Fic: Time in Lieu Of [2/2]
Title: TIme in Lieu Of
Part: 2/2 [this was broken into 18 parts on the kink meme]
Warnings: AU crack fic of crackness. Considerable volumes of OOC. Unintended cross over with Good Omens.
Prompt Link: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4076.html?thread=10033900#t10033900
Prompt: John Watson has three siblings, not one...and together they are the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Notes: Continued from last part.
Length: approximately 12,000 words
---
John could feel Seb’s panic, or maybe it was his own panic.
John’s phone rang.
Blocked number: Dooooooooom.
Luckily, Sherlock hadn’t gotten a look at Jim’s snipers or this would have been incredibly awkward. Seb, stood with military precision and extended his hand to Sherlock. It was ignored. Sherlock continued to eye him critically.
“John and I were stationed together.”
“Wrong. Try again.”
John could feel Seb’s nerves fraying. If Sherlock continued unnerving Seb he might end up being mobbed by fangirls or some such thing at Seb’s earliest convenience.
“Sherlock, Seb and I served together in Afghanistan.” They had, in the 1880s, but he wasn’t going to tell Sherlock that.
Sherlock’s razor-sharp gaze seemed to sharpen. John wondered if they could somehow harness the power of that gaze to split atoms. “You aren’t lying. But it is still wrong.” He gazed suspiciously at Seb. Seb who was an idiot and easily roused by humans being smarter than him.
“That is quite the ‘revelation,’ isn’t it?” His smile was all teeth.
IF YOU DO NOT QUIET YOUR NEXT BODY WILL BE THAT OF A SLUG
Seb shivered. So did Sherlock, he glanced around the flat warily. John -really- needed to control his anger better and Seb really needed to control his stupid better.
“Well, I best be going. I’ll see you at the Christmas party John. Sherlock, you will have to ‘come and see’ it.”
SEBASTIAN. The words were a deadly warning. DO NOT FORGET THAT OUR KIND IS NOT GIVEN THE REPRIEVE OF DEATH IN THE FACE OF TORTURE.
Sebastian paled, before quickly heading to the door, forgetting his jacket he almost bowed to John before catching himself and nervously letting himself out of the flat. John watched him leave, his face grim.
Sherlock would put it all together. If he was lucky it would be at the Christmas party instead of before. God knows John needed as many reinforcements as he could manage.
Blocked Number: Do you want me to ensure Seb is reincarnated as a slug now or can this wait?
WE WAIT.
Kilometres away, he could taste Seb’s panic. John pushed at the thing inside of his brain until he felt confident he could answer Sherlock’s questioning stare with some humanity. Sherlock looked white, so pale that for a moment John was afraid that he had already figured everything out, before realizing that Sherlock was simply reacting with an animal instinct that had somehow survived in that incredible mind of his. Something primordial within Sherlock’s brain knew to be terrified of the thing that stood inside of his flat and masqueraded as his flatmate. Something could tell that the chill in the room had nothing to do with the open window. Sherlock’s pupils were blown wide with adrenaline as his body told him to escape.
In a blink the terror was gone, logic slamming down on automatic responses and shutting down animal instinct. The animal was right, but it was the terrifying brilliance of Sherlock’s mind that had first drawn John. He watched as Sherlock jerked out of his paralysis, and quickly walked to the window, slamming it shut.
“John, what the hell?” Sherlock’s voice didn’t tremble or shake.
“What?” John tried to pull at the comfort that was his gift only to have it fall to ash in the face of brutal examination. The unnatural chill hung in the air. It felt like paranoia. Too many of them had been in one place in too short time. Anthea had said that the Holmes brothers would figure it out. It surprised him that Mycroft hadn’t yet.
Blocked number: I am avoiding him like the plague (no pun intended).
Needless to say, none of his siblings were being of much help in the face of Sherlock’s analysis. John could see that clever mind begin to run over Seb’s words. He had never been happier about Sherlock not being particularly religious.
“John.” His name was a warning.
“Don’t mind Seb, he got dropped on his head as a child. Repeatedly.” In fact, Seb was about to be repeatedly dropped on his head.
Sherlock eyed John suspiciously. “Really? He seemed fairly intelligent. Although I do wonder why he felt the need to bow to you.”
“Ha, joke.” Least. Believable. Evasion. Ever. God, maybe after he dropped Seb on his head, he could try a bit of brain damage on himself. Might actually make things seem rosier. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.
“I see.” Oh, John sincerely hoped not.
“Look, why don’t we get out of this chilly flat and go for Chinese, I’ll buy.”
By the time they got to the restaurant and ordered, John remembered that he wasn’t eating (and Sherlock pretty much never ate anyway) and instead they chatted and amicably pushed food around on their plates. John was under no delusion that Sherlock had forgotten about Seb or about anything really but maybe he could distract him. Or at least put off the interrogation as long as possible. John considered arranging for an interesting murder before remembering that he wasn’t doing that anymore because a) it was mean and he had been human long enough to know just how mean it was; b) one on one murder was too ‘artisan’ for the current direction of The Board; c) he was on fucking vacation.
With a distinct lack of murder or eating, both John and Sherlock made their way back to 221B only to discover that someone had broken into the flat and decorated with gold spray paint. The numbers drew a shiver down John’s back. 6-1 (John could always read them, but the clever code had certainly kept him from deciphering their meaning; He was near omnipotent not omniscient). However, this time he didn’t need Sherlock or a special book to decipher them. He was going to kill Seb.
He hoped that Sherlock would interpret his pallor as discomfort over reliving a fairly traumatic night (even for him) instead of the vicious fury it actually was. “Excuse me.” He walked quickly into his room and closed the door. No sooner had the latch caught than John vanished.
In his expansive flat overlooking Trafalgar Square, Jim Moriarty fainted while explaining Seb’s place in his latest ploy. He crumpled to the ground at the feet of a colossal shadow, its body composed of absence and cold, darkness so complete that it seemed to devour both matter and light. Seb’s body, which he usually kept under excellent control, cringed and tried to scurry away from the threat.
“Hello John. Tea?” He managed to gasp.
It didn’t speak. It really didn’t need to. The last time Seb had seen it in this state had been tens of millennia ago when it had rendered Harry piece by piece in a process that lasted a century. Seb had been quite sure that John had outgrown that explosive rage. Apparently he had miscalculated.
“I can’t attend the Christmas party if I’m strung up across a few square kilometres somewhere.”
It rumbled terrifyingly in response and all the windows in the flat cracked. Seb drew himself to his full height. His knees were a bit shaky but it would have to do. “Look John, Sherlock figured out something was off about you long before I dropped a few hints. I just thought I would let him know what he was dealing with. Besides, Mycroft has been sniffing around and has engaged Clara to pull some pretty hefty files on us. Hell, Mycroft has identified me and the CTT footage of us having tea seems pretty damn suspicious. I am fond of this body and you are fond of Sherlock, so why don’t we prod them to the right conclusion before we get ourselves destroyed?” The trick to effectively mastering discord was to be equally effective at implementing accord.
Seb wasn’t sure how successful he was. The thing shrieked at him in anger and his knees finally gave, landing him on the couch (luckily). Oh yes, he wasn’t going to play with John’s Project ever again. EVER. Even if Jim specifically ordered it. Even if Anthea thought it was a good idea. Ever. The windows in the flat finally imploded. With a wave of his hand, Seb ensured that he and Jim were saved from the worst of the damage.
