Cycle 4, Round 4 Entries: #1 - #11
Voting is open until December 31th, 11pm GMT!
1.
Warning: character death
The doors of the church open. John automatically genuflects, and Sherlock begins to laugh, collapsing onto one of the pews.
"What exactly, is so funny?" John pants.
"We're running for our lives," Sherlock grins," and you stop to honour God."
John blinks, and he laughs, too. It's completely absurd. He's not even Catholic.
He sees the priest in the confessional, head bent, likely over the Bible. John briefly wonders how hard it must be to have to sit there and wait. He sits down on the pew across from Sherlock.
"Why do I let you get me into these situations?"
Sherlock sits up. "I suppose it's a form of codependency."
"Maybe I just need the exercise."
Sherlock shakes his head. "Do you think we lost them?"
"Well, if nothing else, we can claim sanctuary."
John looks around the church. It seems safe. There is music coming from another room, perhaps the choir practicing for the next day services. Other than that, it's as if London does not exist anymore. It's just John and Sherlock and the priest and the distant choir.
John stands, and begins to walk toward the altar.
"John," Sherlock says.
There is something in his voice that makes John want to keep walking, because he knows what he will see when he turns.
There's a small, bright red spot on his chest, then another, and two on Sherlock as well.
"Guess we didn't lose them, after all," John says.
"At least I was right."
John laughs, because of course Sherlock would thing of that.
"Boys, it's been such a long time. Did you miss me?"
John turns. It's the priest.
"Quite a gamble, assuming we'd come in here," Sherlock says.
"Well you know me, Sherlock, always the one to take chances!"
Moriarty claps his hand in glee, walking towards them. He runs his hand along the pew.
"No bombs this time. No escaping."
John looks to Sherlock, who is as calm as ever.
"Death is nothing."
"Perhaps," Moriarty says. "What do you think, John?"
John shrugs. "I've almost died plenty of times."
"Good. I hate when people plead for their lives."
Moriarty gives a signal.
*
Sherlock opens his eyes with the sound of the door. He's fallen asleep in the pew again. He rubs his face with his hand, ignoring the bristle of his unshaven face. The priest in the corner looks concerned, but Sherlock isn't sure he wouldn't accidentally strangle him in the confessional. So Sherlock sits in the pew and stares at the altar.
He closes his eyes, knowing that the dream will come again.
The door to the church opens, and Sherlock watches, amused at John's automatic and unnecessary gesture. He doesn't tell John that he sees the men up above, or that the choir is singing a Requiem Mass. Sherlock wants to live the illusion that they've escaped once more. He's surprised that John hasn't noticed the pervasive smell of chlorine. Or maybe John has, and has simply dismissed it as a normal cleaning smell. It's only when the gunman reveal themselves that Sherlock speak up. John's face isn't too surprised, so maybe he had known as well.
Moriarty has a secret smile on his face, even as he walks towards them. Sherlock isn't afraid of dying, especially at the hands of Moriarty. But Moriarty raises his hand, and Sherlock hears the guns at the ready, when Moriarty leans forward and whispers,
"I said I'd burn the heart out of you, didn't I?"
Moriarty's hand falls.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
2.
Warning: AU, Implied character deaths
Note: Written to Death of a Planet composed by Sheridan Tongue.
It isn’t dawn yet...which is good. It means they still have time.
Lestrade blinks twice, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. He recognizes the trompe l’oeil design on the ceiling and the cream colored cornices. He knows that to his right are French windows which open out to the vast manicured gardens. The soft sheets beneath him are ones he has slept on countless of times and never alone. Especially tonight.
He rolls over, smiling as he sees the man beside him. He is staring up at the ceiling as if lost in thought, but Lestrade’s movement doesn’t escape him. The man smiles and lays his hand on Lestrade’s stomach.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Mycroft whispers calmly but Lestrade has learned to read the little twitches that reveal the inner turmoil.
Of course, he couldn’t sleep. Lestrade has been with Mycroft long enough to know just what burdens he carried. He doesn’t pretend that he can help Mycroft with every one of them but Lestrade knows that this particular burden, the one they had to face soon, is one that Mycroft shouldn’t carry alone.
So he scoots closer until the front of his body is pressed to Mycroft’s side. Taking Mycroft’s arm, he lays it across Mycroft’s chest and drapes his arm over it, entwining their fingers in the process.
“You make me feel like an irresponsible chump for not comforting you through the night.” Lestrade teases as he runs his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. “I’m sorry for that.”
“No.” Mycroft answers fiercely, turning to him. “Don’t, Greg. We don’t have time for that.”
Lestrade leans in and kisses Mycroft deeply. “You’re such a goose.” He leans up on an elbow and kisses Mycroft again. “Let’s go outside.
So saying, he bounds up and off the bed. Mycroft follows him, pausing only to grab the bed sheets which carry the scent of their lovemaking in its very fibers. They don’t turn on the light. They’ve memorized the lay-out of the room and they trust that there's nothing lying around that could cause stubbed toes.
They make their way down the stairs, never letting go of each other’s hands. It is only when they are near the porch doors that Mycroft turns and says that he has to get something. Lestrade exits to the garden and lays the sheets on the grass. He sits and turns towards the house just in time to see Myrcoft walking through the door with something in his hands.
“Honestly, Mycroft.” Lestrade says incredulously, staring at the old-fashioned umbrella that Mycroft is carrying. “You went back inside to get that?”
“It might get too sunny.”
It might get too sunny. Lestrade snorts at that. Trust Mycroft to make light of everything, even the end of the world.
“Well, come on then.” Lestrade calls out, waving Mycroft to the empty spot beside him. “The world’s not going to wait for you.”
Mycroft walks briskly and sits down. Immediately, he leans close and places his head on Lestrade’s shoulder.
“But you wait for me. Always…” Mycroft murmurs. “That’s all that matters to me.”
Lestrade drapes his arm over Mycroft’s shoulder and pulls him closer, “I love you.”
Mycroft tilts his head and kisses Lestrade’s jaw line. “I love you.”
Lestrade chuckles and moves so that he is sitting behind Mycroft, his thighs against Mycroft’s hips, his legs stretched forward alongside Mycroft’s. They can see a soft yellow glow in the horizon and they know that soon, dawn will come.
He feels a tremor of fear course through him. He always thought that he’d never see this day, the day the sun turned supernova. He’d always believed the scientists who assured them that the sun had several billion years to go.
But here they are and Lestrade has to take deep breaths to calm the sudden surge of panic.
“I’m here, Greg.” Mycroft whispers as he leans back and rests his head against Lestrade’s shoulder.
And those words are all he needs to hear. Lestrade tightens his embrace around Mycroft, nuzzling Mycroft’s neck and kissing his ear. Yes, they had both prepared for this together. If he were to choose, he’d choose this, being with Mycroft at the end of everything.
Mycroft opens his umbrella and, together, they watch the sun rise in a final blaze of glory.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3.
At the sound of the doors opening Molly looked up as the detectives escorted the body into the morgue. It was a familiar sight she was greeted with often enough, some months more than others, but lately it had been routine. Quiet even. maybe she should have had that thought, doctors always considered the 'Q' word a bad luck one.
She saw Sergeant Donovan first, Anderson suspiciously absent. She heard through the rumour mill (i.e. Sherlock taunting Sally on the loss of her paramour) that he had transferred. The Sergeant didn't appear to be that broken up about it.
"Doctor Hooper, you don't have to do this one, if you don't want to." She began, showing concern for the other woman. "I could call someone else."
Molly just looks up and starts putting her protective gear on. "I'm the only one on duty these late nights." She put on the gloves. "What happened?" As the sergeant helped her move the trolley into the lab.
Donovan sighed. She seemed tired. "Straightforward stabbing. Took all of us by surprise. The autopsy's just a formality at this point." she said "Forensics is still at the scene, but I've got clothes from the ambulance. They cut them off of him when they tried to stop the bleeding but..." No need to say the efforts were in vain.
Molly turned on her recorder and began cataloguing the details of the body. Holding up a torn and bloody shirt she said "Stab wound. Depth looks pretty deep, about 10 centimetres. Too jagged for a blade of some kind." She looked closer and with tweezers she picked at something. "Glass?"
"Piece of broken window pane." The other woman answered.
"Oddly enough it wasn't the neck wound that was fatal." Molly continued. "The one on his side was. Half a centimetre in either direction he would have survived. Did you catch the assailant?"
"Doctor Watson did. He pulled him off after the second stabbing when we realised what was happening." Donovan replied with a shake of her head. "Funny that no matter how much of this sort of thing you see it's still surprising."
The doctor just nodded and continued cataloguing the injuries on the body, both old and new, measuring wounds and bruises all the while dictating notes into her recorder. Funny that this kind of this would happen to him. A regular, mundane, almost boring bit of violence. Molly didn't realise that she said the last bit out loud.
"Boring?" Sally asked. "You're starting to sound like Himself."
"Am I?" Molly replied. "There's worse things I guess." She binned her gloves and carefully closed the body up in one of the drawers. Later on would be time for arrangements and mourning, but there were other things to attend to first. As Molly sat down at her desk she didn't notice Sergeant Donovan leave. Carefully she began typing up the details of the autopsy from her recordings and memory. She paused slightly, taking a shaky breath as she typed up the name Gregory Lestrade. Tamping it down she finished her report in the cold silence of the morgue.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
4.
WARNING: Character Death
It was a crisp October morning when Lestrade made his way up the steps of Westminster Cathedral. He’d come to the Catholic Police Guild’s Solemn Requiem Mass every year since he was a constable. The cathedral was packed, and the service had already begun. Lestrade remained at the back, standing unobtrusively beside the door.
Since this was a special mass, the Archbishop himself stepped forward and began the liturgy.
