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splixTitle: If You Can't Move Heaven, Raise Hell
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Sherlock/John; Sherlock/Ian Adler; John Watson/Ian Adler; Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: All John Watson wants is a peaceful fortnight's holiday. Fate has other plans.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sex, dubious consent.
Notes: I don't genderswap as a rule, but I saw this marvelous gif of Tom Hiddleston and Sherlock and couldn't resist. The rest is shameless self-indulgence.
There is definitely going to be dubious consent in the story - how dubious I'm not yet sure, but I will change the warnings if need be. If this poses a difficulty with triggers, please be warned now that the warnings may change.
Plot happily magpied from everywhere, with especial apologies to Umberto Eco.
This fic is a gift for sithdragn, with affection.
Can also be read on AO3
*
If You Can’t Move Heaven, Raise Hell
Jim skimmed a hand across the surface of the water, watching the four faint trails left by his fingers deepen faint trenches and then vanish as the water smoothed itself out again. He leant back, closed his eyes, and let the ethereal and ancient harmonies echoing off the tiled walls transport him to a place of serenity. It was difficult, at first; the music presented itself as mathematics, the dorian mode, the fourths and fifths (4/3; 3/2; Pythagoras, you clever little so-and-so) that medieval musicians considered sublime. It took long minutes, soaking in water hot enough to scald, for him to strip away the ruthlessness of numerical perfection and allow the melody to absorb itself into his skin. At last, only the music mattered; the world, with its billions of pitiful insects conducting themselves as if their lives made a difference, fell away.
Until the knock came on the door.
“Jim!”
Five quick raps, utterly destroying his hard-won calm. He ground his teeth, wincing as his muscles contracted and his blood raced faster. “Yes, dear?”
The door opened, and Jim watched in mingled annoyance and pleasure as Sebastian’s brow wrinkled in consternation. “It’s like a fucking sauna in here.”
“Isn’t it just. Close the door.” Jim dipped a flannel in the water, wrung it out, and folded it over his eyes, leaning back against the rim of the tub. “I assume, since you know how I hate to be disturbed in the bath, that you have something really earth-shattering to tell me.” The scent of sandalwood and cedar drifted to his nostrils.
Sebastian closed the door and strode to the vanity, rummaging through a triumphant disorder of SK-II and Clinique and Tom Ford and Dr. Hauschka. He made a small triumphant noise, and the music’s volume dwindled to almost nothing.
“I was listening to that,” Jim snarled softly, though he didn’t bother to remove the flannel from his eyes. He settled back, feeling the thrumming tension of Seb’s lean, taut body, sensing the narrow intensity of Seb’s gaze fixing itself upon him.
“You knew about this. How? How did you know?”
If not for Seb’s unflagging loyalty, Jim might have killed him years ago.
“Jim –“>
“Seb. Sweetheart. I can’t help not answering when you use too many fucking pronouns and not enough antecedents. Now tell me – what did I know about?”
“Trevor. He talked to his sister.”
“Ah.” Now that was interesting. Jim sat up and let the cloth fall from his eyes. “I didn’t know, but the probability of him contacting her was high. And?”
“And nothing, yet.” Sebastian leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. A glimpse of ankle holster peeked past his immaculate trouser cuff. “I could take care of…your little problem, you know. Quickly. Efficiently. I don’t understand why you’re playing this stupid fucking cat and mouse game.”
Jim laughed. “Seb, you know I hate explaining things. Don’t ask questions.”
Sebastian’s face contracted for a moment, as if he were in pain. Then he smiled thinly. “Ours is but to do and die, eh? Right. You’re bloody lucky you pay so well.”
The grin tugging at the corners of Jim’s mouth faded, and he shot Sebastian a quick glare. “You’re showing disturbing signs of developing an independent streak, Seb honey. Remember, I own you, body and soul, and if you forget –“
“Don’t threaten a killer, Jim,” Seb replied softly.
Gosh. Seb was showing his teeth. “If you forget,” Jim went on, as if Seb hadn’t spoken, “I’ll feed you your own entrails with béchamel sauce.” A headache was developing behind his eyes. “Now – was there something else you wanted?”
“Do you want me to take care of Trevor?”
“God, no! And spoil all the fun? You are such a wet blanket sometimes, Seb.” Jim stretched his leg and nudged the hot water tap into life with his toes. “No, you sit tight, sweetheart. I’m sending someone else in for this.”
Sebastian snorted. “To do what?”
“He’s a little more devious than you, Seb. You’re good, don’t get me wrong, but you have all the subtlety of a cannon shot. What I have in mind is a little more…complex than your customary bullet in the skull.” He looked up, noting that Sebastian was staring at his naked body submerged in hot water.
“Adler,” Sebastian murmured, his lip curling. “That fucktoy.”
Jim lowered his eyes, modestly, as if Seb had delivered a compliment to him. He loved it when Seb got jealous. Loved it. “Now, now.”
“Fine.” Seb got to his feet. “I’ll make a bet with you, though – you’ll need me before all this is over.”
“I’m not taking that bet, honey.” Jim let his gaze travel the length of Sebastian Moran’s hard, spare body, then leant back again, listening to the soft chant still bouncing off handmade Italian tile. “Now get your fucking clothes off.”
*
“Okay. Breathe in for me? Nice deep breath.”
The woman on the examining table sucked in a quick breath and let it go.
John blinked and clamped his lips together so that his sigh issued through his nose. Why couldn’t some people fathom the meaning of the word deep, especially the patients he saw twice a month as a matter of course? “Right, let’s try that again, Mrs. Parker. Big breath, from the bottom of your tummy up to your throat. Like this.” He demonstrated loudly and settled his stethoscope against Mrs. Parker’s back. “Ready? Have at it.” Mrs. Parker tried again, and managed a fair approximation of a deep breath. John leant close and listened. “Well, I’m not hearing any congestion in the lungs – that’s good news. Any pain in the chest?”
“No. Just the tightness.”
“You can button your blouse up.” John unhooked his scope and hung it round his neck. “Do you notice it at any particular time of day, or during any particular activity?”
“When I – why do you ask?” Mrs. Parker’s immaculately made-up face darkened with suspicion.