“And I won’t visit your flat ever again. I promise. Just, be reasonable John.”
The flat creaked ominously and thick cracks appeared in the walls and ceiling. The room smelled of sulphur and ozone. Seb prayed that John could remember that he was fond of his little brother, that he liked him and thought he would grow into an intelligent and resourceful entity.
In a blink the thing that had been darkening a quarter of the flat vanished and in its place stood the most modest looking man in London. He was furious but compared to what Seb had just faced he looked downright loving and welcoming.
“Ummm, thank you for knocking Jim out, before you came in like…that. Very conscientious of you.” Seb’s best attempt at humility managed to be successful in the face of terror. There was always a first time he supposed. Also, he was rather grateful that Jim hadn’t been turned into a gibbering insane wreck at the sight of something that was guaranteed to shatter human intellect.
NEVER AGAIN. YOUR LAST WARNING.
“Of course not. I was being ridiculous. In the future, I will be sure to vet any plans that affect other Board members with The Board.”
John vanished from the flat with a lightning-like clap. Seb collapsed back into the couch with a sigh, he was thinking up ways to explain away the damage, when he realized that everything in the flat looked as it should be. No broken windows, no cracked foundations. With John being so nice and friendly it was easy to forget how FUCKING TERRIFYING he could be.
---
John leaned his head against the door of his room. He really couldn’t think of a good way to bring up the Christmas party and in the face of Sherlock’s analysis, he would have to, which he really didn’t want to do. In fact, one of the reasons he had taken his vacation was so that he could avoid telling Sherlock, because John was an idiot. A hormonal idiot. Not that he particularly enjoyed killing humans anymore than a person actively enjoyed their intercostal muscles. But work was work. Sherlock wasn’t work. Sherlock could hardly classify as a project. The man was not forwarding The Board’s agenda and therefore shouldn’t have taken up as much of John’s life as he did. So. Vacation. He breathed a heavy sigh before wandering back downstairs.
Sherlock had pulled the drapes across the windows to obscure the spray paint and was flipping through the channels on the telly. “Mycroft sent me a message about the Christmas party. Should be interesting.”
John blinked at Sherlock, and decided that Anthea had the right idea and that avoidance should start immediately.
---
A week later, a cab dropped John and Sherlock off in front of the gates to a sprawling manor house John had purchased back before he learned to be circumspect. The manor house had become destitute in his absence, the fine finishing rotting and its proud roof sagging, but John’s presence, as surely as it had in Moriarty’s flat, returned the Manor to its former splendour. John wondered if any of his siblings ever got creeped out by their own abilities. Then again, seeing as his siblings were pretty creepy to begin with, he doubted it. He still remembered when Harry had memorized the closing song to Portal and ran about London singing in a strangely disembodied voice about experimenting on humans. No wonder she and Clara didn’t work out.
The manor looked warm and comforting, and John sighed wistfully. The light flooding from its large windows onto the vast grounds felt like a siren call to John’s cold and chapped hands. His breath crystalized in front of him and he shoved his hands further into his pockets. He took one step towards the main walk (a good hundred meter hike) before realizing that Sherlock wasn’t following. The other man had spent the whole of the cab ride glowering out the window. John had attributed it to him being angry at A) John for vanishing for a week and B) the prospect of spending an evening with Mycroft, but he now had a creeping suspicion that he had misjudged the situation entirely.
“If this is how you intend to come out of your ‘I’m not human’ closet, you should know that I have already deduced it.”
“I...wait, what?!” John spun around to face Sherlock’s pale face. Despite the cold and the bloody terrifying things he was saying, Sherlock managed to look haughty and completely at ease in his surroundings. How like a crime scene.
“As ‘spectacularly ignorant’ as I may be about some things, it is rather difficult to ignore the fact that you haven’t eaten anything but three biscuits in the past five weeks. So, not human. Initially I suspected that you were a vampire but the literature (shoddy and variable though it is) consistently indicates that room temperature is unaffected by vampires. In your case, the rooms get physically colder the moment you walk into them. Although, not as much as Harry, Mycroft’s secretary, or Sebastian Moran (Jim Moriarty’s sniper and really the company your peers keep was most telling). I initially revised the prognosis to corporeal ghost, which would explain you setting off flight or fight reflexes in anyone who spends too much time in your company and dogs. But. You are warm to the touch.” Sherlock briefly laid his hand on John’s forearm as if to demonstrate. John shivered involuntarily and tried to shut the gibbering panic out of his mind. He had expected this, he just did not expect this when he was alone and without reinforcements. Crap.
“Also, all my bacteria samples die the moment you notice them stored around the flat. I eventually settled on some sort of demon. Really, John, did you think I wouldn’t notice? Me?”
Sherlock ignored John as he did his best impersonation of a fish. “When?”
“Three weeks ago. To be fair, I hadn’t identified you as a biblical entity until Sebastian’s poor attempt at subtle intimation; although, his heavy handed spray painting of the windows was unnecessary.”
Sherlock was beginning to grow more agitated. “And then there is the fact that you can disappear and reappear into thin air, like you did after the spray painting incident.”
“You broke into my room?”
“Yes, John, I broke into your room. I can see how keeping that fact secret is a far more grievous offence than what you have kept from me. I suppose the only thing I have not fully deduced is what you and your compatriots are achieving by manipulating my brother, Moriarty, Clara (who I recently found out to be the world’s foremost computer hacker) and me. Are you pushing us towards creating the Apocalypse or is this something more harmless?” Sherlock’s voice dropped to a growl at the word ‘harmless.’ “Are you just bored, John, and am I just a nice little toy for you to play with?” At some level, John had expected the anger and the bitterness; he had not expected the hurt that seemed to underlie all of it.
“What? No. Sherlock. No.” John reacted with the humanity that was born into his body and reached out to lay his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, only to have him wrench away.
“Don’t. Touch. Me.” Most people in the right mind would have been terrified, but Sherlock had never been gifted with a right state of mind. Damn this generation and their resident geniuses.
“I’m sorry.” When in doubt, apologize. Sherlock didn’t look at him. “You aren’t a toy. I do think of you as my friend.”
“Friend? I thought we were colleagues?” Sherlock’s cold derisive laughter echoed across the snow covered lawn.
“Oh for the love of - will you please just let that go? It was almost a year ago.” John ran his hand through his hair tiredly. If this all went to hell he would spend the remainder of his vacation as a tree. Trees were relaxed; trees didn’t have complicated lives and messed up flatmates they had grown feelings for because their bodies were full of stupid hormones and stupider emotions. Trees had sex through pollination and didn’t have any animalistic desires to wrench them out of their nice tree-like existence. Maybe he could be a tree regardless of how this turned out.
“Of course. Why not? Forgiven and forgotten. After all, I’m having a discussion with a corporeal representation of death. Don’t look so surprised, didn’t you notice that Mycroft’s secretary colour coded you with that stupid jumper she gave you? You didn’t, did you? How do you do your job, John? How do you manage the brain power to get up in the morning?” Sherlock was going a bit hysterical at that point. This was usually the moment John cleared a mortal’s memories, but it really did mess them up for a bit and he wasn’t that keen on doing it to Sherlock. But he had to shut him up and really everything had already gone balls up so fuck it. Fuck everything. And Fuck Sherlock Holmes. He kissed him.