I am the resurrection and the life…
Lestrade scanned the crowd and was surprised how easily he picked out Sherlock and John. They were sitting towards the front, John with shoulders sagging and head bowed, Sherlock defiantly upright.
His eyes continued to rove over the backs of heads until he found Donovan and the rest of his team. He fought the urge to jostle his way through the crowd to join them, not wanting to disturb anyone.
In the midst of life we are in death…
He sensed someone standing beside him, and without looking he greeted the newcomer.
“Good of you to come, Mycroft.”
“My pleasure, Gregory. I know how important this is to you.”
The prayer ended and a deep silence descended, before the Archbishop began reading off the names of the police officers who had fallen in the line of duty. Most years Lestrade had known some of the names, others not. This time, a strange sense of anticipation mingled with his grief.
David Kent…Mustafa Khalid…Susan Lathan…Gregory Lestrade…
Lestrade sighed deeply, and then turned to look at Mycroft. “What was it like for you, then? Dying, I mean.”
Mycroft wrinkled his nose as if recalling a noisome smell. “Painful. A heart attack is a terrible way to go.”
“A bit of a surprise, too. I thought you took pretty good care of yourself.”
“Yes, I did, though it was probably for nought,” Mycroft replied. “Congenital defect, inherited from my father. There’s only so much one can really do about that, after all.”
Lestrade turned to face the altar once again, though his eyes focused on nothing in particular.
“I only remember the cold.”
Mycroft said nothing. The Archbishop had finished reciting his litany of the departed, and the light, ethereal voices of the choir singing Agnus Dei began to fill the otherwise silent cathedral.
Lestrade closed his eyes, allowing the sweetness of the music to wash over him. He didn’t want to ask his next question, but he swallowed the dread that had crept into his chest and soldiered on.
“So why are you really here?”
“I have some business to attend to,” Mycroft replied lightly.
A chuckle rattled in Lestrade’s throat like a dry bone. “Occupying a minor position in the celestial hierarchy now, are you?”
“Something like that. I’m to escort you onward.”
“Why you?”
Mycroft shrugged. “It helps to have a friendly face in this situation.”
“Yeah, well, no offense but I would have expected my mum, or even Aunt Gertie, before you.”
“I volunteered, as I was going to be in the neighbourhood anyway.”
“Still keeping an eye on that brother of yours?”
“Two, whenever possible,” Mycroft smiled.
The service ended, and the rustling of programs and gathering of coats and murmurings of wasn’t that a lovely mass? began in earnest.
“Ready to go?” Mycroft inquired amiably, pointing the tip of his umbrella at the open doors behind them.
Lestrade cocked his head at the umbrella. “Do you really need that now?”
“No, but I am a creature of habit, even in death.”
“Where are we going?” He didn’t really expect an answer, but he was reluctant to leave this place, now that his departure was imminent.
“You’ll see.”
“Still a cryptic bastard. That hasn’t changed either.”
The corners of Mycroft’s eyes crinkled as he smiled again. “I do enjoy my little surprises. Shall we?”
Lestrade remained rooted to the spot. “Do I have a choice?”
Mycroft’s smile faded, and though his look became quite serious, it was not without tenderness. “You always have a choice, Gregory.”
Lestrade looked around at the crowd of people, now up and moving all around and through them. He caught sight of Sherlock leaving through the door to his right. Several paces behind, John walked with a comforting arm around Donovan’s shoulders, though it was John’s eyes that were puffy and swollen from tears.
“Right,” Lestrade said. “Let’s get on with it.”
Mycroft extended his hand and Lestrade took it, and the world fell away to a shroud of fine mist, and was gone.
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5.
"De spirits, dey are not happy with you Missus Martha. Dey tink you need to try an find help. Dey say you should look for de Dark Man."
Martha turns, twisting her handkerchief between her fingers, struggling to blink away the tears. Robert's been missing for weeks and the Ft Lauderdale police have been no help at all. Miss Shardae, her landlady and hostess and friend sits beside her on the sofa in the tiny front room of their shared house. The air conditioner clicks on, blowing arctic air into the room with a roar. Martha shifts, the vinyl covering the cushions squeaks loudly.
"I don't…"
"De spirits do, though. Mister Holmes. He'll help. Dey want him to."
"He doesn't seem…" she gestures at the computer on the table, jammed in between the statuettes and flowers and pottery and cups and papers. The website on the screen: the science of deduction.
"It's no good arguin'," Miss Shardae insists, sipping her sweet tea. Martha grimaces - all she can get here in this hot wasteland of concrete and palm trees is sickeningly sweet iced tea that makes her tongue shrivel. "Dey know de path. Dey show de way."
Follow. She's done quite a bit of following lately. Following Robert to this… this place. Following Robert into one dive after another. Until he vanished and she was alone. Thank God for Miss Shardae who took her in, let her sleep in her spare room, taught her to cook beans and rice and ham. But Miss Shardae had her quirks: the spells, the incantations, the altars and spirits.
But at this point, where else can she go?
***
Sherlock Holmes is dark, handsome - she's not too old to look. Acerbic, but nice to her and Miss Shardae. He examines the skull that she keeps on the air conditioner with an avid interest that sends shivers down Martha's spine. But he promises he'll find Robert, and would she mind very much if it turned out that Robert was guilty?
She supposed later that she should have been surprised by the readiness of her answer, "no".
***
Sherlock didn't stay to watch the execution. She didn't want to, either, but there were papers to sign, details to clear up. A funeral to give.
"De dead," Miss Shardae insists. "De dead want their due. De spirits showed you de Dark Man. Now, dey want you to be free."
"Oh, really?" Martha hadn't witnessed the execution, but sat in the small antechamber until a prison official came out to tell her that Robert was dead.
"Yes, dey do. He's a terrible man, your man. But he's dead, and we's going to have a party, Mrs Martha. And we's gonna invite de spirits, and de priests, and de neighbors, and we gonna clear this house of his evil. We gonna clear the world of him."
Miss Shardae was right. The priests come first, burning incense and chanting, sprinkling the corners of the house with water, dipping their fingers into shallow bowls as they chanted, shuffling and muttering in Creole; they call for silence and in a slow, mesmerizing chant that grew wilder and wilder as the spirits seemed to possess their bodies, they give Robert Hudson, recently of the Florida State Death Row, former husband of Martha Hudson a send off that, as far as she can tell, is guaranteed to be permanent.
A fitting requiem, Martha thinks, looking around the room, filled with strangers who had come to her aid, so far away from her home.
"Striking, isn't it, Mrs Hudson?" A voice asks. Sherlock appears out of the shadows of the yard where she can smell barbecue and hear the voices of the neighbors, chatting and laughing - children running and playing in the mild night.
"Sherlock! You startled me!"
He chuckles.
"I've made Miss Shardae promise I can have the skull when she's done with it," he says.
"Oh, Sherlock…"
"It'd be a fitting and lasting memento mori, don't you think?"
Martha looks around again: the pots, the offerings, the priests.
"We walk such a fine line," she says. "Between life and death, the living and the dead. And we never seem to notice it."
"Between the living and the dead," Sherlock replies, "there will always be a bond."
Martha doesn't doubt for an instant that he knows exactly what he's talking about. Because now, she does, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
6.
The world around him is a symphony.
Sometimes stops, just for a moment, eyes shut while it plays around him. Explosions and gunfire and shouting, all of it coalescing into music more beautiful than he ever heard back in London. He plays along when he can, adding the cut of his scalpel, the report of his gun, the gasping breath of his lungs, the adrenaline and sweet rush of life. He stays in the military for nearly ten years, just to hear the song it plays for him. He thinks he will always be a military man.
One day, right in the middle of a sweeping crescendo of enemy fire, it ends. He saves a dying man, then takes a bullet of his own in the leg. The shoulder. It hurts, and sounds nothing like he thought it would. It isn’t the mournful sigh of violins. It isn’t the clarion call of triumph for having saved his man. It’s a note cut abruptly short.
He wakes up in a proper hospital. They tell him it has been months of infection, of fighting a fever. By the time he comes back to his own mind, the damage is done. He will never be a surgeon again. He will never see Afghanistan or combat medicine or war. Soon, he will not even be a soldier. It’s over. Everything he’s known, finished.
The world falls silent.
They send him back to London with an appointment to see a shrink and a pension that isn’t even enough to live on. He has a bedsit and his health, or what passes for it. He finds a gun, hoping that’ll help, but it doesn’t. How could it? There’s no reason to have one. It’s just a reminder of all that he isn’t. Of his great failure. Of the silence.
The quiet is oppressive. It’s the polar opposite of everything he’s ever known, because there has always been music. When he was young, it was simple, but it was there. He followed his favorite melodies to med school and then to war, but even if he hadn’t, there would still have been music, just…different. Now there is nothing.
It is driving him mad.
He is teetering near his own end when he limps his way past Mike Stamford. Once he had been a curious, playful melody on oboe. Now he’s just another hollow chorus of pointless babbling in the shape of small talk. He follows when Mike asks him to, because it’s not like he has anything else to do, and it’s probably the quickest way to make him go away.
John wishes, fiercely, that he had died, that the bullet that killed his purpose had ended his life as well. The silence is so much worse than dying.
Then Mike introduces him to Sherlock Holmes. And all the world fills with music again, beginning with an aria made of the words, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” That first aria is joined by the symphony John had thought lost forever, an orchestra of guns and poison and danger conducted by a madman.
Weeks and months pass, and John goes wherever Sherlock leads, because Sherlock is the source of all that John loves. All that he needs. Sherlock is everything.
Sometimes Sherlock wonders about it, wonders what keeps John at his side, wonders what it is John hears when he shuts his eyes and listens so intently while the world is filled with chaos that makes everyone else around them panic.
