Sherlock BBC Fic: The Most Permanent Destination - Flying: Three (5/5)
MASTERPOST | ZERO | ONE | TWO | THREE (4/5)
THREE (5/5)
"Sherlock! Fly!"
Not without you, anymore, though Sherlock would not have said so.
Moriarty reeled, and his wings lashed out: but John held on, despite the immobility in his bedecked wing and the black feathers that were striking him repeatedly, hard. Then, Moriarty relaxed, and laughed.
"Oh, good! Very good! Dr Watson, you really are something -- "
"Shut it. If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr Moriarty, then we both go up." John stared at Sherlock, still standing there, in something that was half rage and half mortal terror.
"Oh, Doctor, you're so brave! I see why our Sherly likes having you around -- so protective, so accepting of his shortcomings, aren't you! I imagine you're quite fond of him by now, but then again, people do get so sentimental about the freaks they take care of, almost like pets --" John wrenched out a fistful of black feathers and Moriarty swallowed a grunt of pain. "So needy, very loyal -- but, whoops!" Black wings slapped John again. "You've rather shown your hand there, Dr Watson!"
John had. Sherlock could not see the sniper sight on his forehead, but he saw the ones that targeted every one of his primary feathers and his titanium joints individually. John stepped away, despite Sherlock's aborted shake of the head.
Moriarty turned to Sherlock again, and smoothed down some of his feathers with a hand. "I oiled these today, you know, it's a shame. Anyway, Sherlock, want to take a guess at what happens to you if you get yourself mixed up in things you shouldn't?"
"I get killed, I presume."
"Kill you? No, come on, don't be so obvious; I mean I've got to kill you someday, I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, Sherlock, honey, if you don't mind your own business, like a good little human... I'll burn you. And I don't just mean after I've plucked your silly little feathers, no: I will burn the heart out of you."
Sherlock wondered if Moriarty's wings could block out the sun, they were so dark, enormous.
"I have been reliably informed I don't have one."
"Oh, but we both know that's not quite true."
Sherlock had never been more frightened, because Moriarty, unlike the world else, did not buy the myth of a pair of titanium wings and feathers.
Sherlock could not see John from this side of Moriarty, and at this point it was folly to pretend that it didn't make him nervous. He could not help but threaten the almost-demon one last time, because -- because he had to. He could not, in good conscience, just let him go.
He did let him go, in the end, because John was still there, looking about ready to pass out, or at least topple over.
"John! Are you all right?" He seized John's shoulders, trying to keep him upright; John's gaze was not focussed, and he didn't answer. "Are you all right?" John teetered, and Sherlock at last threw caution and custom to the wind as his hands flew to the bomb, to -- to John's wing. John had tried to kill himself; he had no right to complain about his personal space being violated.
He might have noted that John's feathers were quite soft save for the hard, dried blood flecks, but he was too busy scrabbling at the wires and Semtex to notice anything but that it wasn't all coming off fast enough. John staggered again, and braced himself against Sherlock's shoulder.
"John? John, look at me." A metal wing wrapped around John's other side instinctively.
"Yeah, I'm fine -- I'm fine. Sherlock..."
Sherlock tore the wires away, and John groaned as three feathers were pulled loose.
"Sorry, sorry --" He took the lot and flung it down on the tiles.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock whirled back upon him, and stared as John stood and gasped, stretched his sore muscles. Was staring not good? And where had Moriarty gone? He was very confused. What the hell was wrong with his head right now?
He squeezed through the tiny door to check for Moriarty and was back within seconds. He found John squatting by the wall, bracing himself with his hands on the floor, flexing his feathers.
"Are you okay?" Who asked that? John? The one who’s very much not okay?
"What? Me? Yeah, fine, I'm fine, fine." Was he babbling? Was this babbling? He was waving the gun around a fair bit. Was the safety on? Oh god. He felt like his brain had suddenly died.
John hadn't died, which was more important. But he almost had.
"That, er... thing that you, that you did, that, um ... you offered to do, that was, um... good." (No, actually, it wasn't at all, because John had tried to get himself killed and had thought Sherlock would have let him. Never, never. Sherlock would die first, probably. He would not take off alone, leave John on the ground without him. He would no longer fly solo.)
John's throat sounded dry. "I'm glad no-one saw that."
"Hmm?"
"You, touching my -- feathers in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."
Sherlock shrugged, attempted a fright-weak joke. "People do little else."
They shared a smile.
One last smile, then, before John's wing and Sherlock's chest were covered in dancing sniper-lights again and John groaned and Sherlock's mouth fell open and Moriarty crowed at them about their impending deaths.
One last smile before the end.
"You can't be allowed to continue, you just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!" Moriarty’s voice was as black as assembled crows, a murder.
The machine looked at his guardian angel, with a question. His mouth was a grim line.
John nodded. Sherlock would always trust John's judgement, always. Even now, now that always was the next forty or so seconds, the last few of their lives.
(Sherlock wished now for the chance to apologise, and to say "thank you", and to try again to see if he could get this right. He wished for many things. He wished for John Watson’s life.)
"Then probably my answer has crossed yours."
Sherlock turned, gun poised.
He had not wanted to die, but that hardly mattered anymore.
(Maybe this was as right as it would get. Maybe, this was it.)
(Not flying solo, never again.)
He wondered briefly if this was heroism. He would have wanted to ask John.
It did not feel like heroism. It felt, rather, like something else.