“Well, sometimes exercise can bring on an asthma attack, or it could be induced by cleaning chemicals in your house, or anxiety – there are all sorts of reasons. I’m trying to narrow the cause a bit.” John smiled in his most placating fashion. Mrs. Parker, as well as being a frequent flier in the surgery, was a bit of a wild and woolly one at times.
“I’m not sick in the head,” Mrs. Parker spat. “I can’t get air. I can’t breathe. That’s not anxiety, Dr. Watson.” She buttoned her blouse with rapid, stabbing motions. “If you don’t think you’re qualified to diagnose me properly, perhaps Dr. Sawyer can see me next time instead.”
Christ, if only. “Mrs. Parker, it’s not my intention to belittle your symptoms, not in the least. I can give you some albuterol, but what I’d really love for you to try is a marvellous little pamphlet I’ve got on reducing anxiety through breathing techniques. It’s worked wonders, without medication –“
“Oh, I see. Breathing techniques. Dr. Watson, I do not pay outrageous taxes to get an appointment only to be told that my only hope of not dying in the street is doing some bloody New Age breathing techniques. Honestly, with the state of things in this country, you’d think that doctors would at least –“
“Albuterol.” John cut her off firmly, pressing a small inhaler into her hand. “No more than four times a day if you can possibly manage it, and ease up if you feel yourself getting a bit shaky or jittery.” He watched her expression alchemize from outrage to melting sweetness and smiled at her again, trying to keep a nasty, cynical smirk from overtaking his face. “Let me know if you run into any trouble with it, all right?”
“Oh. All right. Thank you.”
He watched Mrs. Parker leave, tipping a little wave as she rounded the corner. After she’d disappeared altogether, he let out a sigh – big deep breath – and sank onto the rolling chair. It could have been worse, certainly – it wasn’t as bad as the time she insisted a mosquito bite was the beginning of a full-blown MRSA infection, or the time she was convinced that a trip to Ireland had left her with bovine spongiform encephalopathy, but it wasn’t a bed of roses, either. Yawning, he stripped off his white coat and tucked his scope in a drawer. He looked forward to a quiet night at home – well, as quiet as it ever got – some takeaway, maybe a movie on telly, and an early night. He hoped, at any rate, but one never knew.
There was a tap on the door, and Sarah peered in. “All clear?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. Typhoid Mary’s just gone home.”
“What was it this time?”
“Asthma. Contracted just like that.” John snapped his fingers. “Thing is, I’m sure it’s stress-induced, but she didn’t want to hear it from me. I gave her some albuterol. I’ll bet you a fiver she comes in next week with an empty inhaler and heart palpitations.”
Sarah laughed. “You’re probably right. I can see her from now on if you like.”
“No, I’m used to her.” John pushed himself to his feet. “I’m knackered. Come on, I’ll walk you to the tube.”
“Colder than I thought out here,” Sarah said, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets. “You’ve got that holiday coming up next week. Big plans?”
John shrugged. “Not sure, really. I was thinking about going to Cornwall –“
“With Sherlock?”
“No,” John said, then realised how sharply the denial had emerged from his mouth. He laughed little to take the sting from his words “No – actually, getting away from Sherlock is sort of the point. There’s a girl I’m seeing, name’s Alice. Her parents have a cottage there.”
“Oh! That’s nice.” Sarah’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. “It’s sure to be warmer there now.”
“I suppose so. Anyhow, it’s not set in stone.” He and Sarah hadn’t dated for a few months now, and he didn’t mind telling her about the women he saw – she was dating another bloke as well – but he always felt as if he were fighting some kind of losing battle when he did; Sarah would get a funny sort of look in her eyes, as if she didn’t quite believe him, and more often than not she tended to refer to Sherlock as if he were, well –
“No, I expect it’s not. Nothing is when you live with Sherlock Holmes, right?”
“Sarah –“ John stopped dead, almost colliding with an old lady lugging a cotton sack of fruits and vegetables. “Sorry,” he called, and turned back to Sarah. “Look, Sarah, you know I’m not –“
“I didn’t mean anything by it.” Sarah laid a hand on his arm. “Just that he’s a bit unpredictable. Anyhow, I like him. Sort of.” She gave him a sweet smile and a warm hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for walking me.”
John watched her trot down the staircase. She was still sexy – fantastic legs, great face, pretty hair, luscious breasts. They hadn’t broken apart as much as faded away, and he wasn’t sure why, really. He still found her attractive. She was the one who’d changed – she’d deny it, probably, but it was true. She even looked at him differently – there always seemed to be a light of speculation in her eyes, as if he had some invisible problem and she was trying to sort out what it might be. Drove him barmy sometimes.
He blew out a breath, stuck his hands in his pockets, and went in search of dinner.
*
“Sherlock?” John trudged up the stairs. “You hungry? I got udon –“ He stopped short at the sight of a tall, slim woman peering at one of the bookcases. “Hello.”
“Hello there.” The woman smiled at him. “You must be Dr. Watson. Sherlock said you’d be home soon.”
“Erm, yes. I live here,” John said unnecessarily. He took the woman’s appearance in a single glance. She looked expensive; not flashy-expensive, like a footballer’s wife, but the sort of expensive that meant she bought her clothes in the sort of shops that buzzed you in or made appointments. She wore a suit of chocolate-coloured wool that looked wonderfully soft to the touch, and gleaming shoes with very high heels. Flung across the sofa was a camel coat and a handbag he’d remembered Sarah admiring in a magazine once. Her black hair was pulled back from a high, wide brow into a bun, like a ballet dancer, and she wore red lipstick. She wasn’t pretty, not exactly, but she was striking, definitely attractive; most men would give her a second look, and a third. John moved closer and smiled. She had a nice perfume. “Is Sherlock around?”
“Oh, he’s having a bath. Almost finished, I should think.” The woman bent close to a shelf, examining the book spines. “Well, his reading tastes haven’t changed much.”
John raised a mental set of eyebrows. “You’re a friend of his?” A bath? Surreptitiously, he eyed her clothes; they were perfect, unwrinkled.