He tries to ask, once, and John tries to answer, but it doesn’t make any sense. There is no music in the Work.
Then they are standing on a rooftop, wounded and victorious, watching a building burn in the wake of their triumph. Sherlock looks over at John, watches him in the firelight as he shuts his eyes and tilts his head and listens with a faint smile. He looks enraptured. So Sherlock shifts a little closer, takes a thoughtful breath, shuts his eyes.
And hears it.
The music.
It’s played for them in the crackle of fire and their own hearts and breathing, violins and French horns in their very own orchestra.
It’s their song, the song John helps him write anew every day. An endless, shifting symphony that will one day be their requiem.
Until that day, it’s theirs. They will listen to it together for as long as they draw breath.
Sherlock reaches out and takes John’s hand.
For as long as they both shall live.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
7.
It was a few minutes after Tesco's John realized he was being followed.
Black SUV, tinted windows, driving too slow. John turned a corner to find another identical car idling.
No current case (to Sherlock's dismay) and no texts from Lestrade (to John's relief); nothing that would warrant a chaperone to the shop for milk and Jammie Dodgers.
As John debated his next move, his shadow’s twin rolled up to him.
Bugger.
As John reached for his Browning, a window rolled down, revealing an austere face. He considered making a run for it.
Finally, John huffed, dreading another warehouse conference, "If you're looking for Sherlock-"
"I know his whereabouts." Mycroft frowned, considering his watch, "for at least the next nine minutes. Get in."
Under the laughter that greeted them as they entered 221B, John could have sworn he heard Mycroft curse. Mycroft flew up the stairs and John followed, fueled by Mycroft's uncharacteristic urgency. Taking two steps at a time, gun drawn, John rushed into the room to discover Sherlock...
Having tea.
Sherlock’s companion, a man with brown hair combed to defy gravity looked up from his cup.
"Hullo." The stranger grinned hugely.
Mycroft bristled. "I suspected as much," he said frostily, "when we lost our satellites for two seconds."
"You really shouldn't put them in asymmetrical orbits," the man said mildly, "Another three hundred and forty years, you’ll have a real crisis on your hands." He sipped his tea then beamed at Sherlock. "This is very good."
"I insist you leave at once." Mycroft didn’t raise his voice but everyone (except Sherlock) winced as though he had.
The man brushed crumbs off his long coat and blinked through his glasses. John almost bought his guileless expression. But Mycroft looked as if he were considering giving the cheerful gentleman a good whacking with his umbrella.
Sherlock finally spoke, still affecting boredom. "Wanted to see if I would like to take another trip."
"No," Mycroft and John automatically said.
The stranger blinked. His smile flipped to a mild frown.
"You don't even know me," he aimed at John, miffed.
Always driven by good manners, Mycroft sighed. "John, this is the Doctor. Doctor, this is Doctor John Watson."
John furrowed his brow. "Doctor? Doctor W-"
"Don't say it," Sherlock warned.
The stranger leapt to his feet. John tensed, but the Doctor merely shakes his hand, vigorously.
"Good, very good," he enthused, still shaking John's hand as if trying to rattle change from his pockets. "A doctor? So shout 'Doctor', we'll both answer! Brilliant!"
"He's not going," Mycroft resumed flatly. "The last time-"
John's hand was finally released as the man focused his attention on Mycroft. "That was good fun! Ole George had a lark! We could see him again or..." The man spun around to Sherlock. "We could meet Emperor George."
Sherlock looked intrigued. Mycroft looked ill. John...wasn't sure what he looked like but was filled with alarm.
"Sorry," John interrupted before Mycroft suffered apoplexy. "What are we talking about here?"
"Adventure!" the Doctor declared.
"Chaos," Mycroft muttered.
"No," Sherlock intoned.
For the first time, the Doctor looked something less than utterly confident. "What?"
Sherlock steepled his hands. "There's someone I must deal with in this century."
"Jim? Pish, if you think he's a nuisance, wait another ten thousand years..." A quick flick to John and his mouth snapped shut. "Are you sure?"
"Very."
Mycroft appeared only marginally relieved. "For once my brother has chosen sensibly." He ignored the impolite snort. "Please, Doctor. If you don't mind..." Mycroft paused. "Where are you parked? Not the previous location, I trust? Her Majesty's corgis have never been the same since..." Mycroft stole a sideways glance at John.
This was becoming very annoying.
The Doctor shook his head. "Regrettable, but they should have shrunk back to normal once you changed their kibble. No, I parked in the kitchen."
John craned his neck but saw nothing except Sherlock's jars of pickling body parts.
"Pardon me, but where did you-" John began but never finished as the Doctor shook everyone's hand, warned John to avoid the purple melons (what?) and strode towards the kitchen. A rectangular patch of light blazed into existence by the kitchen table. The man gave a jaunty wave, thanked Sherlock for the tea and disappeared. There was a thud, a disembodied whoosh and a small maelstrom that blew two weeks' of the Times through the sitting room.
Quiet descended. John studied the kitchen. Looked normal. He considered Mycroft. Mildly perturbed, so again, completely normal. He checked Sherlock: still bored.
Suddenly, John started. He gawped at Sherlock.
"Hold on. You made him tea?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
8.
John could hear the violin music before he’d opened the door to 221b. By the time he’d climbed the stairs to their flat the music was ringing in his ears - something sombre yet bright, a piece he’d heard played before. When he opened the door to the living room it was to find Sherlock pressing so hard against the violin’s strings that it looked like he was trying to slice them with the bow. The sight of his flatmate swaying side to side, dressing gown gaping open and letting in cold air made John’s stomach clench.
“Sherlock,” John said, putting down the paper bag filled with Sherlock’s prescriptions before moving over to his flatmate and placing one hand gently on his arm. Sherlock stopped playing with a shriek, bow jolting against the strings, and looked up at John with bright eyes.
“John,” he said, voice low and surprised.
“Sherlock,” John repeated, and used his hand to guide Sherlock to the sofa. Sherlock moved without issue but refused to let go of the violin when John tried to pull it free; he cradled it to his chest as he sat, looking up at John with big, sad eyes when he tried to remove it. John let it be and moved to wrap the afghan from the back of the sofa around Sherlock’s bony shoulders instead.
“I’m ill, John,” Sherlock said, and his voice was so self-pitying that John felt a grin fight to appear on his lips despite the downtrodden look on Sherlock’s face, the slight rasp he could hear when Sherlock inhaled. He’d been very ill indeed - John still had nightmares about Sherlock at the edge of the Thames, unmoving and pale; he’d been in hospital for two weeks, thanks to the pneumonia that had ravaged his system, and if John never saw his flatmate so lifeless and weak again it would be too soon. Thankfully he was well on the way to being better now, despite the fact he kept refusing to just lie down and rest.
John nodded. “Yes you are,” he said and placed one hand on Sherlock’s forehead. He was burning up, but it didn’t feel dangerous yet. “But you’d get better even faster if you didn’t fight against healing every step of the way.”
Sherlock screwed up his face. “Ugh, healing. Dull. I’m ill and I almost died, and that’s why I need to write my requiem.”
“Your what?”
His infirmity, much to John’s disappointment, had had no effect on Sherlock’s ‘you’re too stupid to be breathing’ look. “My requiem. A song dedicated to me once I’m no longer on this mortal coil.”
“Are you meant to write your own?” John asked, and sat down next to Sherlock, shifting the blanket so he was even more swathed by it.
Sherlock scoffed. “Who else would be able to compose it? Should I allow some talentless musician to dedicate something to me when I could do much better? I can only shudder in horror at the thought of Mycroft organising it. I’m one of a kind, John - it needs to be timeless, well composed; so I’m remembered properly.”
John laughed lightly. “I doubt anyone could forget you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock shifted in his seat, his tiredness obvious in the slump of his shoulders and the way each blink took longer and longer; who knew how long he’d been playing the violin before John came back home. “You would say that,” he protested. “You just want me to stop playing and take yet another nap.”
“You caught me. But I promise that I won’t complain at all about you playing once you’re better,” John said, and Sherlock turned to look at him, eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Even at 3am? Because you’ve told me more than once that flatmates shouldn’t play the violin -”
John cut him off. “Your requiem gets special dispensation, alright? After all, who else could capture the world’s only Consulting Detective in music?”
Sherlock looked at him silently for a long moment and then sighed. “Fine,” he said and let go of his violin. John caught it just before it hit the floor. “But wake me up when Lestrade finally cracks and brings me some cold cases.”
“I promise,” John said, and watched as Sherlock settled down and quickly fell asleep. He put the violin away carefully, and then went to make himself some tea, humming the beginning of Sherlock’s requiem as he did so. He was looking forward to finding out how it ended.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
9.
non-explicit character death
Timeless is Forever
--“I’m surprised; I was wrong about you. You aren’t dumb and broken, just dumb. It must be so sad to be you.”
“Not really.”
“You don’t know how stupid you’ve just been.”
“Actually I haven’t been ‘stupid’ at all, you have.”
“Impossi-”
“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”--
A young man, but old, slammed into a dark alley before whipping around, too slow. He drew in a ragged breath, trying to hold his ground, failing. “You again.”
“Yes. Me again.” A decidedly non-threatening, but deadly, figure stood at the opening of the alley, a dark silhouette surrounded by the dim light from the streetlamps.
“Why won’t you leave me alone?”
“Hello, again. How have you been? Oh, good. How about you? Well, I’ve been enjoying the last twenty-three years of my life. Might have started feeling a bit homicidal fifteen years ago. Really now? Yes. Well, I guess I’ll just have to stop you.” The not-supposed-to-be-threatening man rattled off. Then he smiled and he looked like a wolf, not a wolf with a pack, but a desperate, dangerous wolf gone mad from being alone too long.