His feathers splayed.
It felt like flying.
To Be Continued?
THREE (5/5)
"Sherlock! Fly!"
Not without you, anymore, though Sherlock would not have said so.
Moriarty reeled, and his wings lashed out: but John held on, despite the immobility in his bedecked wing and the black feathers that were striking him repeatedly, hard. Then, Moriarty relaxed, and laughed.
"Oh, good! Very good! Dr Watson, you really are something -- "
"Shut it. If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr Moriarty, then we both go up." John stared at Sherlock, still standing there, in something that was half rage and half mortal terror.
"Oh, Doctor, you're so brave! I see why our Sherly likes having you around -- so protective, so accepting of his shortcomings, aren't you! I imagine you're quite fond of him by now, but then again, people do get so sentimental about the freaks they take care of, almost like pets --" John wrenched out a fistful of black feathers and Moriarty swallowed a grunt of pain. "So needy, very loyal -- but, whoops!" Black wings slapped John again. "You've rather shown your hand there, Dr Watson!"
John had. Sherlock could not see the sniper sight on his forehead, but he saw the ones that targeted every one of his primary feathers and his titanium joints individually. John stepped away, despite Sherlock's aborted shake of the head.
Moriarty turned to Sherlock again, and smoothed down some of his feathers with a hand. "I oiled these today, you know, it's a shame. Anyway, Sherlock, want to take a guess at what happens to you if you get yourself mixed up in things you shouldn't?"
"I get killed, I presume."
"Kill you? No, come on, don't be so obvious; I mean I've got to kill you someday, I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, Sherlock, honey, if you don't mind your own business, like a good little human... I'll burn you. And I don't just mean after I've plucked your silly little feathers, no: I will burn the heart out of you."
Sherlock wondered if Moriarty's wings could block out the sun, they were so dark, enormous.
"I have been reliably informed I don't have one."
"Oh, but we both know that's not quite true."
Sherlock had never been more frightened, because Moriarty, unlike the world else, did not buy the myth of a pair of titanium wings and feathers.
Sherlock could not see John from this side of Moriarty, and at this point it was folly to pretend that it didn't make him nervous. He could not help but threaten the almost-demon one last time, because -- because he had to. He could not, in good conscience, just let him go.
He did let him go, in the end, because John was still there, looking about ready to pass out, or at least topple over.
"John! Are you all right?" He seized John's shoulders, trying to keep him upright; John's gaze was not focussed, and he didn't answer. "Are you all right?" John teetered, and Sherlock at last threw caution and custom to the wind as his hands flew to the bomb, to -- to John's wing. John had tried to kill himself; he had no right to complain about his personal space being violated.
He might have noted that John's feathers were quite soft save for the hard, dried blood flecks, but he was too busy scrabbling at the wires and Semtex to notice anything but that it wasn't all coming off fast enough. John staggered again, and braced himself against Sherlock's shoulder.
"John? John, look at me." A metal wing wrapped around John's other side instinctively.
"Yeah, I'm fine -- I'm fine. Sherlock..."
Sherlock tore the wires away, and John groaned as three feathers were pulled loose.
"Sorry, sorry --" He took the lot and flung it down on the tiles.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock whirled back upon him, and stared as John stood and gasped, stretched his sore muscles. Was staring not good? And where had Moriarty gone? He was very confused. What the hell was wrong with his head right now?
He squeezed through the tiny door to check for Moriarty and was back within seconds. He found John squatting by the wall, bracing himself with his hands on the floor, flexing his feathers.
"Are you okay?" Who asked that? John? The one who’s very much not okay?
"What? Me? Yeah, fine, I'm fine, fine." Was he babbling? Was this babbling? He was waving the gun around a fair bit. Was the safety on? Oh god. He felt like his brain had suddenly died.
John hadn't died, which was more important. But he almost had.
"That, er... thing that you, that you did, that, um ... you offered to do, that was, um... good." (No, actually, it wasn't at all, because John had tried to get himself killed and had thought Sherlock would have let him. Never, never. Sherlock would die first, probably. He would not take off alone, leave John on the ground without him. He would no longer fly solo.)
John's throat sounded dry. "I'm glad no-one saw that."
"Hmm?"
"You, touching my -- feathers in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."
Sherlock shrugged, attempted a fright-weak joke. "People do little else."
They shared a smile.
One last smile, then, before John's wing and Sherlock's chest were covered in dancing sniper-lights again and John groaned and Sherlock's mouth fell open and Moriarty crowed at them about their impending deaths.
One last smile before the end.
"You can't be allowed to continue, you just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!" Moriarty’s voice was as black as assembled crows, a murder.
The machine looked at his guardian angel, with a question. His mouth was a grim line.
John nodded. Sherlock would always trust John's judgement, always. Even now, now that always was the next forty or so seconds, the last few of their lives.
(Sherlock wished now for the chance to apologise, and to say "thank you", and to try again to see if he could get this right. He wished for many things. He wished for John Watson’s life.)
"Then probably my answer has crossed yours."
Sherlock turned, gun poised.
He had not wanted to die, but that hardly mattered anymore.
(Maybe this was as right as it would get. Maybe, this was it.)
(Not flying solo, never again.)
He wondered briefly if this was heroism. He would have wanted to ask John.
It did not feel like heroism. It felt, rather, like something else.
His feathers splayed.
It felt like flying.
To Be Continued?