“I don’t know if he’d say that about me, but I consider him a friend. God, sorry, I’m being disgracefully rude.” She stretched out a hand. “Victoria Trevor. How do you do?”
“John Watson. I’m…great, thanks.” He beamed at her. The evening had just got a bit more interesting. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine, thanks.” She looked at the bag in his hand. “I’m interrupting your dinner.”
“Will you stay? There’s plenty for three.”
“Thank you, no. I have an engagement this evening.” She moved to the sofa on racehorse legs and sat, crossing her ankles. “Please, I feel terrible. You must have had a long day. Do eat, Doctor.”
“It’s fine.” John set the bag on the kitchen table, nudging aside a pile of books and a decapitated turkey’s head on a china plate. “I’m sure Sherlock will be out in just a bit.” He looked down at the turkey’s head. It stared sadly up at him with one dull, pebble-coloured eye. “You sure you won’t have tea?”
“Well…all right. Twist my arm.” She smiled at him. “He’s never mentioned me, has he?”
For no reason that he could determine, the casually intimate question set his teeth on edge. What are you on about, then? If Sherlock had one relationship that he didn’t manage to completely destroy, you should be glad. He shrugged apologetically and took another surreptitious look at her. Tall, thin, elegant, sort of unusual looking – probably just Sherlock’s type, if he had a type – and there was a narcissistic streak in him, to be sure. “No, but I don’t hear a lot about Sherlock’s past. I don’t get to meet many of his old…friends.”
“And why should you?” Sherlock strode into the kitchen in his deep-crimson dressing gown, his hair wet. “Why on earth should I keep in touch with a pack of idiots just to parade them in front of my flatmate? I haven’t met many of your old friends, either. Oh, did you get udon?” He fished a container from the white paper sack and flung himself into his chair, not glancing at Ms. Trevor. He opened the carton, plunged chopsticks in, and began to eat.
“You certainly don’t keep in touch with me,” Ms. Trevor said.
“What for?”
Ms. Trevor smiled. “It’s the question that answers itself, I suppose. How was your bath?” Was there an edge of flirtation in her voice?
“Not hot enough,” Sherlock muttered through a mouthful of noodles.
John handed the woman a cup of tea. “There you are.”
“Oh, thank you.” She beamed at him, and he couldn’t help smiling back.
John wasn’t ordinarily attracted to women in the severe mode, but she seemed genuinely friendly, and didn’t take offense at Sherlock’s rudeness, which was extraordinary. He found himself curious about their shared past. “So…were you two at school together, Ms. Trevor? Or did you –“
“Infant school,” Ms. Trevor replied. “And please do call me Victoria.”
“If you’ll call me John.” He sneaked a glance at her legs.
“I’d love that, John.”
“She’d love it,” Sherlock snorted. “John, if you must know, we were at infant school together, and then at Cambridge. For a while. And then Trevor sold her soul.”
“I got married,” Victoria said.
“I fail to see the difference.”
John sat in his chair. “Well, that’s interesting. Did you two…erm, date?”
Victoria laughed. “If you call dashing round to morgues and crime scenes and police headquarters and digging through rubbish skips on week-ends, then yes, I suppose we did, after a fashion. It was more interesting than studying.”
John looked at Sherlock for some sign that he’d once been intimate with this compelling and rather sexy woman sitting across from him on the sofa and saw no change in Sherlock’s usual demeanour. In fact, he looked more bored than usual as he picked through the udon to find the most succulent pieces of meat.
“Ancient history,” Sherlock said.
“And in my third year I fell in love and left school.”
“Stupid,” Sherlock said.
Victoria crossed her arms. “Me, or Horst?”
“Both of you.”
“He was lovely – he still is lovely – and your treatment of him was absolutely beastly, Sherlock. You really don’t deserve to be forgiven for that.”
“Who says I want to be?” Sherlock set his carton of udon on the floor and stretched his legs out. “You could have been something, Trevor, and you chucked it all for some bloody schloss in the middle of nowhere and some inane job looking after charlatans’ finger bones.”
“Sorry, you…?” John shook his head, puzzled.
Victoria let out a long, slow breath and gave John a tight-lipped smile. “I’m attached to Cologne Cathedral, John. It’s a World Heritage site, and incredibly beautiful –“
Sherlock snorted loudly.
“And I suppose you could call me a docent, although that doesn’t quite cover it. It’s fascinating work, and –“ She broke off and gave Sherlock a cold stare. “Are you at all curious about why I’m here?”
“I was wondering when you’d get to it,” Sherlock replied. He picked up the udon again and stirred it idly.
She bit her lip and looked as if she were about to say something very acerbic, then crossed one leg over the other and leant forward. “You remember my brother Simon?”
Sherlock sighed. “Yes.”
Victoria turned to John. “My brother is the spiritual director at a Dominican monastery – San Stefano, in the Italian Alps. It’s a wonderful place – self-sustaining, gorgeous location, and a small but rich library. There are a number of codices, hand-crafted books –“ Graceful fingers shaped the dimensions of a book, “that date from the Dark Ages onward. They’re nearly priceless, worth millions of pounds. Scholars from all over the world come to examine them, and the contents of the library in general. A week ago, one of the codices was stolen.” She looked at Sherlock. “I want you to find it and restore it to the monastery.”
Sherlock yawned. “No.”
“There’s more.” She glanced at John. “Three monks are dead. Not obviously murder in any case, but all three deaths occurred within two weeks. The police are baffled, Sherlock, and I’m afraid Simon’s reputation is in danger.” She paused. “If not his life.”
“Probably an inside job, Trevor,” Sherlock said with a sniff. “One of the monks got greedy and decided to make a killing, pun very much intended. You’ve got connections – dig about for a medieval codex sold at private auction. Then call your brother and find out if one of the monks has done a bolt recently, and you’ll find your thief.”
“Do you really think I’m that stupid?” Victoria snapped. She set down her teacup, gathered her coat and bag, and got to her feet. “I have feelers everywhere I can put them. The last death was this morning, Sherlock. Would the killer bother to hang about? It’s not coincidence, it’s – look, just think about it, all right? And for once in your life, will you – “ She broke off, her face pink, and moved close to Sherlock’s chair, sinking to her knees and putting her hand atop Sherlock’s.