Pack dead.
Pack gone.
So alone.
“Why won’t you leave me alone?” This time the question was repeated with a harder edge.
The shorter, now dangerous, man stepped forward, out of the light. The two men stared each other; both had eyes that were touched with madness. One was born that way; the other was stretched into it.
“Because I’ll never let you come near him again. Because I will always find you. Because I will never let this go.”
A long time ago, the younger man, the not so breathless now man, was confident, was sure of himself. That was a long time ago. Back then, he also thought that dogs could be kicked and kicked and kicked, and because they were stupid, they would never get up. Now he knew that dogs could take hold of something and never let go.
“Just leave me alone.”
“No.” He takes another step forward. “No empty promises.”
I promise I’ll stay away.
“No.” He takes another step forward.
The young man, no longer brave, but still proud, refuses to step back. He tries to bluff and put on show, a show that worked long ago. “After all these years, still a stupid, loyal dog. Just a worthless pet. Never good enough. You think you’re good enough? You’re not. You’re not!”
The words seem to just slide past the other man. He never did take offense at being called stupid. It was all relevant. Stupid to some, brilliant to others. There was no shame is stupidity. It was only human. “Are you ready now?”
The I should hope so after so many years hangs unspoken in the air.
And so the ritual begins.
“How?”
“How do you think?”
“Why?”
“I’m waiting. Waiting for him, never for you.”
“I’ll get you one day. I get you and I’ll burn you. Burn you out. Out. Out. Out.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“I’m better than you.”
“No.” A sharp intake a breath, a sighing breath of release.
“Stup-id, lo-yal mut-t.”
“Yes, no, and maybe.”
“Just stop it. Just end it.” Still too proud to beg.
“I’ll always find you. I’ll always make sure that you can never hurt anyone again.” You can never hurt him again.
A short, gurgling laugh. “How- How long would you wait?”
“Forever.”
“He’s not coming back.”
“He is.” He has to.
“He’s not-” A quick and efficient twist of a wrist.
“Goodbye, Luther.” Goodbye James Moriarty. “See you later.”
--A body was buried and blood sacrificed to the earth.
“I’m waiting. I’m waiting.”
Sherlock, I’m waiting.
The wind whispered through the trees and the earth accepted the offering that came time and time again. The moon watched a lone man standing over the grave, a man that it had watched for many years.
The man watched the world around him, he could watch for eternity because he could feel fate burning in his bones.
Sometimes, the stars cried for this eternal man, this man who hunted one man, and waited for another. Perhaps this man was fated to mourn for eternity.
And then sometimes…
John, I’m coming.--
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
10.
I Hear You in My Heart (You Carry Me Always)
Ever since he could remember, Gregory Lestrade had heard a song tugging low and deep in his heart.
And ever since he had been old enough to understand, he knew what that song was and how to use it.
When his gran died, the song was louder and louder and louder until it finally got whisper-quiet and stopped when she did. When his mum died, the song was a quiet low hum that burned through his consciousness and wormed its way into his ears. For months, that song was all he heard every time he closed his eyes.
As he grew up, he was able to push the song away, to only hear it when he needed to.
The first time he used it on the job, it was to see if a kid would make it until the ambulance arrived or if he would bleed out before it got there. The song beat in his ears like a bass drum steady and slow until suddenly it wasn’t and the kid’s blood washed away in the rain. Lestrade stood up, shook his head to clear it, and walked away from the body in the street. He walked around the corner and leaned against the crumbling, dirty brick wall and tipped his head back against the rain. He let the sound of it hitting his eyelashes chase the lingering memory of that slow steady beat out of his head. He had to sleep tonight.
The only person whose song he never heard was Mycroft Holmes’. The silence surrounding the man disturbed Lestrade, who found the lack of the tug and pull disconcerting. After a while, he realised the reason he didn’t hear Mycroft’s song was because it was tied up in his. When they lay in bed together, Lestrade’s heart was quiet and gentle, the song a soft hum in the back of his mind, nearly forgotten.
The only other person he’d known who’d lost their song was John Watson.
The good doctor’s song, the first time they met in Sherlock’s new flat, was loud and strong and determined, the heart of a protector. It was so loud, in fact, that it nearly drowned out Sherlock’s more erratic, quicker song.
When he saw John and Sherlock together again after the end of that Chinese smuggling case, John’s song was gone and Sherlock’s wildly unpredictable cadence had gained a smooth, thumping backbone. It sounded like a heartbeat.
The whole pips case had Lestrade’s teeth on edge. Sherlock’s song was even more erratic than before, and it was distracting in the extreme. Over the years of their acquaintance, Lestrade had attuned himself to Sherlock’s song, telling himself that it was just a precaution when in fact, it was so that he would know the instant something went wrong. It had saved Sherlock’s life more than once.
And now, racing to a pool that had been blown to bits, Lestrade could hear Sherlock’s song beating an insistent help help help help help help help help help him help him helphim helphim helphimhelphimhelphimhelp and overlaying that, the strong steady thrum of John’s repeating the same, doubling and trebling until the feedback loop was so overpowering he could barely see, breathe, or even think. His own pulse raced and thumped in time with their combined song.
As he drew closer, the song, instead of increasing in volume and intensity, began to fade. John’s steady beat was slowing, quieting, and Sherlock’s trilled in panic before it, too, began to slip its rhythm, fading in and out of Lestrade’s consciousness, tugging insistently at his heart-
helphimhelphimhelphimhelphelphelphimhelp
-and then he was scrabbling at the rubble with his bare hands, digging, cursing under his breath, praying for some miracle that would keep their songs going, keep them from fading away to their dissonant ends.
His fingers hit flesh and he gasped in relief. He dug harder, faster, and when he unearthed them, they were clinging to each other, bloodied, bruised, barely breathing, but there.
As he uncovered more of them, John’s song stopped, and the entire world held its breath and came to a standstill. Sherlock’s song screamed in blind panic and then took a deep breath itself and said
NO
and there was a soft thump thump thump as John’s song tiptoed back and the soft trill of Sherlock’s own intertwined with it until both of their songs beat as one-not Sherlock’s, not John’s, not John’s subsumed with Sherlock’s-but together as they breathed and Lestrade cried with relief.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
11.
"Please Molls, just for the week," Jane says.
Molly curls her hands around the mug of tea, wishing the heat would hurry up and unstiffen her cold fingers. She wants to demure, but Jane is looking at her and her expression is somehow both pleading and expectant and, well, Molly's never been so good at saying no to people.
"Please," Jane says again. "I'll come feed Toby for you the next time you're on holiday."
Whoever knows when that will be, Molly thinks. It's a fair offer, genuinely meant, but Molly can't help thinking it's a bit of a safe thing to say. Still, she feels her shoulders curling inexorably toward her ears, her mouth moving to smile faintly, and she knows Jane has her.
"Okay," she murmurs.
--
Tillie is an Alsatian who, despite a history of being quite polite and well-behaved, has always made Molly a bit nervous. At the moment, she's curled next to the legs of a short table, napping. Molly supposes it ought to make her look younger, more puppy-like, but truthfully she just looks like the same large dog. Only sleeping. Unpredictable.
Molly, stretched out on the settee, wishes Jane would hurry up and come home from Calais. It isn't that she minds watching Tillie, not exactly. It's only, well. She sighs and wipes a hand over her eyes and glances at the screen of her mobile. The alarm she'd set to wake her is still roughly forty minutes from sounding, but she doesn't think she'll really get anymore sleep as it is. May as well take a shower, since she might not get a chance for one until the evening otherwise. Then she can take Tillie for a walk if she's awake, head home to her own flat, and feed Toby, who she hasn't really seen much of this week. She feels a stab of guilt at that, but she'll see him again soon enough. Then, she thinks, after she's done taking care of her cat, she'll come back here, feed Tillie, take her on another quick walk, and go to work.
She wonders what time she'll be able to come home that evening to check on Toby again before ending up back here, and she suddenly doesn't want to get up. She doesn't think she'll be able to keep her eyes open for the rest of the day.
--
"Doctor Fairbanks?"
Molly's head snaps up and her hand jerks slightly, spilling coffee over her hand and the sleeve of her coat.
"The monitor?" the slight, dark haired man in the doorway says, hesitantly. "With the screen that went all…" he makes a gesture with his hands that is quite expressive, though Molly's not actually sure what it's meant to express. "I'm from IT?"
Molly thinks this would be a good time to contribute something to the conversation, but all she can come up with is "Sorry, I, no. Sorry." She takes a breath and tries again.
"Next door," she says. "Fairbanks is next door. I'm Molly. Hooper. Doctor…Hooper."
"Oh, thanks," says the IT man. He turns to leave, then comes back. He looks immediately like he wishes he hadn't, and his mouth twitches up at the corner, the same way hers does when she's realised smiling won't actually make any situation less awkward, but she can't make her face look any other way.
"It's just," he falters, and his mouth twitches again. He says in a rush "I'd sort of hoped you were Fairbanks." He blushes and disappears next door.
Oh, Molly thinks, with coffee cooling on her wrist. Well.
Okay.
--
Jim, the shy, slight, dark-haired man from IT, brings her chips in a paper cone when she's too busy to get away for lunch.
She doesn't mind covering for Emily, especially as she's getting married on Thursday. But she can't help feeling a bit dejected that no one will be filling in for her while she prepares for her wedding. Maybe, she thinks, maybe if she had a spare minute anywhere in her day, she might be able to meet someone she'd like to marry. She wonders which odds are longer: getting married or having time off.
The chips Jim brings her are thin and crisp, covered in mayonnaise and tomato ketchup. Molly thinks that between these and living on Pot Noodle all week, she can feel her weight going up, up, up.