Which shut Sherlock up in a fantastically effective manner. Thank God Lestrade never figured this out.
It wasn’t the most spectacular kiss of his life, possibly because Sherlock just stood there, but immobility was better than a punch to the face so John ran with his mini victory. Sherlock’s lips were cold, and slightly chapped and fantastically soft. When he finally pulled back, Sherlock swallowed hard and looked somewhere in the vicinity of John’s left ear.
“Why? What the hell?”
“Behold my earth shattering machinations: When you’re not being a berk you’re good company.” John shifted a bit nervously. “Also, you’re pretty good looking and I thought maybe we could get a coffee together, for a date, I mean. Or we could not. Or you can choose to forget about this entirely (with slight disorientation when you wake up in the morning and possibly a fever).” John wasn’t sure why, but this never actually managed to get easier.
“You could make me forget everything?” Sherlock seemed a bit dazed. John wasn’t sure if it was because John had just confessed to desiring a relationship with Sherlock-Married-To-His-Job-Holmes or because Sherlock had realized just how much John could screw with his brain.
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing, you go on like you did before you met me. I wouldn’t stick around because you figured this out once and you will again.”
Sherlock blinked at him a bit vacantly and John wondered if he had accidentally already wiped his memory. “I need to think about this.” He would be lying if he said that didn’t hurt. Better than being told to just go ahead and wipe away, he supposed. Oh well. Not as good as he hoped but more than he should have expected. The supernatural, especially creepy supernatural did not mix well with human intellect. There was always the tree option.
Sherlock began to walk towards the sprawling manor, his hands thrust into his coat pockets. His breath condensing in the air. “If you exist, does that mean the rest of it exists?” He didn’t look back at John, who trudged along behind him.
“I don’t know, and I’m not just saying that.”
Sherlock gave a sharp nod and continued across the grounds, and finally into the manor. John held his breath and concentrated on not having the whole structure collapse in on itself in his sudden disappointment.
The main lobby was resplendent in glittering golden and crystal decorations and a monstrous Christmas tree that shimmered with innumerable baubles. It was all Anthea’s doing, of course. John never saw the point to all the decorations, in fact, the more he thought about them the less he liked them. They were greeted warmly by Anthea’s people, who led them into the formal dining room. John tried to ignore their glassy gazes and vacant smiles. He was really going to have to talk to Anthea about her over-use of the forgetty thingy.
The dining room had not been spared the explosion of baubles. A fire crackled in the monstrous hearth, the mantel of which had been strung with pine. A colossal crystal chandelier that John could not remember owning lit the room in warm candlelight. Despite the festive decor, the atmosphere was tense. Mycroft and Jim were glaring at Clara and then each other. The reigned in fury nearly sparked across the air. Overlaying it was a thick feeling of malaise prevalent wherever the four siblings met.
John felt a premonition of the evening to come and began a silent countdown ‘until tree.’ Well, not actually ‘tree’ but maybe someone different. It would be nice to be something else or someone else; someone who could escape from overbearing siblings and crushes on insane flatmates; maybe someone who was taller and didn’t flush at the slightest provocation.
“I think we need to re-visit what an ‘exclusivity’ clause means, Clara.” Mycroft intoned in his usual suave tone.
“I couldn’t agree with you more.” Jim added, looking like he might come unhinged at any moment, which come to think of it, was pretty usual of him too.
Clara looked calm as she sipped at her Champaign. “And I think it is time we re-visit the ‘I don’t give a fuck’ clause. You can continue to play your little games in London, but I own the internet, Bitches.”
Harry, dressed in a magnificent black suit, beamed warmly at her former spouse; although judging from the -enormous- engagement ring on Clara’s finger things seemed to be returning to status quo. The time any of them could spend away from formalized leadership appeared to be eleven months. Things were not boding well for John.
There was definitely something to be said for being a tree.
Anthea barely looked up from her BlackBerry as she texted merrily away. The BlackBerry should have looked a bit weird contrasted against her black silk evening gown, but Anthea somehow made it work. John’s phone rang. He didn’t bother to look at it. He knew what it said, and there was no point in maintaining pretence.
Blocked number: That bad?
DON’T EVEN ASK.
Clara paled. James stopped mid insult and Mycroft took a harder swallow than was strictly necessary of his tea, before replacing the teacup steadily back on its plate. Anthea radiated pride. Seb rolled his eyes, straightened the red tie peeking out from his black suit, and leaned more artfully against the mantle of the fire place. And God Damn it, Anthea had colour coded them all. Sherlock eyed everyone disdainfully and took a seat as far from both Jim and Mycroft as he could.
Harry plopped herself onto Clara’s lap, and clapped her hands together in glee. “Now that everyone is here, let’s eat!”
John ran his eye over the assembled group. “Why are we even bothering with this farce if everyone already knows?”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow while Jim Moriarty had the gall to smirk. Clara and Mycroft remained astutely neutral, although Clara looked a touch confused. The chandelier - which John didn’t buy and didn’t even like, so there - crashed onto the dining room table, which collapsed under the weight. John considered anger management classes. Fuck it. Seb sighed, before walking over to perch on the side of the ruined table, he eyed the shattered chandelier.
“That wasn’t very nice, John. The chandelier was Anthea’s.” He cocked his head to the side and his body seemed to drop the shroud of humanity it always wore. It still looked like Seb. Still walked on two legs. But it would have taken an idiot to think it was still human. Seb moved with unnatural grace. “This generation isn’t stupid. So, they all figured it out. No big deal.”
“Oh yes. Sebastian insists I apologize about the pool.” Jim Moriarty smirked, while ignoring the look Sherlock shot at him. “Sorry, John.” He added with a roll of his eyes.
The house gave an ear-piercing groan.
“James, do contain yourself before the house falls on our heads.” Mycroft continued to sound bored, but his eyes were assessing John. To be frank, John did feel like dropping the house on all of them. It would be downright cathartic at this point.
SEB, YOU MAY NOW KILL JIM WITH THE TOWER
“Oh come on John! Why are you picking on me this year?” Seb’s pout managed to put even Sherlock’s to shame. “Besides, all I committed to was dropping the tower on him, not necessarily killing him with it.”
“Excuse me?” The smile on Jim’s face didn’t change although a great deal of murderous intent seemed to infuse his expression.
TROUBLE IN PARADISE
Anthea and Harry cracked up, with Harry nearly dropping her drink into Clara’s lap. Mycroft raised a single eyebrow. John avoided looking in Sherlock’s direction.
“Sorry, it is just it is so funny when he jokes in that voice.” Harry gasped for breath “Trust me, you had to be there. Let’s eat. If nothing else, it will put something in Seb’s mouth before he has a chance to say something dumber.”
“Harry, at least I’m not the one that spent a century of Christmases with my bits spread over the whole of Japan.” Seb sounded petulant.
“Not yet.” Harry intoned darkly.
Moriarty leaned back in his chair and assessed John without his usual smirk. His eyes flicked across Anthea, Harry and Seb who were all gazing at John. His mouth turned down. Pecking order apparently established. John hated Jim with a passion he had not felt since he invented nicotine.
FUCK IT, I AM KILLING EVERYONE HERE. STARTING WITH JIM AND THEN ENDING WITH JIM
Blocked Number: John, Seb is right, you must contain your anger, if only so you do not accidentally squash the Projects; especially in the face of the post-mortem placement problem. Mycroft deduced my identity as well. He is being insufferable about it.