John watched, scanning Sherlock’s closed face and then watching the woman’s hand as it tightened on Sherlock’s fingers. His stomach clenched.
Hungry.
“Please, Sherlock.” Victoria’s voice was low and caressing. “Please.” She got to her feet and addressed him in a more businesslike tone. “If you want to find me, I’m at the Dorchester, and will be there until Sunday morning. If you do decide to take the case, your expenses will be paid, naturally, and there will be a generous bonus at the end if you manage to solve it.”
Sherlock gave her a brief, chill glance. “Don’t insult me.”
“Think about it,” she repeated, and nodded to John. “Dr. Watson, it was lovely to meet you. Good night.” She hurried from the room, leaving a faint wake of pretty scent.
John stared at Sherlock. “She’s the only person I’ve ever seen who – aren’t you even going to –“ He shook his head, jumped up, and ran down the stairs. “Ms. Trevor!” he called.
She turned in the act of getting into a black car. “I didn’t leave something, did I?”
“No….” John paused for breath. “It’s just that I – I’m sorry. He’s been a bit…not himself just lately.”
Victoria Trevor smiled. “I have a difficult time believing Sherlock is anything but himself. I’ve known him too long to think otherwise.” She shifted her bag to her other hand. “Do you think he’ll take the case?”
“Well, it’s…hard to say.” John suddenly wondered why he’d chased after her. She was nice enough, sexy in her way, and evidently she and Sherlock shared a History of some sort. Was that why he’d run? “I’ll certainly speak to him about it.”
She tilted her head to one side, as if to get a better look at him. “How long have you lived with him, Dr. Watson?”
They were back to Ms. Trevor and Dr. Watson now, apparently. “Almost a year.”
“And do you often go on cases with him?”
“Yes. It’s….” Fun? A hobby? Avocation? Beats a kick in the teeth? “It’s interesting to watch him work. And to help him, where I can.”
“Yes, it is. He’s fascinating. Always has been.” She dove into her bag and came up with a bright red leather case. Opening it, she withdrew a picture and handed it to him. “Have a look at that.”
John moved closer to the streetlight and peered at the photo. Startled, he let out a chuckle. “God, look at that!” The picture showed a teen-aged Sherlock, sullen and a bit awkward in formal evening dress, linking arms with a scrawny, homely, buck-toothed girl in a white dress that looked like a wedding cake. “When was this?”
“Oh – nearly twenty years ago now. That was my deb party.”
“I –“ John gaped. “That’s…” That’s you? he’d been about to say, but swallowed the unkind remark back. “That’s quite a pretty dress.”
Victoria smiled. “Oh, I know. I was a horror. I begged and begged my parents not to have the party. I was never one of those girls who managed to swan through their adolescence with grace. Being ugly makes one persona non grata at that age, you know – or maybe you don’t, you’re quite handsome. I’d go to dancing classes and even the least social and attractive boys would wince if they were partnered with me.” She held her hand out for the photo and looked at it. “So there I was, the night of my deb party, all alone. Can you imagine – the star of the show, and nobody talked to me. And I’d never looked so disgusting, me in that gigantic meringue. But then Sherlock – he was at Harrow then, and he was lovely, but not popular – all the Hoorays in training teased him pretty relentlessly – at any rate, he walked up to me, and do you know what he said?”
“Well, if it were anyone but Sherlock….” John trailed off uncertainly.
“Quite right. What he said was, ‘“Well, if we’re both going to be mocked, we might as well present a united front.’” She laughed.
John grinned. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”
“He saved me that night. I know it sounds stupid and trivial, but childhood hurts seem to sting the worst – and last longest of all hurts.” She slipped the photo back into its case. “He was tactless, but he was kind, in his way. I never forgot that, and I never will. I like to think I’ve done him the odd favour or two as well, and I’d hoped….” She shrugged, looked up at the windows of 221b, and smiled. “He was watching. You’ve lived with him a year?”
“That’s right.”
“An extraordinary amount of time, for Sherlock. But you must know that.”
“Yeah, I suppose I do at that,” John said, and felt a little glow, as if she’d paid him the most extravagant of compliments. He smiled at her, and saw the same speculative look Sarah often gave him. “Not to say he’s not a pain in the arse at times. Well, all the time.”
Victoria bit her lower lip. “Yes. I imagine that the rent on this place must be quite steep. He says he never does things for money, but one can always use money, and if his trust were more generous, he wouldn’t need a flatmate.” She put her hand on his arm. “If you two manage to solve the case, I’ll pay your rent for a year. No – please don’t say anything. As I said, you know where to find me. Good night, Dr. Watson.” She slipped into the car, and it pulled away silently into the indigo-coloured evening.
John watched until the car’s taillights blurred into the cityscape, then climbed the stairs back to the flat. Sherlock was slumped in his chair, contemplating his toes and looking as if he were about to perish from ennui. His hair had separated into dozens of shining curls, and his dressing gown was rucked up around his knees, as if he’d sat hastily. John hid a smile. “Well. She was quite nice, wasn’t she?”
Sherlock said nothing.
“She seemed quite concerned for her brother,” John ventured.
“She ought to be. It’s rather a miracle he’s lived as long as he has – he’s unbelievably stupid.”
John retrieved the takeaway bag from the table and slid into the chair opposite Sherlock. “I have that holiday coming up next week. A whole fortnight.”
Sherlock’s gaze settled on John for an instant, wide-eyed and – dare John think it – hopeful, or vaguely confused; John could never quite tell. His fawn-in-lorry-headlights gaze. “You’d go?”
“Will you?”
Sherlock sniffed and wriggled his toes. “I suppose I could have a look about.”
“Then I’ll go too.”
One corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned upward, and John felt that odd little glow again, creeping from his belly up into his neck and cheeks. He peered into his container of udon. “Cold,” he mumbled, and this time didn’t trouble to hide his smile.
*
To be continued!
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Sherlock/John; Sherlock/Ian Adler; John Watson/Ian Adler; Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: All John Watson wants is a peaceful fortnight's holiday. Fate has other plans.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sex, dubious consent.