Maybe she'll come in early tomorrow and do some laps in the rehab pool before work.
1.
Warning: character death
The doors of the church open. John automatically genuflects, and Sherlock begins to laugh, collapsing onto one of the pews.
"What exactly, is so funny?" John pants.
"We're running for our lives," Sherlock grins," and you stop to honour God."
John blinks, and he laughs, too. It's completely absurd. He's not even Catholic.
He sees the priest in the confessional, head bent, likely over the Bible. John briefly wonders how hard it must be to have to sit there and wait. He sits down on the pew across from Sherlock.
"Why do I let you get me into these situations?"
Sherlock sits up. "I suppose it's a form of codependency."
"Maybe I just need the exercise."
Sherlock shakes his head. "Do you think we lost them?"
"Well, if nothing else, we can claim sanctuary."
John looks around the church. It seems safe. There is music coming from another room, perhaps the choir practicing for the next day services. Other than that, it's as if London does not exist anymore. It's just John and Sherlock and the priest and the distant choir.
John stands, and begins to walk toward the altar.
"John," Sherlock says.
There is something in his voice that makes John want to keep walking, because he knows what he will see when he turns.
There's a small, bright red spot on his chest, then another, and two on Sherlock as well.
"Guess we didn't lose them, after all," John says.
"At least I was right."
John laughs, because of course Sherlock would thing of that.
"Boys, it's been such a long time. Did you miss me?"
John turns. It's the priest.
"Quite a gamble, assuming we'd come in here," Sherlock says.
"Well you know me, Sherlock, always the one to take chances!"
Moriarty claps his hand in glee, walking towards them. He runs his hand along the pew.
"No bombs this time. No escaping."
John looks to Sherlock, who is as calm as ever.
"Death is nothing."
"Perhaps," Moriarty says. "What do you think, John?"
John shrugs. "I've almost died plenty of times."
"Good. I hate when people plead for their lives."
Moriarty gives a signal.
*
Sherlock opens his eyes with the sound of the door. He's fallen asleep in the pew again. He rubs his face with his hand, ignoring the bristle of his unshaven face. The priest in the corner looks concerned, but Sherlock isn't sure he wouldn't accidentally strangle him in the confessional. So Sherlock sits in the pew and stares at the altar.
He closes his eyes, knowing that the dream will come again.
The door to the church opens, and Sherlock watches, amused at John's automatic and unnecessary gesture. He doesn't tell John that he sees the men up above, or that the choir is singing a Requiem Mass. Sherlock wants to live the illusion that they've escaped once more. He's surprised that John hasn't noticed the pervasive smell of chlorine. Or maybe John has, and has simply dismissed it as a normal cleaning smell. It's only when the gunman reveal themselves that Sherlock speak up. John's face isn't too surprised, so maybe he had known as well.
Moriarty has a secret smile on his face, even as he walks towards them. Sherlock isn't afraid of dying, especially at the hands of Moriarty. But Moriarty raises his hand, and Sherlock hears the guns at the ready, when Moriarty leans forward and whispers,
"I said I'd burn the heart out of you, didn't I?"
Moriarty's hand falls.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
2.
Warning: AU, Implied character deaths
Note: Written to Death of a Planet composed by Sheridan Tongue.
It isn’t dawn yet...which is good. It means they still have time.
Lestrade blinks twice, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. He recognizes the trompe l’oeil design on the ceiling and the cream colored cornices. He knows that to his right are French windows which open out to the vast manicured gardens. The soft sheets beneath him are ones he has slept on countless of times and never alone. Especially tonight.
He rolls over, smiling as he sees the man beside him. He is staring up at the ceiling as if lost in thought, but Lestrade’s movement doesn’t escape him. The man smiles and lays his hand on Lestrade’s stomach.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Mycroft whispers calmly but Lestrade has learned to read the little twitches that reveal the inner turmoil.
Of course, he couldn’t sleep. Lestrade has been with Mycroft long enough to know just what burdens he carried. He doesn’t pretend that he can help Mycroft with every one of them but Lestrade knows that this particular burden, the one they had to face soon, is one that Mycroft shouldn’t carry alone.
So he scoots closer until the front of his body is pressed to Mycroft’s side. Taking Mycroft’s arm, he lays it across Mycroft’s chest and drapes his arm over it, entwining their fingers in the process.
“You make me feel like an irresponsible chump for not comforting you through the night.” Lestrade teases as he runs his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. “I’m sorry for that.”
“No.” Mycroft answers fiercely, turning to him. “Don’t, Greg. We don’t have time for that.”
Lestrade leans in and kisses Mycroft deeply. “You’re such a goose.” He leans up on an elbow and kisses Mycroft again. “Let’s go outside.
So saying, he bounds up and off the bed. Mycroft follows him, pausing only to grab the bed sheets which carry the scent of their lovemaking in its very fibers. They don’t turn on the light. They’ve memorized the lay-out of the room and they trust that there's nothing lying around that could cause stubbed toes.
They make their way down the stairs, never letting go of each other’s hands. It is only when they are near the porch doors that Mycroft turns and says that he has to get something. Lestrade exits to the garden and lays the sheets on the grass. He sits and turns towards the house just in time to see Myrcoft walking through the door with something in his hands.
“Honestly, Mycroft.” Lestrade says incredulously, staring at the old-fashioned umbrella that Mycroft is carrying. “You went back inside to get that?”
“It might get too sunny.”
It might get too sunny. Lestrade snorts at that. Trust Mycroft to make light of everything, even the end of the world.
“Well, come on then.” Lestrade calls out, waving Mycroft to the empty spot beside him. “The world’s not going to wait for you.”
Mycroft walks briskly and sits down. Immediately, he leans close and places his head on Lestrade’s shoulder.
“But you wait for me. Always…” Mycroft murmurs. “That’s all that matters to me.”
Lestrade drapes his arm over Mycroft’s shoulder and pulls him closer, “I love you.”
Mycroft tilts his head and kisses Lestrade’s jaw line. “I love you.”
Lestrade chuckles and moves so that he is sitting behind Mycroft, his thighs against Mycroft’s hips, his legs stretched forward alongside Mycroft’s. They can see a soft yellow glow in the horizon and they know that soon, dawn will come.
He feels a tremor of fear course through him. He always thought that he’d never see this day, the day the sun turned supernova. He’d always believed the scientists who assured them that the sun had several billion years to go.
But here they are and Lestrade has to take deep breaths to calm the sudden surge of panic.
“I’m here, Greg.” Mycroft whispers as he leans back and rests his head against Lestrade’s shoulder.
And those words are all he needs to hear. Lestrade tightens his embrace around Mycroft, nuzzling Mycroft’s neck and kissing his ear. Yes, they had both prepared for this together. If he were to choose, he’d choose this, being with Mycroft at the end of everything.
Mycroft opens his umbrella and, together, they watch the sun rise in a final blaze of glory.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3.
At the sound of the doors opening Molly looked up as the detectives escorted the body into the morgue. It was a familiar sight she was greeted with often enough, some months more than others, but lately it had been routine. Quiet even. maybe she should have had that thought, doctors always considered the 'Q' word a bad luck one.
She saw Sergeant Donovan first, Anderson suspiciously absent. She heard through the rumour mill (i.e. Sherlock taunting Sally on the loss of her paramour) that he had transferred. The Sergeant didn't appear to be that broken up about it.
"Doctor Hooper, you don't have to do this one, if you don't want to." She began, showing concern for the other woman. "I could call someone else."
Molly just looks up and starts putting her protective gear on. "I'm the only one on duty these late nights." She put on the gloves. "What happened?" As the sergeant helped her move the trolley into the lab.
Donovan sighed. She seemed tired. "Straightforward stabbing. Took all of us by surprise. The autopsy's just a formality at this point." she said "Forensics is still at the scene, but I've got clothes from the ambulance. They cut them off of him when they tried to stop the bleeding but..." No need to say the efforts were in vain.
Molly turned on her recorder and began cataloguing the details of the body. Holding up a torn and bloody shirt she said "Stab wound. Depth looks pretty deep, about 10 centimetres. Too jagged for a blade of some kind." She looked closer and with tweezers she picked at something. "Glass?"
"Piece of broken window pane." The other woman answered.
"Oddly enough it wasn't the neck wound that was fatal." Molly continued. "The one on his side was. Half a centimetre in either direction he would have survived. Did you catch the assailant?"
"Doctor Watson did. He pulled him off after the second stabbing when we realised what was happening." Donovan replied with a shake of her head. "Funny that no matter how much of this sort of thing you see it's still surprising."
The doctor just nodded and continued cataloguing the injuries on the body, both old and new, measuring wounds and bruises all the while dictating notes into her recorder. Funny that this kind of this would happen to him. A regular, mundane, almost boring bit of violence. Molly didn't realise that she said the last bit out loud.
"Boring?" Sally asked. "You're starting to sound like Himself."
"Am I?" Molly replied. "There's worse things I guess." She binned her gloves and carefully closed the body up in one of the drawers. Later on would be time for arrangements and mourning, but there were other things to attend to first. As Molly sat down at her desk she didn't notice Sergeant Donovan leave. Carefully she began typing up the details of the autopsy from her recordings and memory. She paused slightly, taking a shaky breath as she typed up the name Gregory Lestrade. Tamping it down she finished her report in the cold silence of the morgue.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
4.
WARNING: Character Death
It was a crisp October morning when Lestrade made his way up the steps of Westminster Cathedral. He’d come to the Catholic Police Guild’s Solemn Requiem Mass every year since he was a constable. The cathedral was packed, and the service had already begun. Lestrade remained at the back, standing unobtrusively beside the door.
Since this was a special mass, the Archbishop himself stepped forward and began the liturgy.
