he's a soft touch. It's past your bed time."

She shrugs, and her small hand steals into his. "Okay."

"Let's get you tucked up, then," John says, smoothing a dark lock into place. "I have a new story for you."

"I know all your stories, big brother," she complains. "I want to hear one of Sherlock's."

Sherlock's chuckle rises, joined by Dóchas's giggle, as John sputters. The light from the hallway silhouettes the three as they stand in the door.

The shadows they cast seem to be long, very long, reaching beyond the spill of light to touch the darkness, until John shuts the door with a click.