Notes: I don't genderswap as a rule, but I saw this marvelous gif of Tom Hiddleston and Sherlock and couldn't resist. The rest is shameless self-indulgence.
There is definitely going to be dubious consent in the story - how dubious I'm not yet sure, but I will change the warnings if need be. If this poses a difficulty with triggers, please be warned now that the warnings may change.
Plot happily magpied from everywhere, with especial apologies to Umberto Eco.
This fic is a gift for sithdragn, with affection.
Can also be read on AO3
*
If You Can’t Move Heaven, Raise Hell
Jim skimmed a hand across the surface of the water, watching the four faint trails left by his fingers deepen faint trenches and then vanish as the water smoothed itself out again. He leant back, closed his eyes, and let the ethereal and ancient harmonies echoing off the tiled walls transport him to a place of serenity. It was difficult, at first; the music presented itself as mathematics, the dorian mode, the fourths and fifths (4/3; 3/2; Pythagoras, you clever little so-and-so) that medieval musicians considered sublime. It took long minutes, soaking in water hot enough to scald, for him to strip away the ruthlessness of numerical perfection and allow the melody to absorb itself into his skin. At last, only the music mattered; the world, with its billions of pitiful insects conducting themselves as if their lives made a difference, fell away.
Until the knock came on the door.
“Jim!”
Five quick raps, utterly destroying his hard-won calm. He ground his teeth, wincing as his muscles contracted and his blood raced faster. “Yes, dear?”
The door opened, and Jim watched in mingled annoyance and pleasure as Sebastian’s brow wrinkled in consternation. “It’s like a fucking sauna in here.”
“Isn’t it just. Close the door.” Jim dipped a flannel in the water, wrung it out, and folded it over his eyes, leaning back against the rim of the tub. “I assume, since you know how I hate to be disturbed in the bath, that you have something really earth-shattering to tell me.” The scent of sandalwood and cedar drifted to his nostrils.
Sebastian closed the door and strode to the vanity, rummaging through a triumphant disorder of SK-II and Clinique and Tom Ford and Dr. Hauschka. He made a small triumphant noise, and the music’s volume dwindled to almost nothing.
“I was listening to that,” Jim snarled softly, though he didn’t bother to remove the flannel from his eyes. He settled back, feeling the thrumming tension of Seb’s lean, taut body, sensing the narrow intensity of Seb’s gaze fixing itself upon him.
“You knew about this. How? How did you know?”
If not for Seb’s unflagging loyalty, Jim might have killed him years ago.
“Jim –“>
“Seb. Sweetheart. I can’t help not answering when you use too many fucking pronouns and not enough antecedents. Now tell me – what did I know about?”
“Trevor. He talked to his sister.”
“Ah.” Now that was interesting. Jim sat up and let the cloth fall from his eyes. “I didn’t know, but the probability of him contacting her was high. And?”
“And nothing, yet.” Sebastian leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. A glimpse of ankle holster peeked past his immaculate trouser cuff. “I could take care of…your little problem, you know. Quickly. Efficiently. I don’t understand why you’re playing this stupid fucking cat and mouse game.”
Jim laughed. “Seb, you know I hate explaining things. Don’t ask questions.”
Sebastian’s face contracted for a moment, as if he were in pain. Then he smiled thinly. “Ours is but to do and die, eh? Right. You’re bloody lucky you pay so well.”
The grin tugging at the corners of Jim’s mouth faded, and he shot Sebastian a quick glare. “You’re showing disturbing signs of developing an independent streak, Seb honey. Remember, I own you, body and soul, and if you forget –“
“Don’t threaten a killer, Jim,” Seb replied softly.
Gosh. Seb was showing his teeth. “If you forget,” Jim went on, as if Seb hadn’t spoken, “I’ll feed you your own entrails with béchamel sauce.” A headache was developing behind his eyes. “Now – was there something else you wanted?”
“Do you want me to take care of Trevor?”
“God, no! And spoil all the fun? You are such a wet blanket sometimes, Seb.” Jim stretched his leg and nudged the hot water tap into life with his toes. “No, you sit tight, sweetheart. I’m sending someone else in for this.”
Sebastian snorted. “To do what?”
“He’s a little more devious than you, Seb. You’re good, don’t get me wrong, but you have all the subtlety of a cannon shot. What I have in mind is a little more…complex than your customary bullet in the skull.” He looked up, noting that Sebastian was staring at his naked body submerged in hot water.
“Adler,” Sebastian murmured, his lip curling. “That fucktoy.”
Jim lowered his eyes, modestly, as if Seb had delivered a compliment to him. He loved it when Seb got jealous. Loved it. “Now, now.”
“Fine.” Seb got to his feet. “I’ll make a bet with you, though – you’ll need me before all this is over.”
“I’m not taking that bet, honey.” Jim let his gaze travel the length of Sebastian Moran’s hard, spare body, then leant back again, listening to the soft chant still bouncing off handmade Italian tile. “Now get your fucking clothes off.”
*
“Okay. Breathe in for me? Nice deep breath.”
The woman on the examining table sucked in a quick breath and let it go.
John blinked and clamped his lips together so that his sigh issued through his nose. Why couldn’t some people fathom the meaning of the word deep, especially the patients he saw twice a month as a matter of course? “Right, let’s try that again, Mrs. Parker. Big breath, from the bottom of your tummy up to your throat. Like this.” He demonstrated loudly and settled his stethoscope against Mrs. Parker’s back. “Ready? Have at it.” Mrs. Parker tried again, and managed a fair approximation of a deep breath. John leant close and listened. “Well, I’m not hearing any congestion in the lungs – that’s good news. Any pain in the chest?”
“No. Just the tightness.”
“You can button your blouse up.” John unhooked his scope and hung it round his neck. “Do you notice it at any particular time of day, or during any particular activity?”
“When I – why do you ask?” Mrs. Parker’s immaculately made-up face darkened with suspicion.
“Well, sometimes exercise can bring on an asthma attack, or it could be induced by cleaning chemicals in your house, or anxiety – there are all sorts of reasons. I’m trying to narrow the cause a bit.” John smiled in his most placating fashion. Mrs. Parker, as well as being a frequent flier in the surgery, was a bit of a wild and woolly one at times.