I am the resurrection and the life…
Lestrade scanned the crowd and was surprised how easily he picked out Sherlock and John. They were sitting towards the front, John with shoulders sagging and head bowed, Sherlock defiantly upright.
His eyes continued to rove over the backs of heads until he found Donovan and the rest of his team. He fought the urge to jostle his way through the crowd to join them, not wanting to disturb anyone.
In the midst of life we are in death…
He sensed someone standing beside him, and without looking he greeted the newcomer.
“Good of you to come, Mycroft.”
“My pleasure, Gregory. I know how important this is to you.”
The prayer ended and a deep silence descended, before the Archbishop began reading off the names of the police officers who had fallen in the line of duty. Most years Lestrade had known some of the names, others not. This time, a strange sense of anticipation mingled with his grief.
David Kent…Mustafa Khalid…Susan Lathan…Gregory Lestrade…
Lestrade sighed deeply, and then turned to look at Mycroft. “What was it like for you, then? Dying, I mean.”
Mycroft wrinkled his nose as if recalling a noisome smell. “Painful. A heart attack is a terrible way to go.”
“A bit of a surprise, too. I thought you took pretty good care of yourself.”
“Yes, I did, though it was probably for nought,” Mycroft replied. “Congenital defect, inherited from my father. There’s only so much one can really do about that, after all.”
Lestrade turned to face the altar once again, though his eyes focused on nothing in particular.
“I only remember the cold.”
Mycroft said nothing. The Archbishop had finished reciting his litany of the departed, and the light, ethereal voices of the choir singing Agnus Dei began to fill the otherwise silent cathedral.
Lestrade closed his eyes, allowing the sweetness of the music to wash over him. He didn’t want to ask his next question, but he swallowed the dread that had crept into his chest and soldiered on.
“So why are you really here?”
“I have some business to attend to,” Mycroft replied lightly.
A chuckle rattled in Lestrade’s throat like a dry bone. “Occupying a minor position in the celestial hierarchy now, are you?”
“Something like that. I’m to escort you onward.”
“Why you?”
Mycroft shrugged. “It helps to have a friendly face in this situation.”
“Yeah, well, no offense but I would have expected my mum, or even Aunt Gertie, before you.”
“I volunteered, as I was going to be in the neighbourhood anyway.”
“Still keeping an eye on that brother of yours?”
“Two, whenever possible,” Mycroft smiled.
The service ended, and the rustling of programs and gathering of coats and murmurings of wasn’t that a lovely mass? began in earnest.
“Ready to go?” Mycroft inquired amiably, pointing the tip of his umbrella at the open doors behind them.
Lestrade cocked his head at the umbrella. “Do you really need that now?”
“No, but I am a creature of habit, even in death.”
“Where are we going?” He didn’t really expect an answer, but he was reluctant to leave this place, now that his departure was imminent.
“You’ll see.”
“Still a cryptic bastard. That hasn’t changed either.”
The corners of Mycroft’s eyes crinkled as he smiled again. “I do enjoy my little surprises. Shall we?”
Lestrade remained rooted to the spot. “Do I have a choice?”
Mycroft’s smile faded, and though his look became quite serious, it was not without tenderness. “You always have a choice, Gregory.”
Lestrade looked around at the crowd of people, now up and moving all around and through them. He caught sight of Sherlock leaving through the door to his right. Several paces behind, John walked with a comforting arm around Donovan’s shoulders, though it was John’s eyes that were puffy and swollen from tears.
“Right,” Lestrade said. “Let’s get on with it.”
Mycroft extended his hand and Lestrade took it, and the world fell away to a shroud of fine mist, and was gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
5.
"De spirits, dey are not happy with you Missus Martha. Dey tink you need to try an find help. Dey say you should look for de Dark Man."
Martha turns, twisting her handkerchief between her fingers, struggling to blink away the tears. Robert's been missing for weeks and the Ft Lauderdale police have been no help at all. Miss Shardae, her landlady and hostess and friend sits beside her on the sofa in the tiny front room of their shared house. The air conditioner clicks on, blowing arctic air into the room with a roar. Martha shifts, the vinyl covering the cushions squeaks loudly.
"I don't…"
"De spirits do, though. Mister Holmes. He'll help. Dey want him to."
"He doesn't seem…" she gestures at the computer on the table, jammed in between the statuettes and flowers and pottery and cups and papers. The website on the screen: the science of deduction.
"It's no good arguin'," Miss Shardae insists, sipping her sweet tea. Martha grimaces - all she can get here in this hot wasteland of concrete and palm trees is sickeningly sweet iced tea that makes her tongue shrivel. "Dey know de path. Dey show de way."
Follow. She's done quite a bit of following lately. Following Robert to this… this place. Following Robert into one dive after another. Until he vanished and she was alone. Thank God for Miss Shardae who took her in, let her sleep in her spare room, taught her to cook beans and rice and ham. But Miss Shardae had her quirks: the spells, the incantations, the altars and spirits.
But at this point, where else can she go?
***
Sherlock Holmes is dark, handsome - she's not too old to look. Acerbic, but nice to her and Miss Shardae. He examines the skull that she keeps on the air conditioner with an avid interest that sends shivers down Martha's spine. But he promises he'll find Robert, and would she mind very much if it turned out that Robert was guilty?
She supposed later that she should have been surprised by the readiness of her answer, "no".
***
Sherlock didn't stay to watch the execution. She didn't want to, either, but there were papers to sign, details to clear up. A funeral to give.
"De dead," Miss Shardae insists. "De dead want their due. De spirits showed you de Dark Man. Now, dey want you to be free."
"Oh, really?" Martha hadn't witnessed the execution, but sat in the small antechamber until a prison official came out to tell her that Robert was dead.
"Yes, dey do. He's a terrible man, your man. But he's dead, and we's going to have a party, Mrs Martha. And we's gonna invite de spirits, and de priests, and de neighbors, and we gonna clear this house of his evil. We gonna clear the world of him."
Miss Shardae was right. The priests come first, burning incense and chanting, sprinkling the corners of the house with water, dipping their fingers into shallow bowls as they chanted, shuffling and muttering in Creole; they call for silence and in a slow, mesmerizing chant that grew wilder and wilder as the spirits seemed to possess their bodies, they give Robert Hudson, recently of the Florida State Death Row, former husband of Martha Hudson a send off that, as far as she can tell, is guaranteed to be permanent.
A fitting requiem, Martha thinks, looking around the room, filled with strangers who had come to her aid, so far away from her home.
"Striking, isn't it, Mrs Hudson?" A voice asks. Sherlock appears out of the shadows of the yard where she can smell barbecue and hear the voices of the neighbors, chatting and laughing - children running and playing in the mild night.
"Sherlock! You startled me!"
He chuckles.
"I've made Miss Shardae promise I can have the skull when she's done with it," he says.
"Oh, Sherlock…"
"It'd be a fitting and lasting memento mori, don't you think?"
Martha looks around again: the pots, the offerings, the priests.
"We walk such a fine line," she says. "Between life and death, the living and the dead. And we never seem to notice it."
"Between the living and the dead," Sherlock replies, "there will always be a bond."
Martha doesn't doubt for an instant that he knows exactly what he's talking about. Because now, she does, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
6.
The world around him is a symphony.
Sometimes stops, just for a moment, eyes shut while it plays around him. Explosions and gunfire and shouting, all of it coalescing into music more beautiful than he ever heard back in London. He plays along when he can, adding the cut of his scalpel, the report of his gun, the gasping breath of his lungs, the adrenaline and sweet rush of life. He stays in the military for nearly ten years, just to hear the song it plays for him. He thinks he will always be a military man.
One day, right in the middle of a sweeping crescendo of enemy fire, it ends. He saves a dying man, then takes a bullet of his own in the leg. The shoulder. It hurts, and sounds nothing like he thought it would. It isn’t the mournful sigh of violins. It isn’t the clarion call of triumph for having saved his man. It’s a note cut abruptly short.
He wakes up in a proper hospital. They tell him it has been months of infection, of fighting a fever. By the time he comes back to his own mind, the damage is done. He will never be a surgeon again. He will never see Afghanistan or combat medicine or war. Soon, he will not even be a soldier. It’s over. Everything he’s known, finished.
The world falls silent.
They send him back to London with an appointment to see a shrink and a pension that isn’t even enough to live on. He has a bedsit and his health, or what passes for it. He finds a gun, hoping that’ll help, but it doesn’t. How could it? There’s no reason to have one. It’s just a reminder of all that he isn’t. Of his great failure. Of the silence.
The quiet is oppressive. It’s the polar opposite of everything he’s ever known, because there has always been music. When he was young, it was simple, but it was there. He followed his favorite melodies to med school and then to war, but even if he hadn’t, there would still have been music, just…different. Now there is nothing.
It is driving him mad.
He is teetering near his own end when he limps his way past Mike Stamford. Once he had been a curious, playful melody on oboe. Now he’s just another hollow chorus of pointless babbling in the shape of small talk. He follows when Mike asks him to, because it’s not like he has anything else to do, and it’s probably the quickest way to make him go away.
John wishes, fiercely, that he had died, that the bullet that killed his purpose had ended his life as well. The silence is so much worse than dying.
Then Mike introduces him to Sherlock Holmes. And all the world fills with music again, beginning with an aria made of the words, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” That first aria is joined by the symphony John had thought lost forever, an orchestra of guns and poison and danger conducted by a madman.
Weeks and months pass, and John goes wherever Sherlock leads, because Sherlock is the source of all that John loves. All that he needs. Sherlock is everything.
Sometimes Sherlock wonders about it, wonders what keeps John at his side, wonders what it is John hears when he shuts his eyes and listens so intently while the world is filled with chaos that makes everyone else around them panic.