:Clara realized that I don’t eat and that we were never born and that Seb and Anthea have been in two places at once. She thinks it’s hot. ‘Cause Clara’s awesome! We’re getting married again, this time I get to wear the dress:
Apparently Harry was already drunk. With a family like this, John was surprised he had not already joined her.
Blocked Number: Seb left enough clues that anyone could put it together, and Jim is not just anyone. No matter how much our respective Projects dislike one another, we must remember the placement problem. Now John, let us eat and no blood shed.
FINE.
The doors to the dining room opened letting in some of Anthea’s people with the starter course. The guests sat uneasily at the newly reconstituted table with the chandelier glittered above all their heads like a guillotine. Projects and horsemen alike were eying John with various degrees of terror and unhappiness, which was oddly comforting and made him feel a bit nostalgic. This wasn’t too bad. Tomorrow the Projects would probably remember nothing and he would be someone else and that was the end of it. If Seb and Harry were allowed tantrums, so was he.
THANK YOU FOR REMEMBERING CATERING
Blocked number: What are little sisters for?
:You had other things on your mind Johnny. Poor overworked darling. By the way, Seb was worried about your mental health and dug around a bit. Him and I agree that you shouldn’t turn into a tree.:
Blocked number: Tree? WTF?
SEB STAY OUT OF MY HEAD.
“No and you shouldn’t turn into a tree!” The Projects at the table all jumped at Seb’s outburst. Seb who was staring at John with an unhappy expression on his face.
Blocked number: Why was I not informed?
NOT ACTUALLY TURNING INTO A TREE. IF YOU DIG IN MY MIND DO IT COMPETENTLY.
“What?” Clara looked back and forth between Seb and John in agitation. Sherlock tensed at John’s side. Lovely.
“Yes, perhaps you could share your conversation with the rest of us?” Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his hands folded over his chest. “It is strange only hearing Sebastian’s responses. Although that is a handicap I am sure is shared only by some at the table.”
“Do you really want to join our conversations Mycroft?” John’s voice had an edge to it that was usually removed for the sake of humanity.
“John, don’t even think about it.” Anthea’s voice was like a gunshot in the suddenly quiet room.
“Why not Anthea?” A SHATTERED MIND WOULD CERTAINLY SOLVE THE POST-MORTUM PLACEMENT PROBLEM
“I am fond of him, if you must know.” She covered Mycroft’s hand with her own. In a woman as circumspect as Anthea, it spoke volumes.
Blocked Number: Also, you are not turning into anything until we have a nice chat.
The meal continued in stony silence. John didn’t know why Mycroft was smiling as widely as he was, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. All he knew was that if that if anyone made another bloody comment, tree or no, everyone was going to need a new body tomorrow.
---
By the time dessert had run its course, John had managed to extract himself from the dining room and found himself in the library looking over the forest that had encroached on the back of the property. He never had the heart to get rid of all those trees and now it looked like they might revolt and take over the manor. Not that John cared. Tomorrow he might well be joining the revolution.
He tensed when he felt Sherlock join him at the window. The warmth of the man’s willowy body seemed to radiate through John’s jumper and shirt and sink directly into his skin.
“How does one go about becoming a tree, exactly?”
“Jump into the Tames and wake up as a tree. Individual results may vary.” John had meant it to sound like a joke. He wasn’t -really- I mean, a tree? Did people think he was daft?
Sherlock didn’t smile. He looked out the window at the forest palely outlined by the light of the moon. Under the moonlight, everything sparkled as if it was made of glass; Even Sherlock. John took a sip of his wine and looked away from his flatmate’s profile. John suddenly felt his age. Felt world-crushingly tired. Maybe he -should- change species. Nothing boring. But he was getting tired of being human. Being human hurt and was uncomfortable and made him care too much. And -this- was just one reason why he needed a vacation.
“So I should expect to identify your body when it turns up then.” Sherlock’s tone was matter-of-fact, but Sherlock tended to sound matter-of-fact over anything involving corpses, which was as much a relief as it wasn't.
“Probably. Even if you want your memory wiped, you would still remember me somewhat. If only so I don’t have to rewrite the memories of half the population of London.”
“I see. Have you settled on a species of tree? Or can I still make recommendations?”
“Uh, no, nothing settled yet.” Did Sherlock believe he was going through with the tree thing?
“Ah, then may I recommend a Ficus benjamina, in a pot.”
“A decorative fig tree? Do I want to know why?”
“Convenience. If you and I are supposed to go for coffee, I would prefer that you be portable so I can seat you opposite me at the cafe. Also, should the Apocalypse occur while you are in Ficus-form, I am sure that your transportability would be much appreciated by your siblings.” A smile was forming on Sherlock’s face.
“The three horsemen of the apocalypse, and death tree, the tree that kills people?” John tried to keep a straight face.
“Terrifying. Although perhaps not as terrifying as the truly ignorant comments I will undoubtedly garner from Anderson when I wheel you onto crime scenes. Can’t be helped, I suppose. I do so rely on your professional opinion.”
“As a Ficus?”
“As death tree, the tree that kills people. Obviously.”
John finally met Sherlock’s eye and the laughter they had been holding back burst out of them. Eventually they both had to lean back on the glass of the window because the mere sight of the forest forced them back into helpless peals of laughter.
“It would be far more expedient if you remained as you are; it would certainly make other aspects of the relationship less awkward.”
“I wasn’t going to actually become a tree.”
“I had hoped not. But you didn’t seem interested in staying John either.” Sherlock clenched his hands, relaxed them, and then leaned over quickly to brush his lips against John’s. In a flash he was back to leaning against the window.
“If you’re doing this out of misguided pity, I will find out, and I will make you suffer for it.”
Sherlock stiffened at his side, before relaxing slightly. “Don’t be more of an idiot than you can help.” He swallowed hard before dropping his eyes to the glass of wine still in John’s hand. “Why me?”
“Now who’s an idiot?” Sherlock scowled at him. “For the same reason any human chooses any other human. Because you’re brilliant, and crazy, and easy on the eyes. Because you’re as smart if not smarter than any of them, but without the megalomania. But mostly because Ficus are irresistibly drawn to you.”
Sherlock grinned back at him before sobering slightly. “So, what happens now? Harry tells me you’re on vacation. Will people stop dying? Also, won’t people notice when I age and you don’t?”
John grinned. “So you’re thinking of keeping me long term?”
Sherlock gave him his can-you-hear-the-stupid-words-coming-out-of-your-mouth? expression.
“People will keep dying, and no one will notice because I will age right alongside everyone else. I am pretty human, despite everything.” John decided to drop the ‘neither of us might age ever if we can’t find someone to take Mycroft’ bomb much much later.
“Oh.”
Blocked number: Just kiss him already; All of us are on tenterhooks.
:Seb is on the edge of his seat. It’s kind of cute.:
“Can’t you just block her number?” John smiled at the annoyed expression on Sherlock’s face before leaning over and letting his lips rest over the downturned mouth. Sherlock leaned into the contact. And it was warm and soft and going pretty slowly but confirming that your flat mate is one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse and then starting a relationship with said flatmate was a lot for one night. Besides they still had a lot to sort out.
Blocked number: There is always tomorrow morning.
So there was.