“I’m not sick in the head,” Mrs. Parker spat. “I can’t get air. I can’t breathe. That’s not anxiety, Dr. Watson.” She buttoned her blouse with rapid, stabbing motions. “If you don’t think you’re qualified to diagnose me properly, perhaps Dr. Sawyer can see me next time instead.”
Christ, if only. “Mrs. Parker, it’s not my intention to belittle your symptoms, not in the least. I can give you some albuterol, but what I’d really love for you to try is a marvellous little pamphlet I’ve got on reducing anxiety through breathing techniques. It’s worked wonders, without medication –“
“Oh, I see. Breathing techniques. Dr. Watson, I do not pay outrageous taxes to get an appointment only to be told that my only hope of not dying in the street is doing some bloody New Age breathing techniques. Honestly, with the state of things in this country, you’d think that doctors would at least –“
“Albuterol.” John cut her off firmly, pressing a small inhaler into her hand. “No more than four times a day if you can possibly manage it, and ease up if you feel yourself getting a bit shaky or jittery.” He watched her expression alchemize from outrage to melting sweetness and smiled at her again, trying to keep a nasty, cynical smirk from overtaking his face. “Let me know if you run into any trouble with it, all right?”
“Oh. All right. Thank you.”
He watched Mrs. Parker leave, tipping a little wave as she rounded the corner. After she’d disappeared altogether, he let out a sigh – big deep breath – and sank onto the rolling chair. It could have been worse, certainly – it wasn’t as bad as the time she insisted a mosquito bite was the beginning of a full-blown MRSA infection, or the time she was convinced that a trip to Ireland had left her with bovine spongiform encephalopathy, but it wasn’t a bed of roses, either. Yawning, he stripped off his white coat and tucked his scope in a drawer. He looked forward to a quiet night at home – well, as quiet as it ever got – some takeaway, maybe a movie on telly, and an early night. He hoped, at any rate, but one never knew.
There was a tap on the door, and Sarah peered in. “All clear?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. Typhoid Mary’s just gone home.”
“What was it this time?”
“Asthma. Contracted just like that.” John snapped his fingers. “Thing is, I’m sure it’s stress-induced, but she didn’t want to hear it from me. I gave her some albuterol. I’ll bet you a fiver she comes in next week with an empty inhaler and heart palpitations.”
Sarah laughed. “You’re probably right. I can see her from now on if you like.”
“No, I’m used to her.” John pushed himself to his feet. “I’m knackered. Come on, I’ll walk you to the tube.”
“Colder than I thought out here,” Sarah said, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets. “You’ve got that holiday coming up next week. Big plans?”
John shrugged. “Not sure, really. I was thinking about going to Cornwall –“
“With Sherlock?”
“No,” John said, then realised how sharply the denial had emerged from his mouth. He laughed little to take the sting from his words “No – actually, getting away from Sherlock is sort of the point. There’s a girl I’m seeing, name’s Alice. Her parents have a cottage there.”
“Oh! That’s nice.” Sarah’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. “It’s sure to be warmer there now.”
“I suppose so. Anyhow, it’s not set in stone.” He and Sarah hadn’t dated for a few months now, and he didn’t mind telling her about the women he saw – she was dating another bloke as well – but he always felt as if he were fighting some kind of losing battle when he did; Sarah would get a funny sort of look in her eyes, as if she didn’t quite believe him, and more often than not she tended to refer to Sherlock as if he were, well –
“No, I expect it’s not. Nothing is when you live with Sherlock Holmes, right?”
“Sarah –“ John stopped dead, almost colliding with an old lady lugging a cotton sack of fruits and vegetables. “Sorry,” he called, and turned back to Sarah. “Look, Sarah, you know I’m not –“
“I didn’t mean anything by it.” Sarah laid a hand on his arm. “Just that he’s a bit unpredictable. Anyhow, I like him. Sort of.” She gave him a sweet smile and a warm hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for walking me.”
John watched her trot down the staircase. She was still sexy – fantastic legs, great face, pretty hair, luscious breasts. They hadn’t broken apart as much as faded away, and he wasn’t sure why, really. He still found her attractive. She was the one who’d changed – she’d deny it, probably, but it was true. She even looked at him differently – there always seemed to be a light of speculation in her eyes, as if he had some invisible problem and she was trying to sort out what it might be. Drove him barmy sometimes.
He blew out a breath, stuck his hands in his pockets, and went in search of dinner.
*
“Sherlock?” John trudged up the stairs. “You hungry? I got udon –“ He stopped short at the sight of a tall, slim woman peering at one of the bookcases. “Hello.”
“Hello there.” The woman smiled at him. “You must be Dr. Watson. Sherlock said you’d be home soon.”
“Erm, yes. I live here,” John said unnecessarily. He took the woman’s appearance in a single glance. She looked expensive; not flashy-expensive, like a footballer’s wife, but the sort of expensive that meant she bought her clothes in the sort of shops that buzzed you in or made appointments. She wore a suit of chocolate-coloured wool that looked wonderfully soft to the touch, and gleaming shoes with very high heels. Flung across the sofa was a camel coat and a handbag he’d remembered Sarah admiring in a magazine once. Her black hair was pulled back from a high, wide brow into a bun, like a ballet dancer, and she wore red lipstick. She wasn’t pretty, not exactly, but she was striking, definitely attractive; most men would give her a second look, and a third. John moved closer and smiled. She had a nice perfume. “Is Sherlock around?”
“Oh, he’s having a bath. Almost finished, I should think.” The woman bent close to a shelf, examining the book spines. “Well, his reading tastes haven’t changed much.”
John raised a mental set of eyebrows. “You’re a friend of his?” A bath? Surreptitiously, he eyed her clothes; they were perfect, unwrinkled.
“I don’t know if he’d say that about me, but I consider him a friend. God, sorry, I’m being disgracefully rude.” She stretched out a hand. “Victoria Trevor. How do you do?”
“John Watson. I’m…great, thanks.” He beamed at her. The evening had just got a bit more interesting. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine, thanks.” She looked at the bag in his hand. “I’m interrupting your dinner.”
“Will you stay? There’s plenty for three.”