He tries to ask, once, and John tries to answer, but it doesn’t make any sense. There is no music in the Work.
Then they are standing on a rooftop, wounded and victorious, watching a building burn in the wake of their triumph. Sherlock looks over at John, watches him in the firelight as he shuts his eyes and tilts his head and listens with a faint smile. He looks enraptured. So Sherlock shifts a little closer, takes a thoughtful breath, shuts his eyes.
And hears it.
The music.
It’s played for them in the crackle of fire and their own hearts and breathing, violins and French horns in their very own orchestra.
It’s their song, the song John helps him write anew every day. An endless, shifting symphony that will one day be their requiem.
Until that day, it’s theirs. They will listen to it together for as long as they draw breath.
Sherlock reaches out and takes John’s hand.
For as long as they both shall live.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
7.
It was a few minutes after Tesco's John realized he was being followed.
Black SUV, tinted windows, driving too slow. John turned a corner to find another identical car idling.
No current case (to Sherlock's dismay) and no texts from Lestrade (to John's relief); nothing that would warrant a chaperone to the shop for milk and Jammie Dodgers.
As John debated his next move, his shadow’s twin rolled up to him.
Bugger.
As John reached for his Browning, a window rolled down, revealing an austere face. He considered making a run for it.
Finally, John huffed, dreading another warehouse conference, "If you're looking for Sherlock-"
"I know his whereabouts." Mycroft frowned, considering his watch, "for at least the next nine minutes. Get in."
Under the laughter that greeted them as they entered 221B, John could have sworn he heard Mycroft curse. Mycroft flew up the stairs and John followed, fueled by Mycroft's uncharacteristic urgency. Taking two steps at a time, gun drawn, John rushed into the room to discover Sherlock...
Having tea.
Sherlock’s companion, a man with brown hair combed to defy gravity looked up from his cup.
"Hullo." The stranger grinned hugely.
Mycroft bristled. "I suspected as much," he said frostily, "when we lost our satellites for two seconds."
"You really shouldn't put them in asymmetrical orbits," the man said mildly, "Another three hundred and forty years, you’ll have a real crisis on your hands." He sipped his tea then beamed at Sherlock. "This is very good."
"I insist you leave at once." Mycroft didn’t raise his voice but everyone (except Sherlock) winced as though he had.
The man brushed crumbs off his long coat and blinked through his glasses. John almost bought his guileless expression. But Mycroft looked as if he were considering giving the cheerful gentleman a good whacking with his umbrella.
Sherlock finally spoke, still affecting boredom. "Wanted to see if I would like to take another trip."
"No," Mycroft and John automatically said.
The stranger blinked. His smile flipped to a mild frown.
"You don't even know me," he aimed at John, miffed.
Always driven by good manners, Mycroft sighed. "John, this is the Doctor. Doctor, this is Doctor John Watson."
John furrowed his brow. "Doctor? Doctor W-"
"Don't say it," Sherlock warned.
The stranger leapt to his feet. John tensed, but the Doctor merely shakes his hand, vigorously.
"Good, very good," he enthused, still shaking John's hand as if trying to rattle change from his pockets. "A doctor? So shout 'Doctor', we'll both answer! Brilliant!"
"He's not going," Mycroft resumed flatly. "The last time-"
John's hand was finally released as the man focused his attention on Mycroft. "That was good fun! Ole George had a lark! We could see him again or..." The man spun around to Sherlock. "We could meet Emperor George."
Sherlock looked intrigued. Mycroft looked ill. John...wasn't sure what he looked like but was filled with alarm.
"Sorry," John interrupted before Mycroft suffered apoplexy. "What are we talking about here?"
"Adventure!" the Doctor declared.
"Chaos," Mycroft muttered.
"No," Sherlock intoned.
For the first time, the Doctor looked something less than utterly confident. "What?"
Sherlock steepled his hands. "There's someone I must deal with in this century."
"Jim? Pish, if you think he's a nuisance, wait another ten thousand years..." A quick flick to John and his mouth snapped shut. "Are you sure?"
"Very."
Mycroft appeared only marginally relieved. "For once my brother has chosen sensibly." He ignored the impolite snort. "Please, Doctor. If you don't mind..." Mycroft paused. "Where are you parked? Not the previous location, I trust? Her Majesty's corgis have never been the same since..." Mycroft stole a sideways glance at John.
This was becoming very annoying.
The Doctor shook his head. "Regrettable, but they should have shrunk back to normal once you changed their kibble. No, I parked in the kitchen."
John craned his neck but saw nothing except Sherlock's jars of pickling body parts.
"Pardon me, but where did you-" John began but never finished as the Doctor shook everyone's hand, warned John to avoid the purple melons (what?) and strode towards the kitchen. A rectangular patch of light blazed into existence by the kitchen table. The man gave a jaunty wave, thanked Sherlock for the tea and disappeared. There was a thud, a disembodied whoosh and a small maelstrom that blew two weeks' of the Times through the sitting room.
Quiet descended. John studied the kitchen. Looked normal. He considered Mycroft. Mildly perturbed, so again, completely normal. He checked Sherlock: still bored.
Suddenly, John started. He gawped at Sherlock.
"Hold on. You made him tea?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
8.
John could hear the violin music before he’d opened the door to 221b. By the time he’d climbed the stairs to their flat the music was ringing in his ears - something sombre yet bright, a piece he’d heard played before. When he opened the door to the living room it was to find Sherlock pressing so hard against the violin’s strings that it looked like he was trying to slice them with the bow. The sight of his flatmate swaying side to side, dressing gown gaping open and letting in cold air made John’s stomach clench.
“Sherlock,” John said, putting down the paper bag filled with Sherlock’s prescriptions before moving over to his flatmate and placing one hand gently on his arm. Sherlock stopped playing with a shriek, bow jolting against the strings, and looked up at John with bright eyes.
“John,” he said, voice low and surprised.
“Sherlock,” John repeated, and used his hand to guide Sherlock to the sofa. Sherlock moved without issue but refused to let go of the violin when John tried to pull it free; he cradled it to his chest as he sat, looking up at John with big, sad eyes when he tried to remove it. John let it be and moved to wrap the afghan from the back of the sofa around Sherlock’s bony shoulders instead.
“I’m ill, John,” Sherlock said, and his voice was so self-pitying that John felt a grin fight to appear on his lips despite the downtrodden look on Sherlock’s face, the slight rasp he could hear when Sherlock inhaled. He’d been very ill indeed - John still had nightmares about Sherlock at the edge of the Thames, unmoving and pale; he’d been in hospital for two weeks, thanks to the pneumonia that had ravaged his system, and if John never saw his flatmate so lifeless and weak again it would be too soon. Thankfully he was well on the way to being better now, despite the fact he kept refusing to just lie down and rest.
John nodded. “Yes you are,” he said and placed one hand on Sherlock’s forehead. He was burning up, but it didn’t feel dangerous yet. “But you’d get better even faster if you didn’t fight against healing every step of the way.”
Sherlock screwed up his face. “Ugh, healing. Dull. I’m ill and I almost died, and that’s why I need to write my requiem.”
“Your what?”
His infirmity, much to John’s disappointment, had had no effect on Sherlock’s ‘you’re too stupid to be breathing’ look. “My requiem. A song dedicated to me once I’m no longer on this mortal coil.”
“Are you meant to write your own?” John asked, and sat down next to Sherlock, shifting the blanket so he was even more swathed by it.
Sherlock scoffed. “Who else would be able to compose it? Should I allow some talentless musician to dedicate something to me when I could do much better? I can only shudder in horror at the thought of Mycroft organising it. I’m one of a kind, John - it needs to be timeless, well composed; so I’m remembered properly.”
John laughed lightly. “I doubt anyone could forget you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock shifted in his seat, his tiredness obvious in the slump of his shoulders and the way each blink took longer and longer; who knew how long he’d been playing the violin before John came back home. “You would say that,” he protested. “You just want me to stop playing and take yet another nap.”
“You caught me. But I promise that I won’t complain at all about you playing once you’re better,” John said, and Sherlock turned to look at him, eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Even at 3am? Because you’ve told me more than once that flatmates shouldn’t play the violin -”
John cut him off. “Your requiem gets special dispensation, alright? After all, who else could capture the world’s only Consulting Detective in music?”
Sherlock looked at him silently for a long moment and then sighed. “Fine,” he said and let go of his violin. John caught it just before it hit the floor. “But wake me up when Lestrade finally cracks and brings me some cold cases.”
“I promise,” John said, and watched as Sherlock settled down and quickly fell asleep. He put the violin away carefully, and then went to make himself some tea, humming the beginning of Sherlock’s requiem as he did so. He was looking forward to finding out how it ended.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
9.
non-explicit character death
Timeless is Forever
--“I’m surprised; I was wrong about you. You aren’t dumb and broken, just dumb. It must be so sad to be you.”
“Not really.”
“You don’t know how stupid you’ve just been.”
“Actually I haven’t been ‘stupid’ at all, you have.”
“Impossi-”
“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”--
A young man, but old, slammed into a dark alley before whipping around, too slow. He drew in a ragged breath, trying to hold his ground, failing. “You again.”
“Yes. Me again.” A decidedly non-threatening, but deadly, figure stood at the opening of the alley, a dark silhouette surrounded by the dim light from the streetlamps.
“Why won’t you leave me alone?”
“Hello, again. How have you been? Oh, good. How about you? Well, I’ve been enjoying the last twenty-three years of my life. Might have started feeling a bit homicidal fifteen years ago. Really now? Yes. Well, I guess I’ll just have to stop you.” The not-supposed-to-be-threatening man rattled off. Then he smiled and he looked like a wolf, not a wolf with a pack, but a desperate, dangerous wolf gone mad from being alone too long.
Pack dead.
