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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.
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.
This fic is a gift for sithdragn, with affection.
Can also be read on AO3
*
He hadn’t given it a great deal of thought, but if he’d been asked, John would have said yes, he considered himself socially adept in most situations. He’d always had lots of friends in school and uni, being a GP meant that you more or less had to get on with most sorts of people, and his stint in the military had given him a liberal helping of international diplomacy. He wasn’t some wet-behind-the-ears intern any longer. There were some situations that just warranted a little awkwardness, though, and one of them was standing eye to…whatever…with some strange bloke’s twig and berries.
And the worst bit was that the bloke wasn’t moving – no, he was just standing there smiling benignly at Sherlock as if he were bloody Venus on the half shell, as if he expected a choir of angels to descend from the heavens and hand him a towel spun out of moonbeams or something. It just wasn’t on. So John did the only thing possible under the circumstances: he turned round and examined the weathered flagstones of the courtyard.
They looked really old.
“That’s right,” Sherlock said.
John heard an odd, unfamiliar twist in Sherlock’s voice and stole a glance at him. A frown laddered Sherlock’s brow and his posture was a bit more rigid than usual. He couldn’t be upset by the man’s casual nudity, surely. Sherlock wasn’t flustered by that sort of thing. Most people, clothed or unclothed, fit into one of two categories – useful or not, and he’d seen plenty of people – okay, most of them had been corpses – naked. So had John, to be fair – it was a bit different when it was a live human being just standing there as if nothing was amiss.
“I confess I’d hoped to meet you when I heard you were coming,” the young man said. “And I must say, your newspaper photographs don’t do you justice.”
John spun on his heel and peered curiously at the man. Was that…flirtation? He’d seen a few people try to flirt with Sherlock, only to be met with a stony wall of indifference. He stole another look at Sherlock, who was still frowning, and who didn’t appear to be melting beneath the warmth of the compliment.
A funny little tug of irritation and confusion pulled at John’s insides. Christ, was he pleased by Sherlock’s demeanour? Well, maybe, just a little. It was oddly refreshing to have a flatmate who wasn’t a self-described horny bastard, who didn’t bring people home at odd hours and stumble into the kitchen with the latest in a long line of lovers in tow at eight in the morning, wanting a fry-up and half of John’s coffee. Sherlock preferred bouts of frantic crime-solving activity interspersed with periods of intense silence and a dash of violin abuse, and body parts in the fridge instead of bacon. After a year, John really couldn’t imagine living with anyone else, and the introduction of sexual interest in Sherlock’s life would have been more than a little odd. So maybe it was just relief at preserving the status quo.
Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. “Do you have some particular connection to the case, Brother….”
The young man laughed, showing a great many perfect teeth. “Oh, I’m not a member of the community.” He stepped over the lip of the tub and descended to the courtyard, apparently undisturbed by the chilly weather. He stretched out a hand. “Adler. Ian Adler.”
“Mr. Adler.” Sherlock shook Adler’s hand. “You would be the Latin scholar, then.”
“Yes.” Adler beamed. “How did you work that out?”
“Simple enough. The other guest is an itinerant monastery traveller, and he wouldn’t have had time, nor probably the inclination or vanity for a haircut and conditioning treatment four, possibly five days ago. Particularly not using products from….” Sherlock leaned a little closer to the man. “Molton Brown, generally not available in monasteries, I should think.”
If Adler’s smile got any wider, John thought a bit sourly, the top of his head would unhinge and fall off. “That’s absolutely correct, Mr. Holmes.” Adler leant back against the stone tub. Christ, was he totally unaware that he was stark-bollocks-naked? “But that was simple, wasn’t it, especially for someone like you? What else can you discern about me, just by looking?”
John stiffened. Now if that wasn’t a bloody come-on – not that it mattered, because obviously Sherlock wasn’t interested. He looked at Sherlock again and saw him studying Adler – not with the critical detachment that characterised most of his interactions with people, but with keen intent and, John thought, though he couldn’t have absolutely sworn to it, a bit of confusion.
What the fuck? Christ, Sherlock, you’ve never seen a naked man before?
Any further detection on Sherlock’s part was interrupted by Brother Wilfred, who took a step forward. “Mr. Adler, have you left your dressing gown inside the balneary?”
Adler’s eyes flicked toward Brother Wilfred, and then back to Sherlock. “You’re absolutely right, Brother Wilfred. Terribly immodest of me. Forgive my dishabille, Mr. Holmes.” He pushed himself away from the tub and seemed to notice John for the first time. “And this must be Dr. John Watson. I’ve read some amazing things about you in the papers.”
This time the brilliance of his smile was directed at John, and John would have been a liar if he’d said it wasn’t at least a bit flattering. John wasn’t about to fall over himself, though. “That’s me,” he replied coolly. He glanced at Sherlock, who was still staring at Adler, and wondered what was going on in that complicated and infuriating brain. “Sherlock, we should get a move on, yeah? Father Simon said dinner was at six, and even if you don’t eat, he’s going to introduce you.”