“Thank you, no. I have an engagement this evening.” She moved to the sofa on racehorse legs and sat, crossing her ankles. “Please, I feel terrible. You must have had a long day. Do eat, Doctor.”
“It’s fine.” John set the bag on the kitchen table, nudging aside a pile of books and a decapitated turkey’s head on a china plate. “I’m sure Sherlock will be out in just a bit.” He looked down at the turkey’s head. It stared sadly up at him with one dull, pebble-coloured eye. “You sure you won’t have tea?”
“Well…all right. Twist my arm.” She smiled at him. “He’s never mentioned me, has he?”
For no reason that he could determine, the casually intimate question set his teeth on edge. What are you on about, then? If Sherlock had one relationship that he didn’t manage to completely destroy, you should be glad. He shrugged apologetically and took another surreptitious look at her. Tall, thin, elegant, sort of unusual looking – probably just Sherlock’s type, if he had a type – and there was a narcissistic streak in him, to be sure. “No, but I don’t hear a lot about Sherlock’s past. I don’t get to meet many of his old…friends.”
“And why should you?” Sherlock strode into the kitchen in his deep-crimson dressing gown, his hair wet. “Why on earth should I keep in touch with a pack of idiots just to parade them in front of my flatmate? I haven’t met many of your old friends, either. Oh, did you get udon?” He fished a container from the white paper sack and flung himself into his chair, not glancing at Ms. Trevor. He opened the carton, plunged chopsticks in, and began to eat.
“You certainly don’t keep in touch with me,” Ms. Trevor said.
“What for?”
Ms. Trevor smiled. “It’s the question that answers itself, I suppose. How was your bath?” Was there an edge of flirtation in her voice?
“Not hot enough,” Sherlock muttered through a mouthful of noodles.
John handed the woman a cup of tea. “There you are.”
“Oh, thank you.” She beamed at him, and he couldn’t help smiling back.
John wasn’t ordinarily attracted to women in the severe mode, but she seemed genuinely friendly, and didn’t take offense at Sherlock’s rudeness, which was extraordinary. He found himself curious about their shared past. “So…were you two at school together, Ms. Trevor? Or did you –“
“Infant school,” Ms. Trevor replied. “And please do call me Victoria.”
“If you’ll call me John.” He sneaked a glance at her legs.
“I’d love that, John.”
“She’d love it,” Sherlock snorted. “John, if you must know, we were at infant school together, and then at Cambridge. For a while. And then Trevor sold her soul.”
“I got married,” Victoria said.
“I fail to see the difference.”
John sat in his chair. “Well, that’s interesting. Did you two…erm, date?”
Victoria laughed. “If you call dashing round to morgues and crime scenes and police headquarters and digging through rubbish skips on week-ends, then yes, I suppose we did, after a fashion. It was more interesting than studying.”
John looked at Sherlock for some sign that he’d once been intimate with this compelling and rather sexy woman sitting across from him on the sofa and saw no change in Sherlock’s usual demeanour. In fact, he looked more bored than usual as he picked through the udon to find the most succulent pieces of meat.
“Ancient history,” Sherlock said.
“And in my third year I fell in love and left school.”
“Stupid,” Sherlock said.
Victoria crossed her arms. “Me, or Horst?”
“Both of you.”
“He was lovely – he still is lovely – and your treatment of him was absolutely beastly, Sherlock. You really don’t deserve to be forgiven for that.”
“Who says I want to be?” Sherlock set his carton of udon on the floor and stretched his legs out. “You could have been something, Trevor, and you chucked it all for some bloody schloss in the middle of nowhere and some inane job looking after charlatans’ finger bones.”
“Sorry, you…?” John shook his head, puzzled.
Victoria let out a long, slow breath and gave John a tight-lipped smile. “I’m attached to Cologne Cathedral, John. It’s a World Heritage site, and incredibly beautiful –“
Sherlock snorted loudly.
“And I suppose you could call me a docent, although that doesn’t quite cover it. It’s fascinating work, and –“ She broke off and gave Sherlock a cold stare. “Are you at all curious about why I’m here?”
“I was wondering when you’d get to it,” Sherlock replied. He picked up the udon again and stirred it idly.
She bit her lip and looked as if she were about to say something very acerbic, then crossed one leg over the other and leant forward. “You remember my brother Simon?”
Sherlock sighed. “Yes.”
Victoria turned to John. “My brother is the spiritual director at a Dominican monastery – San Stefano, in the Italian Alps. It’s a wonderful place – self-sustaining, gorgeous location, and a small but rich library. There are a number of codices, hand-crafted books –“ Graceful fingers shaped the dimensions of a book, “that date from the Dark Ages onward. They’re nearly priceless, worth millions of pounds. Scholars from all over the world come to examine them, and the contents of the library in general. A week ago, one of the codices was stolen.” She looked at Sherlock. “I want you to find it and restore it to the monastery.”
Sherlock yawned. “No.”
“There’s more.” She glanced at John. “Three monks are dead. Not obviously murder in any case, but all three deaths occurred within two weeks. The police are baffled, Sherlock, and I’m afraid Simon’s reputation is in danger.” She paused. “If not his life.”
“Probably an inside job, Trevor,” Sherlock said with a sniff. “One of the monks got greedy and decided to make a killing, pun very much intended. You’ve got connections – dig about for a medieval codex sold at private auction. Then call your brother and find out if one of the monks has done a bolt recently, and you’ll find your thief.”
“Do you really think I’m that stupid?” Victoria snapped. She set down her teacup, gathered her coat and bag, and got to her feet. “I have feelers everywhere I can put them. The last death was this morning, Sherlock. Would the killer bother to hang about? It’s not coincidence, it’s – look, just think about it, all right? And for once in your life, will you – “ She broke off, her face pink, and moved close to Sherlock’s chair, sinking to her knees and putting her hand atop Sherlock’s.
John watched, scanning Sherlock’s closed face and then watching the woman’s hand as it tightened on Sherlock’s fingers. His stomach clenched.
Hungry.
“Please, Sherlock.” Victoria’s voice was low and caressing. “Please.” She got to her feet and addressed him in a more businesslike tone. “If you want to find me, I’m at the Dorchester, and will be there until Sunday morning. If you do decide to take the case, your expenses will be paid, naturally, and there will be a generous bonus at the end if you manage to solve it.”