Pack gone.
So alone.
“Why won’t you leave me alone?” This time the question was repeated with a harder edge.
The shorter, now dangerous, man stepped forward, out of the light. The two men stared each other; both had eyes that were touched with madness. One was born that way; the other was stretched into it.
“Because I’ll never let you come near him again. Because I will always find you. Because I will never let this go.”
A long time ago, the younger man, the not so breathless now man, was confident, was sure of himself. That was a long time ago. Back then, he also thought that dogs could be kicked and kicked and kicked, and because they were stupid, they would never get up. Now he knew that dogs could take hold of something and never let go.
“Just leave me alone.”
“No.” He takes another step forward. “No empty promises.”
I promise I’ll stay away.
“No.” He takes another step forward.
The young man, no longer brave, but still proud, refuses to step back. He tries to bluff and put on show, a show that worked long ago. “After all these years, still a stupid, loyal dog. Just a worthless pet. Never good enough. You think you’re good enough? You’re not. You’re not!”
The words seem to just slide past the other man. He never did take offense at being called stupid. It was all relevant. Stupid to some, brilliant to others. There was no shame is stupidity. It was only human. “Are you ready now?”
The I should hope so after so many years hangs unspoken in the air.
And so the ritual begins.
“How?”
“How do you think?”
“Why?”
“I’m waiting. Waiting for him, never for you.”
“I’ll get you one day. I get you and I’ll burn you. Burn you out. Out. Out. Out.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“I’m better than you.”
“No.” A sharp intake a breath, a sighing breath of release.
“Stup-id, lo-yal mut-t.”
“Yes, no, and maybe.”
“Just stop it. Just end it.” Still too proud to beg.
“I’ll always find you. I’ll always make sure that you can never hurt anyone again.” You can never hurt him again.
A short, gurgling laugh. “How- How long would you wait?”
“Forever.”
“He’s not coming back.”
“He is.” He has to.
“He’s not-” A quick and efficient twist of a wrist.
“Goodbye, Luther.” Goodbye James Moriarty. “See you later.”
--A body was buried and blood sacrificed to the earth.
“I’m waiting. I’m waiting.”
Sherlock, I’m waiting.
The wind whispered through the trees and the earth accepted the offering that came time and time again. The moon watched a lone man standing over the grave, a man that it had watched for many years.
The man watched the world around him, he could watch for eternity because he could feel fate burning in his bones.
Sometimes, the stars cried for this eternal man, this man who hunted one man, and waited for another. Perhaps this man was fated to mourn for eternity.
And then sometimes…
John, I’m coming.--
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
10.
I Hear You in My Heart (You Carry Me Always)
Ever since he could remember, Gregory Lestrade had heard a song tugging low and deep in his heart.
And ever since he had been old enough to understand, he knew what that song was and how to use it.
When his gran died, the song was louder and louder and louder until it finally got whisper-quiet and stopped when she did. When his mum died, the song was a quiet low hum that burned through his consciousness and wormed its way into his ears. For months, that song was all he heard every time he closed his eyes.
As he grew up, he was able to push the song away, to only hear it when he needed to.
The first time he used it on the job, it was to see if a kid would make it until the ambulance arrived or if he would bleed out before it got there. The song beat in his ears like a bass drum steady and slow until suddenly it wasn’t and the kid’s blood washed away in the rain. Lestrade stood up, shook his head to clear it, and walked away from the body in the street. He walked around the corner and leaned against the crumbling, dirty brick wall and tipped his head back against the rain. He let the sound of it hitting his eyelashes chase the lingering memory of that slow steady beat out of his head. He had to sleep tonight.
The only person whose song he never heard was Mycroft Holmes’. The silence surrounding the man disturbed Lestrade, who found the lack of the tug and pull disconcerting. After a while, he realised the reason he didn’t hear Mycroft’s song was because it was tied up in his. When they lay in bed together, Lestrade’s heart was quiet and gentle, the song a soft hum in the back of his mind, nearly forgotten.
The only other person he’d known who’d lost their song was John Watson.
The good doctor’s song, the first time they met in Sherlock’s new flat, was loud and strong and determined, the heart of a protector. It was so loud, in fact, that it nearly drowned out Sherlock’s more erratic, quicker song.
When he saw John and Sherlock together again after the end of that Chinese smuggling case, John’s song was gone and Sherlock’s wildly unpredictable cadence had gained a smooth, thumping backbone. It sounded like a heartbeat.
The whole pips case had Lestrade’s teeth on edge. Sherlock’s song was even more erratic than before, and it was distracting in the extreme. Over the years of their acquaintance, Lestrade had attuned himself to Sherlock’s song, telling himself that it was just a precaution when in fact, it was so that he would know the instant something went wrong. It had saved Sherlock’s life more than once.
And now, racing to a pool that had been blown to bits, Lestrade could hear Sherlock’s song beating an insistent help help help help help help help help help him help him helphim helphim helphimhelphimhelphimhelp and overlaying that, the strong steady thrum of John’s repeating the same, doubling and trebling until the feedback loop was so overpowering he could barely see, breathe, or even think. His own pulse raced and thumped in time with their combined song.
As he drew closer, the song, instead of increasing in volume and intensity, began to fade. John’s steady beat was slowing, quieting, and Sherlock’s trilled in panic before it, too, began to slip its rhythm, fading in and out of Lestrade’s consciousness, tugging insistently at his heart-
helphimhelphimhelphimhelphelphelphimhelp
-and then he was scrabbling at the rubble with his bare hands, digging, cursing under his breath, praying for some miracle that would keep their songs going, keep them from fading away to their dissonant ends.
His fingers hit flesh and he gasped in relief. He dug harder, faster, and when he unearthed them, they were clinging to each other, bloodied, bruised, barely breathing, but there.
As he uncovered more of them, John’s song stopped, and the entire world held its breath and came to a standstill. Sherlock’s song screamed in blind panic and then took a deep breath itself and said
NO
and there was a soft thump thump thump as John’s song tiptoed back and the soft trill of Sherlock’s own intertwined with it until both of their songs beat as one-not Sherlock’s, not John’s, not John’s subsumed with Sherlock’s-but together as they breathed and Lestrade cried with relief.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
11.
"Please Molls, just for the week," Jane says.
Molly curls her hands around the mug of tea, wishing the heat would hurry up and unstiffen her cold fingers. She wants to demure, but Jane is looking at her and her expression is somehow both pleading and expectant and, well, Molly's never been so good at saying no to people.
"Please," Jane says again. "I'll come feed Toby for you the next time you're on holiday."
Whoever knows when that will be, Molly thinks. It's a fair offer, genuinely meant, but Molly can't help thinking it's a bit of a safe thing to say. Still, she feels her shoulders curling inexorably toward her ears, her mouth moving to smile faintly, and she knows Jane has her.
"Okay," she murmurs.
--
Tillie is an Alsatian who, despite a history of being quite polite and well-behaved, has always made Molly a bit nervous. At the moment, she's curled next to the legs of a short table, napping. Molly supposes it ought to make her look younger, more puppy-like, but truthfully she just looks like the same large dog. Only sleeping. Unpredictable.
Molly, stretched out on the settee, wishes Jane would hurry up and come home from Calais. It isn't that she minds watching Tillie, not exactly. It's only, well. She sighs and wipes a hand over her eyes and glances at the screen of her mobile. The alarm she'd set to wake her is still roughly forty minutes from sounding, but she doesn't think she'll really get anymore sleep as it is. May as well take a shower, since she might not get a chance for one until the evening otherwise. Then she can take Tillie for a walk if she's awake, head home to her own flat, and feed Toby, who she hasn't really seen much of this week. She feels a stab of guilt at that, but she'll see him again soon enough. Then, she thinks, after she's done taking care of her cat, she'll come back here, feed Tillie, take her on another quick walk, and go to work.
She wonders what time she'll be able to come home that evening to check on Toby again before ending up back here, and she suddenly doesn't want to get up. She doesn't think she'll be able to keep her eyes open for the rest of the day.
--
"Doctor Fairbanks?"
Molly's head snaps up and her hand jerks slightly, spilling coffee over her hand and the sleeve of her coat.
"The monitor?" the slight, dark haired man in the doorway says, hesitantly. "With the screen that went all…" he makes a gesture with his hands that is quite expressive, though Molly's not actually sure what it's meant to express. "I'm from IT?"
Molly thinks this would be a good time to contribute something to the conversation, but all she can come up with is "Sorry, I, no. Sorry." She takes a breath and tries again.
"Next door," she says. "Fairbanks is next door. I'm Molly. Hooper. Doctor…Hooper."
"Oh, thanks," says the IT man. He turns to leave, then comes back. He looks immediately like he wishes he hadn't, and his mouth twitches up at the corner, the same way hers does when she's realised smiling won't actually make any situation less awkward, but she can't make her face look any other way.
"It's just," he falters, and his mouth twitches again. He says in a rush "I'd sort of hoped you were Fairbanks." He blushes and disappears next door.
Oh, Molly thinks, with coffee cooling on her wrist. Well.
Okay.
--
Jim, the shy, slight, dark-haired man from IT, brings her chips in a paper cone when she's too busy to get away for lunch.
She doesn't mind covering for Emily, especially as she's getting married on Thursday. But she can't help feeling a bit dejected that no one will be filling in for her while she prepares for her wedding. Maybe, she thinks, maybe if she had a spare minute anywhere in her day, she might be able to meet someone she'd like to marry. She wonders which odds are longer: getting married or having time off.
The chips Jim brings her are thin and crisp, covered in mayonnaise and tomato ketchup. Molly thinks that between these and living on Pot Noodle all week, she can feel her weight going up, up, up.
Maybe she'll come in early tomorrow and do some laps in the rehab pool before work.