Sequel: Can't Live On Milk Alone > > >
Part: 2/2 [this was broken into 18 parts on the kink meme]
Warnings: AU crack fic of crackness. Considerable volumes of OOC. Unintended cross over with Good Omens.
Prompt Link: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4076.html?thread=10033900#t10033900
Prompt: John Watson has three siblings, not one...and together they are the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Notes: Continued from last part.
Length: approximately 12,000 words
---
John could feel Seb’s panic, or maybe it was his own panic.
John’s phone rang.
Blocked number: Dooooooooom.
Luckily, Sherlock hadn’t gotten a look at Jim’s snipers or this would have been incredibly awkward. Seb, stood with military precision and extended his hand to Sherlock. It was ignored. Sherlock continued to eye him critically.
“John and I were stationed together.”
“Wrong. Try again.”
John could feel Seb’s nerves fraying. If Sherlock continued unnerving Seb he might end up being mobbed by fangirls or some such thing at Seb’s earliest convenience.
“Sherlock, Seb and I served together in Afghanistan.” They had, in the 1880s, but he wasn’t going to tell Sherlock that.
Sherlock’s razor-sharp gaze seemed to sharpen. John wondered if they could somehow harness the power of that gaze to split atoms. “You aren’t lying. But it is still wrong.” He gazed suspiciously at Seb. Seb who was an idiot and easily roused by humans being smarter than him.
“That is quite the ‘revelation,’ isn’t it?” His smile was all teeth.
IF YOU DO NOT QUIET YOUR NEXT BODY WILL BE THAT OF A SLUG
Seb shivered. So did Sherlock, he glanced around the flat warily. John -really- needed to control his anger better and Seb really needed to control his stupid better.
“Well, I best be going. I’ll see you at the Christmas party John. Sherlock, you will have to ‘come and see’ it.”
SEBASTIAN. The words were a deadly warning. DO NOT FORGET THAT OUR KIND IS NOT GIVEN THE REPRIEVE OF DEATH IN THE FACE OF TORTURE.
Sebastian paled, before quickly heading to the door, forgetting his jacket he almost bowed to John before catching himself and nervously letting himself out of the flat. John watched him leave, his face grim.
Sherlock would put it all together. If he was lucky it would be at the Christmas party instead of before. God knows John needed as many reinforcements as he could manage.
Blocked Number: Do you want me to ensure Seb is reincarnated as a slug now or can this wait?
WE WAIT.
Kilometres away, he could taste Seb’s panic. John pushed at the thing inside of his brain until he felt confident he could answer Sherlock’s questioning stare with some humanity. Sherlock looked white, so pale that for a moment John was afraid that he had already figured everything out, before realizing that Sherlock was simply reacting with an animal instinct that had somehow survived in that incredible mind of his. Something primordial within Sherlock’s brain knew to be terrified of the thing that stood inside of his flat and masqueraded as his flatmate. Something could tell that the chill in the room had nothing to do with the open window. Sherlock’s pupils were blown wide with adrenaline as his body told him to escape.
In a blink the terror was gone, logic slamming down on automatic responses and shutting down animal instinct. The animal was right, but it was the terrifying brilliance of Sherlock’s mind that had first drawn John. He watched as Sherlock jerked out of his paralysis, and quickly walked to the window, slamming it shut.
“John, what the hell?” Sherlock’s voice didn’t tremble or shake.
“What?” John tried to pull at the comfort that was his gift only to have it fall to ash in the face of brutal examination. The unnatural chill hung in the air. It felt like paranoia. Too many of them had been in one place in too short time. Anthea had said that the Holmes brothers would figure it out. It surprised him that Mycroft hadn’t yet.
Blocked number: I am avoiding him like the plague (no pun intended).
Needless to say, none of his siblings were being of much help in the face of Sherlock’s analysis. John could see that clever mind begin to run over Seb’s words. He had never been happier about Sherlock not being particularly religious.
“John.” His name was a warning.
“Don’t mind Seb, he got dropped on his head as a child. Repeatedly.” In fact, Seb was about to be repeatedly dropped on his head.
Sherlock eyed John suspiciously. “Really? He seemed fairly intelligent. Although I do wonder why he felt the need to bow to you.”
“Ha, joke.” Least. Believable. Evasion. Ever. God, maybe after he dropped Seb on his head, he could try a bit of brain damage on himself. Might actually make things seem rosier. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.
“I see.” Oh, John sincerely hoped not.
“Look, why don’t we get out of this chilly flat and go for Chinese, I’ll buy.”
By the time they got to the restaurant and ordered, John remembered that he wasn’t eating (and Sherlock pretty much never ate anyway) and instead they chatted and amicably pushed food around on their plates. John was under no delusion that Sherlock had forgotten about Seb or about anything really but maybe he could distract him. Or at least put off the interrogation as long as possible. John considered arranging for an interesting murder before remembering that he wasn’t doing that anymore because a) it was mean and he had been human long enough to know just how mean it was; b) one on one murder was too ‘artisan’ for the current direction of The Board; c) he was on fucking vacation.
With a distinct lack of murder or eating, both John and Sherlock made their way back to 221B only to discover that someone had broken into the flat and decorated with gold spray paint. The numbers drew a shiver down John’s back. 6-1 (John could always read them, but the clever code had certainly kept him from deciphering their meaning; He was near omnipotent not omniscient). However, this time he didn’t need Sherlock or a special book to decipher them. He was going to kill Seb.
He hoped that Sherlock would interpret his pallor as discomfort over reliving a fairly traumatic night (even for him) instead of the vicious fury it actually was. “Excuse me.” He walked quickly into his room and closed the door. No sooner had the latch caught than John vanished.
In his expansive flat overlooking Trafalgar Square, Jim Moriarty fainted while explaining Seb’s place in his latest ploy. He crumpled to the ground at the feet of a colossal shadow, its body composed of absence and cold, darkness so complete that it seemed to devour both matter and light. Seb’s body, which he usually kept under excellent control, cringed and tried to scurry away from the threat.
“Hello John. Tea?” He managed to gasp.
It didn’t speak. It really didn’t need to. The last time Seb had seen it in this state had been tens of millennia ago when it had rendered Harry piece by piece in a process that lasted a century. Seb had been quite sure that John had outgrown that explosive rage. Apparently he had miscalculated.
“I can’t attend the Christmas party if I’m strung up across a few square kilometres somewhere.”
It rumbled terrifyingly in response and all the windows in the flat cracked. Seb drew himself to his full height. His knees were a bit shaky but it would have to do. “Look John, Sherlock figured out something was off about you long before I dropped a few hints. I just thought I would let him know what he was dealing with. Besides, Mycroft has been sniffing around and has engaged Clara to pull some pretty hefty files on us. Hell, Mycroft has identified me and the CTT footage of us having tea seems pretty damn suspicious. I am fond of this body and you are fond of Sherlock, so why don’t we prod them to the right conclusion before we get ourselves destroyed?” The trick to effectively mastering discord was to be equally effective at implementing accord.
Seb wasn’t sure how successful he was. The thing shrieked at him in anger and his knees finally gave, landing him on the couch (luckily). Oh yes, he wasn’t going to play with John’s Project ever again. EVER. Even if Jim specifically ordered it. Even if Anthea thought it was a good idea. Ever. The windows in the flat finally imploded. With a wave of his hand, Seb ensured that he and Jim were saved from the worst of the damage.