Sherlock gave her a brief, chill glance. “Don’t insult me.”
“Think about it,” she repeated, and nodded to John. “Dr. Watson, it was lovely to meet you. Good night.” She hurried from the room, leaving a faint wake of pretty scent.
John stared at Sherlock. “She’s the only person I’ve ever seen who – aren’t you even going to –“ He shook his head, jumped up, and ran down the stairs. “Ms. Trevor!” he called.
She turned in the act of getting into a black car. “I didn’t leave something, did I?”
“No….” John paused for breath. “It’s just that I – I’m sorry. He’s been a bit…not himself just lately.”
Victoria Trevor smiled. “I have a difficult time believing Sherlock is anything but himself. I’ve known him too long to think otherwise.” She shifted her bag to her other hand. “Do you think he’ll take the case?”
“Well, it’s…hard to say.” John suddenly wondered why he’d chased after her. She was nice enough, sexy in her way, and evidently she and Sherlock shared a History of some sort. Was that why he’d run? “I’ll certainly speak to him about it.”
She tilted her head to one side, as if to get a better look at him. “How long have you lived with him, Dr. Watson?”
They were back to Ms. Trevor and Dr. Watson now, apparently. “Almost a year.”
“And do you often go on cases with him?”
“Yes. It’s….” Fun? A hobby? Avocation? Beats a kick in the teeth? “It’s interesting to watch him work. And to help him, where I can.”
“Yes, it is. He’s fascinating. Always has been.” She dove into her bag and came up with a bright red leather case. Opening it, she withdrew a picture and handed it to him. “Have a look at that.”
John moved closer to the streetlight and peered at the photo. Startled, he let out a chuckle. “God, look at that!” The picture showed a teen-aged Sherlock, sullen and a bit awkward in formal evening dress, linking arms with a scrawny, homely, buck-toothed girl in a white dress that looked like a wedding cake. “When was this?”
“Oh – nearly twenty years ago now. That was my deb party.”
“I –“ John gaped. “That’s…” That’s you? he’d been about to say, but swallowed the unkind remark back. “That’s quite a pretty dress.”
Victoria smiled. “Oh, I know. I was a horror. I begged and begged my parents not to have the party. I was never one of those girls who managed to swan through their adolescence with grace. Being ugly makes one persona non grata at that age, you know – or maybe you don’t, you’re quite handsome. I’d go to dancing classes and even the least social and attractive boys would wince if they were partnered with me.” She held her hand out for the photo and looked at it. “So there I was, the night of my deb party, all alone. Can you imagine – the star of the show, and nobody talked to me. And I’d never looked so disgusting, me in that gigantic meringue. But then Sherlock – he was at Harrow then, and he was lovely, but not popular – all the Hoorays in training teased him pretty relentlessly – at any rate, he walked up to me, and do you know what he said?”
“Well, if it were anyone but Sherlock….” John trailed off uncertainly.
“Quite right. What he said was, ‘“Well, if we’re both going to be mocked, we might as well present a united front.’” She laughed.
John grinned. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”
“He saved me that night. I know it sounds stupid and trivial, but childhood hurts seem to sting the worst – and last longest of all hurts.” She slipped the photo back into its case. “He was tactless, but he was kind, in his way. I never forgot that, and I never will. I like to think I’ve done him the odd favour or two as well, and I’d hoped….” She shrugged, looked up at the windows of 221b, and smiled. “He was watching. You’ve lived with him a year?”
“That’s right.”
“An extraordinary amount of time, for Sherlock. But you must know that.”
“Yeah, I suppose I do at that,” John said, and felt a little glow, as if she’d paid him the most extravagant of compliments. He smiled at her, and saw the same speculative look Sarah often gave him. “Not to say he’s not a pain in the arse at times. Well, all the time.”
Victoria bit her lower lip. “Yes. I imagine that the rent on this place must be quite steep. He says he never does things for money, but one can always use money, and if his trust were more generous, he wouldn’t need a flatmate.” She put her hand on his arm. “If you two manage to solve the case, I’ll pay your rent for a year. No – please don’t say anything. As I said, you know where to find me. Good night, Dr. Watson.” She slipped into the car, and it pulled away silently into the indigo-coloured evening.
John watched until the car’s taillights blurred into the cityscape, then climbed the stairs back to the flat. Sherlock was slumped in his chair, contemplating his toes and looking as if he were about to perish from ennui. His hair had separated into dozens of shining curls, and his dressing gown was rucked up around his knees, as if he’d sat hastily. John hid a smile. “Well. She was quite nice, wasn’t she?”
Sherlock said nothing.
“She seemed quite concerned for her brother,” John ventured.
“She ought to be. It’s rather a miracle he’s lived as long as he has – he’s unbelievably stupid.”
John retrieved the takeaway bag from the table and slid into the chair opposite Sherlock. “I have that holiday coming up next week. A whole fortnight.”
Sherlock’s gaze settled on John for an instant, wide-eyed and – dare John think it – hopeful, or vaguely confused; John could never quite tell. His fawn-in-lorry-headlights gaze. “You’d go?”
“Will you?”
Sherlock sniffed and wriggled his toes. “I suppose I could have a look about.”
“Then I’ll go too.”
One corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned upward, and John felt that odd little glow again, creeping from his belly up into his neck and cheeks. He peered into his container of udon. “Cold,” he mumbled, and this time didn’t trouble to hide his smile.
*
To be continued!
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Date: 2012-09-04 05:17 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2012-09-05 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-05 12:11 pm (UTC)Looks like it is going to be all plotty and lovely! I look forward to the ride!
*camps out to wait for next part*
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Date: 2012-09-05 03:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-06 12:44 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2012-09-08 09:43 am (UTC)Great and intriguing beginning! Can't wait to read more!
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Date: 2012-09-08 10:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-08 11:00 am (UTC)Lovely start! I also love your John. And your "Victor."
And also, I am suddenly craving udon terribly. At four in the morning.
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Date: 2012-09-08 10:03 pm (UTC)