“And I won’t visit your flat ever again. I promise. Just, be reasonable John.”
The flat creaked ominously and thick cracks appeared in the walls and ceiling. The room smelled of sulphur and ozone. Seb prayed that John could remember that he was fond of his little brother, that he liked him and thought he would grow into an intelligent and resourceful entity.
In a blink the thing that had been darkening a quarter of the flat vanished and in its place stood the most modest looking man in London. He was furious but compared to what Seb had just faced he looked downright loving and welcoming.
“Ummm, thank you for knocking Jim out, before you came in like…that. Very conscientious of you.” Seb’s best attempt at humility managed to be successful in the face of terror. There was always a first time he supposed. Also, he was rather grateful that Jim hadn’t been turned into a gibbering insane wreck at the sight of something that was guaranteed to shatter human intellect.
NEVER AGAIN. YOUR LAST WARNING.
“Of course not. I was being ridiculous. In the future, I will be sure to vet any plans that affect other Board members with The Board.”
John vanished from the flat with a lightning-like clap. Seb collapsed back into the couch with a sigh, he was thinking up ways to explain away the damage, when he realized that everything in the flat looked as it should be. No broken windows, no cracked foundations. With John being so nice and friendly it was easy to forget how FUCKING TERRIFYING he could be.
---
John leaned his head against the door of his room. He really couldn’t think of a good way to bring up the Christmas party and in the face of Sherlock’s analysis, he would have to, which he really didn’t want to do. In fact, one of the reasons he had taken his vacation was so that he could avoid telling Sherlock, because John was an idiot. A hormonal idiot. Not that he particularly enjoyed killing humans anymore than a person actively enjoyed their intercostal muscles. But work was work. Sherlock wasn’t work. Sherlock could hardly classify as a project. The man was not forwarding The Board’s agenda and therefore shouldn’t have taken up as much of John’s life as he did. So. Vacation. He breathed a heavy sigh before wandering back downstairs.
Sherlock had pulled the drapes across the windows to obscure the spray paint and was flipping through the channels on the telly. “Mycroft sent me a message about the Christmas party. Should be interesting.”
John blinked at Sherlock, and decided that Anthea had the right idea and that avoidance should start immediately.
---
A week later, a cab dropped John and Sherlock off in front of the gates to a sprawling manor house John had purchased back before he learned to be circumspect. The manor house had become destitute in his absence, the fine finishing rotting and its proud roof sagging, but John’s presence, as surely as it had in Moriarty’s flat, returned the Manor to its former splendour. John wondered if any of his siblings ever got creeped out by their own abilities. Then again, seeing as his siblings were pretty creepy to begin with, he doubted it. He still remembered when Harry had memorized the closing song to Portal and ran about London singing in a strangely disembodied voice about experimenting on humans. No wonder she and Clara didn’t work out.
The manor looked warm and comforting, and John sighed wistfully. The light flooding from its large windows onto the vast grounds felt like a siren call to John’s cold and chapped hands. His breath crystalized in front of him and he shoved his hands further into his pockets. He took one step towards the main walk (a good hundred meter hike) before realizing that Sherlock wasn’t following. The other man had spent the whole of the cab ride glowering out the window. John had attributed it to him being angry at A) John for vanishing for a week and B) the prospect of spending an evening with Mycroft, but he now had a creeping suspicion that he had misjudged the situation entirely.
“If this is how you intend to come out of your ‘I’m not human’ closet, you should know that I have already deduced it.”
“I...wait, what?!” John spun around to face Sherlock’s pale face. Despite the cold and the bloody terrifying things he was saying, Sherlock managed to look haughty and completely at ease in his surroundings. How like a crime scene.
“As ‘spectacularly ignorant’ as I may be about some things, it is rather difficult to ignore the fact that you haven’t eaten anything but three biscuits in the past five weeks. So, not human. Initially I suspected that you were a vampire but the literature (shoddy and variable though it is) consistently indicates that room temperature is unaffected by vampires. In your case, the rooms get physically colder the moment you walk into them. Although, not as much as Harry, Mycroft’s secretary, or Sebastian Moran (Jim Moriarty’s sniper and really the company your peers keep was most telling). I initially revised the prognosis to corporeal ghost, which would explain you setting off flight or fight reflexes in anyone who spends too much time in your company and dogs. But. You are warm to the touch.” Sherlock briefly laid his hand on John’s forearm as if to demonstrate. John shivered involuntarily and tried to shut the gibbering panic out of his mind. He had expected this, he just did not expect this when he was alone and without reinforcements. Crap.
“Also, all my bacteria samples die the moment you notice them stored around the flat. I eventually settled on some sort of demon. Really, John, did you think I wouldn’t notice? Me?”
Sherlock ignored John as he did his best impersonation of a fish. “When?”
“Three weeks ago. To be fair, I hadn’t identified you as a biblical entity until Sebastian’s poor attempt at subtle intimation; although, his heavy handed spray painting of the windows was unnecessary.”
Sherlock was beginning to grow more agitated. “And then there is the fact that you can disappear and reappear into thin air, like you did after the spray painting incident.”
“You broke into my room?”
“Yes, John, I broke into your room. I can see how keeping that fact secret is a far more grievous offence than what you have kept from me. I suppose the only thing I have not fully deduced is what you and your compatriots are achieving by manipulating my brother, Moriarty, Clara (who I recently found out to be the world’s foremost computer hacker) and me. Are you pushing us towards creating the Apocalypse or is this something more harmless?” Sherlock’s voice dropped to a growl at the word ‘harmless.’ “Are you just bored, John, and am I just a nice little toy for you to play with?” At some level, John had expected the anger and the bitterness; he had not expected the hurt that seemed to underlie all of it.
“What? No. Sherlock. No.” John reacted with the humanity that was born into his body and reached out to lay his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, only to have him wrench away.
“Don’t. Touch. Me.” Most people in the right mind would have been terrified, but Sherlock had never been gifted with a right state of mind. Damn this generation and their resident geniuses.
“I’m sorry.” When in doubt, apologize. Sherlock didn’t look at him. “You aren’t a toy. I do think of you as my friend.”
“Friend? I thought we were colleagues?” Sherlock’s cold derisive laughter echoed across the snow covered lawn.
“Oh for the love of - will you please just let that go? It was almost a year ago.” John ran his hand through his hair tiredly. If this all went to hell he would spend the remainder of his vacation as a tree. Trees were relaxed; trees didn’t have complicated lives and messed up flatmates they had grown feelings for because their bodies were full of stupid hormones and stupider emotions. Trees had sex through pollination and didn’t have any animalistic desires to wrench them out of their nice tree-like existence. Maybe he could be a tree regardless of how this turned out.
“Of course. Why not? Forgiven and forgotten. After all, I’m having a discussion with a corporeal representation of death. Don’t look so surprised, didn’t you notice that Mycroft’s secretary colour coded you with that stupid jumper she gave you? You didn’t, did you? How do you do your job, John? How do you manage the brain power to get up in the morning?” Sherlock was going a bit hysterical at that point. This was usually the moment John cleared a mortal’s memories, but it really did mess them up for a bit and he wasn’t that keen on doing it to Sherlock. But he had to shut him up and really everything had already gone balls up so fuck it. Fuck everything. And Fuck Sherlock Holmes. He kissed him.
Which shut Sherlock up in a fantastically effective manner. Thank God Lestrade never figured this out.
It wasn’t the most spectacular kiss of his life, possibly because Sherlock just stood there, but immobility was better than a punch to the face so John ran with his mini victory. Sherlock’s lips were cold, and slightly chapped and fantastically soft. When he finally pulled back, Sherlock swallowed hard and looked somewhere in the vicinity of John’s left ear.
“Why? What the hell?”
“Behold my earth shattering machinations: When you’re not being a berk you’re good company.” John shifted a bit nervously. “Also, you’re pretty good looking and I thought maybe we could get a coffee together, for a date, I mean. Or we could not. Or you can choose to forget about this entirely (with slight disorientation when you wake up in the morning and possibly a fever).” John wasn’t sure why, but this never actually managed to get easier.
“You could make me forget everything?” Sherlock seemed a bit dazed. John wasn’t sure if it was because John had just confessed to desiring a relationship with Sherlock-Married-To-His-Job-Holmes or because Sherlock had realized just how much John could screw with his brain.
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing, you go on like you did before you met me. I wouldn’t stick around because you figured this out once and you will again.”
Sherlock blinked at him a bit vacantly and John wondered if he had accidentally already wiped his memory. “I need to think about this.” He would be lying if he said that didn’t hurt. Better than being told to just go ahead and wipe away, he supposed. Oh well. Not as good as he hoped but more than he should have expected. The supernatural, especially creepy supernatural did not mix well with human intellect. There was always the tree option.
Sherlock began to walk towards the sprawling manor, his hands thrust into his coat pockets. His breath condensing in the air. “If you exist, does that mean the rest of it exists?” He didn’t look back at John, who trudged along behind him.
“I don’t know, and I’m not just saying that.”
Sherlock gave a sharp nod and continued across the grounds, and finally into the manor. John held his breath and concentrated on not having the whole structure collapse in on itself in his sudden disappointment.
The main lobby was resplendent in glittering golden and crystal decorations and a monstrous Christmas tree that shimmered with innumerable baubles. It was all Anthea’s doing, of course. John never saw the point to all the decorations, in fact, the more he thought about them the less he liked them. They were greeted warmly by Anthea’s people, who led them into the formal dining room. John tried to ignore their glassy gazes and vacant smiles. He was really going to have to talk to Anthea about her over-use of the forgetty thingy.
The dining room had not been spared the explosion of baubles. A fire crackled in the monstrous hearth, the mantel of which had been strung with pine. A colossal crystal chandelier that John could not remember owning lit the room in warm candlelight. Despite the festive decor, the atmosphere was tense. Mycroft and Jim were glaring at Clara and then each other. The reigned in fury nearly sparked across the air. Overlaying it was a thick feeling of malaise prevalent wherever the four siblings met.
John felt a premonition of the evening to come and began a silent countdown ‘until tree.’ Well, not actually ‘tree’ but maybe someone different. It would be nice to be something else or someone else; someone who could escape from overbearing siblings and crushes on insane flatmates; maybe someone who was taller and didn’t flush at the slightest provocation.
“I think we need to re-visit what an ‘exclusivity’ clause means, Clara.” Mycroft intoned in his usual suave tone.
“I couldn’t agree with you more.” Jim added, looking like he might come unhinged at any moment, which come to think of it, was pretty usual of him too.
Clara looked calm as she sipped at her Champaign. “And I think it is time we re-visit the ‘I don’t give a fuck’ clause. You can continue to play your little games in London, but I own the internet, Bitches.”
Harry, dressed in a magnificent black suit, beamed warmly at her former spouse; although judging from the -enormous- engagement ring on Clara’s finger things seemed to be returning to status quo. The time any of them could spend away from formalized leadership appeared to be eleven months. Things were not boding well for John.
There was definitely something to be said for being a tree.
Anthea barely looked up from her BlackBerry as she texted merrily away. The BlackBerry should have looked a bit weird contrasted against her black silk evening gown, but Anthea somehow made it work. John’s phone rang. He didn’t bother to look at it. He knew what it said, and there was no point in maintaining pretence.
Blocked number: That bad?
DON’T EVEN ASK.
Clara paled. James stopped mid insult and Mycroft took a harder swallow than was strictly necessary of his tea, before replacing the teacup steadily back on its plate. Anthea radiated pride. Seb rolled his eyes, straightened the red tie peeking out from his black suit, and leaned more artfully against the mantle of the fire place. And God Damn it, Anthea had colour coded them all. Sherlock eyed everyone disdainfully and took a seat as far from both Jim and Mycroft as he could.
Harry plopped herself onto Clara’s lap, and clapped her hands together in glee. “Now that everyone is here, let’s eat!”
John ran his eye over the assembled group. “Why are we even bothering with this farce if everyone already knows?”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow while Jim Moriarty had the gall to smirk. Clara and Mycroft remained astutely neutral, although Clara looked a touch confused. The chandelier - which John didn’t buy and didn’t even like, so there - crashed onto the dining room table, which collapsed under the weight. John considered anger management classes. Fuck it. Seb sighed, before walking over to perch on the side of the ruined table, he eyed the shattered chandelier.
“That wasn’t very nice, John. The chandelier was Anthea’s.” He cocked his head to the side and his body seemed to drop the shroud of humanity it always wore. It still looked like Seb. Still walked on two legs. But it would have taken an idiot to think it was still human. Seb moved with unnatural grace. “This generation isn’t stupid. So, they all figured it out. No big deal.”
“Oh yes. Sebastian insists I apologize about the pool.” Jim Moriarty smirked, while ignoring the look Sherlock shot at him. “Sorry, John.” He added with a roll of his eyes.
The house gave an ear-piercing groan.
“James, do contain yourself before the house falls on our heads.” Mycroft continued to sound bored, but his eyes were assessing John. To be frank, John did feel like dropping the house on all of them. It would be downright cathartic at this point.
SEB, YOU MAY NOW KILL JIM WITH THE TOWER
“Oh come on John! Why are you picking on me this year?” Seb’s pout managed to put even Sherlock’s to shame. “Besides, all I committed to was dropping the tower on him, not necessarily killing him with it.”
“Excuse me?” The smile on Jim’s face didn’t change although a great deal of murderous intent seemed to infuse his expression.
TROUBLE IN PARADISE
Anthea and Harry cracked up, with Harry nearly dropping her drink into Clara’s lap. Mycroft raised a single eyebrow. John avoided looking in Sherlock’s direction.
“Sorry, it is just it is so funny when he jokes in that voice.” Harry gasped for breath “Trust me, you had to be there. Let’s eat. If nothing else, it will put something in Seb’s mouth before he has a chance to say something dumber.”
“Harry, at least I’m not the one that spent a century of Christmases with my bits spread over the whole of Japan.” Seb sounded petulant.
“Not yet.” Harry intoned darkly.
Moriarty leaned back in his chair and assessed John without his usual smirk. His eyes flicked across Anthea, Harry and Seb who were all gazing at John. His mouth turned down. Pecking order apparently established. John hated Jim with a passion he had not felt since he invented nicotine.
FUCK IT, I AM KILLING EVERYONE HERE. STARTING WITH JIM AND THEN ENDING WITH JIM
Blocked Number: John, Seb is right, you must contain your anger, if only so you do not accidentally squash the Projects; especially in the face of the post-mortem placement problem. Mycroft deduced my identity as well. He is being insufferable about it.
:Clara realized that I don’t eat and that we were never born and that Seb and Anthea have been in two places at once. She thinks it’s hot. ‘Cause Clara’s awesome! We’re getting married again, this time I get to wear the dress:
Apparently Harry was already drunk. With a family like this, John was surprised he had not already joined her.
Blocked Number: Seb left enough clues that anyone could put it together, and Jim is not just anyone. No matter how much our respective Projects dislike one another, we must remember the placement problem. Now John, let us eat and no blood shed.
FINE.
The doors to the dining room opened letting in some of Anthea’s people with the starter course. The guests sat uneasily at the newly reconstituted table with the chandelier glittered above all their heads like a guillotine. Projects and horsemen alike were eying John with various degrees of terror and unhappiness, which was oddly comforting and made him feel a bit nostalgic. This wasn’t too bad. Tomorrow the Projects would probably remember nothing and he would be someone else and that was the end of it. If Seb and Harry were allowed tantrums, so was he.
THANK YOU FOR REMEMBERING CATERING
Blocked number: What are little sisters for?
:You had other things on your mind Johnny. Poor overworked darling. By the way, Seb was worried about your mental health and dug around a bit. Him and I agree that you shouldn’t turn into a tree.:
Blocked number: Tree? WTF?
SEB STAY OUT OF MY HEAD.
“No and you shouldn’t turn into a tree!” The Projects at the table all jumped at Seb’s outburst. Seb who was staring at John with an unhappy expression on his face.
Blocked number: Why was I not informed?
NOT ACTUALLY TURNING INTO A TREE. IF YOU DIG IN MY MIND DO IT COMPETENTLY.
“What?” Clara looked back and forth between Seb and John in agitation. Sherlock tensed at John’s side. Lovely.
“Yes, perhaps you could share your conversation with the rest of us?” Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his hands folded over his chest. “It is strange only hearing Sebastian’s responses. Although that is a handicap I am sure is shared only by some at the table.”
“Do you really want to join our conversations Mycroft?” John’s voice had an edge to it that was usually removed for the sake of humanity.
“John, don’t even think about it.” Anthea’s voice was like a gunshot in the suddenly quiet room.
“Why not Anthea?” A SHATTERED MIND WOULD CERTAINLY SOLVE THE POST-MORTUM PLACEMENT PROBLEM
“I am fond of him, if you must know.” She covered Mycroft’s hand with her own. In a woman as circumspect as Anthea, it spoke volumes.
Blocked Number: Also, you are not turning into anything until we have a nice chat.
The meal continued in stony silence. John didn’t know why Mycroft was smiling as widely as he was, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. All he knew was that if that if anyone made another bloody comment, tree or no, everyone was going to need a new body tomorrow.
---
By the time dessert had run its course, John had managed to extract himself from the dining room and found himself in the library looking over the forest that had encroached on the back of the property. He never had the heart to get rid of all those trees and now it looked like they might revolt and take over the manor. Not that John cared. Tomorrow he might well be joining the revolution.
He tensed when he felt Sherlock join him at the window. The warmth of the man’s willowy body seemed to radiate through John’s jumper and shirt and sink directly into his skin.
“How does one go about becoming a tree, exactly?”
“Jump into the Tames and wake up as a tree. Individual results may vary.” John had meant it to sound like a joke. He wasn’t -really- I mean, a tree? Did people think he was daft?
Sherlock didn’t smile. He looked out the window at the forest palely outlined by the light of the moon. Under the moonlight, everything sparkled as if it was made of glass; Even Sherlock. John took a sip of his wine and looked away from his flatmate’s profile. John suddenly felt his age. Felt world-crushingly tired. Maybe he -should- change species. Nothing boring. But he was getting tired of being human. Being human hurt and was uncomfortable and made him care too much. And -this- was just one reason why he needed a vacation.
“So I should expect to identify your body when it turns up then.” Sherlock’s tone was matter-of-fact, but Sherlock tended to sound matter-of-fact over anything involving corpses, which was as much a relief as it wasn't.
“Probably. Even if you want your memory wiped, you would still remember me somewhat. If only so I don’t have to rewrite the memories of half the population of London.”
“I see. Have you settled on a species of tree? Or can I still make recommendations?”
“Uh, no, nothing settled yet.” Did Sherlock believe he was going through with the tree thing?
“Ah, then may I recommend a Ficus benjamina, in a pot.”
“A decorative fig tree? Do I want to know why?”
“Convenience. If you and I are supposed to go for coffee, I would prefer that you be portable so I can seat you opposite me at the cafe. Also, should the Apocalypse occur while you are in Ficus-form, I am sure that your transportability would be much appreciated by your siblings.” A smile was forming on Sherlock’s face.
“The three horsemen of the apocalypse, and death tree, the tree that kills people?” John tried to keep a straight face.
“Terrifying. Although perhaps not as terrifying as the truly ignorant comments I will undoubtedly garner from Anderson when I wheel you onto crime scenes. Can’t be helped, I suppose. I do so rely on your professional opinion.”
“As a Ficus?”
“As death tree, the tree that kills people. Obviously.”
John finally met Sherlock’s eye and the laughter they had been holding back burst out of them. Eventually they both had to lean back on the glass of the window because the mere sight of the forest forced them back into helpless peals of laughter.
“It would be far more expedient if you remained as you are; it would certainly make other aspects of the relationship less awkward.”
“I wasn’t going to actually become a tree.”
“I had hoped not. But you didn’t seem interested in staying John either.” Sherlock clenched his hands, relaxed them, and then leaned over quickly to brush his lips against John’s. In a flash he was back to leaning against the window.
“If you’re doing this out of misguided pity, I will find out, and I will make you suffer for it.”
Sherlock stiffened at his side, before relaxing slightly. “Don’t be more of an idiot than you can help.” He swallowed hard before dropping his eyes to the glass of wine still in John’s hand. “Why me?”
“Now who’s an idiot?” Sherlock scowled at him. “For the same reason any human chooses any other human. Because you’re brilliant, and crazy, and easy on the eyes. Because you’re as smart if not smarter than any of them, but without the megalomania. But mostly because Ficus are irresistibly drawn to you.”
Sherlock grinned back at him before sobering slightly. “So, what happens now? Harry tells me you’re on vacation. Will people stop dying? Also, won’t people notice when I age and you don’t?”
John grinned. “So you’re thinking of keeping me long term?”
Sherlock gave him his can-you-hear-the-stupid-words-coming-out-of-your-mouth? expression.
“People will keep dying, and no one will notice because I will age right alongside everyone else. I am pretty human, despite everything.” John decided to drop the ‘neither of us might age ever if we can’t find someone to take Mycroft’ bomb much much later.
“Oh.”
Blocked number: Just kiss him already; All of us are on tenterhooks.
:Seb is on the edge of his seat. It’s kind of cute.:
“Can’t you just block her number?” John smiled at the annoyed expression on Sherlock’s face before leaning over and letting his lips rest over the downturned mouth. Sherlock leaned into the contact. And it was warm and soft and going pretty slowly but confirming that your flat mate is one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse and then starting a relationship with said flatmate was a lot for one night. Besides they still had a lot to sort out.
Blocked number: There is always tomorrow morning.
So there was.
Sequel: Can't Live On Milk Alone > > >