Sherlock wrenched his gaze from Adler and focused on John. His eyes lost some of their ferocious concentration. “Yes. All right.” He turned to Brother Wilfred. “Sorry, Brother Wilfred. Lead on, if you please.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing more of you,” Adler said to Sherlock. His regard took in John for a moment. “Of both of you. And if you need anything translated, Mr. Holmes, don’t hesitate to let me know. I know a little Greek as well.” He smiled again. “See you at dinner.” He lifted a hand in farewell and sauntered toward the balneary. John looked at his retreating figure. He was a handsome bloke all right; slender, but lightly muscled in all the right places, and a round, firm arse, like a statue come to life.
“John.”
“Huh?” John turned a bit clumsily on his heel.
“Stop gaping and come along.”
“Me?” John spluttered indignantly, but Sherlock was already out of earshot, following Brother Wilhelm through the door on the other side of the courtyard. “I’m not the one who was staring like an idiot thirty seconds ago….” He sighed and broke into a trot.
A little Greek?
“John!”
“Yeah, coming! Give me a minute, for God’s sake.” He was beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t have gone to Cornwall after all.
He reached the other side of the balneary and stepped inside. Its proportions seemed identical to the first room, but because it faced east, it was considerably darker. The tubs in this room were much larger, easily accommodating a man, and stood in rows on either side, each separated by a heavy curtain. Sherlock was at the far end of the long chamber, in front of a sizeable fireplace. “You said this building hadn’t been modernised, Brother Wilfred? Therefore no electricity?”
“That is correct.” The monk stood by the door, his hands folded within the sleeves of his habit.
“Torch, John.”
John dove in the pocket of his jacket, came up with a small, high-powered torch, and tossed it to Sherlock, who caught it one-handed and switched it on immediately. “Which tub was it?”
“The one closest to you – there.” The monk pointed.
John drew closer as Sherlock swung the torch over the tub. “Better to examine everything more closely in the morning, but it won’t hurt to have a look now,” Sherlock murmured. “What happened to the stone that was tied to Brother Adelmo’s neck?” he demanded.
“It’s in the infirmary,” Brother Wilfred explained. “Brother Adelmo was carried there once discovered.”
“Good, I’ll want to see it.” Sherlock swung the torch back to the fireplace. He scowled and moved closer to it. “He died last Thursday – or last Wednesday night. I assume there was a great deal of activity that night, judging by the sheer variety of footprints here.”
“Yes. Several of the brothers assisted in getting him to the infirmary.”
Sherlock moved the flashlight to the floor. “And nobody’s used this section of the balneary since?”
“No.”
“But someone built a fire here more recently, and extinguished it quickly as well. Look, the wood’s hardly burnt at all, and it’s sitting atop a large pile of ash.” Sherlock touched a small section of log with the tip of one gloved finger. “Whoever found the body discovered it in the morning. And whoever killed him either followed him here with the express purpose of murder, or sat here waiting for him.”
“How do you know?” John asked.
“There’s very little untidiness here, John. The drive as we came in was free of snow and ice, the earth around the trees and plants has been tilled recently, the car that brought us here was in tip-top shape despite its age, and the interior of the first balneary was as clean as a whistle. So either Brother Adelmo came here alone to have a bath and lit the fire himself, to heat the water and warm the room, or the murderer lit the fire to keep warm against the chilly weather and the stone walls while he waited. Was it his habit to bathe at night, Brother Wilfred?”
“Yes,” the young monk said. “He bathed nightly. Most of the brothers do not – as you see, it’s a great deal of trouble to heat the fire and water to get a decent bath so most of the brothers use the showers, but Brother Adelmo considered it a spiritual exercise. And as you correctly observed, Mr. Holmes, the balneary is usually very clean. Brother Adelmo cleaned it himself, as he was one of the few who used the tubs. Mr. Holmes, the Angelus bell is about to ring, and I have duties. Will you please make your way to the refectory in a moment? It is the long building on the top of the eastern walk. I will be happy to bring you both here tomorrow morning.”
“Yes. Thank you,” Sherlock murmured, and as Brother Wilfred left, returned his attention to the fireplace. “The murderer likely knew he’d be here, then. Had he been brought here by force, there’d be no need for a fire. And the screen’s been moved aside.” He pointed to the wall where a large ornamental screen leaned against the white stone. “Look, soot marks where it’s been dragged. And the pot, there….”
“He heated his bath water,” John said. “But…wouldn’t he have dragged it over before he’d built the fire? That screen’s made of metal; he’d have burned his hands otherwise. If there are soot marks, then that means the fire had already produced ash and had been burning awhile.”
“The murderer tried to make it look like a suicide,” Sherlock mused. “And maybe counted on a religious community not wanting an autopsy. Mistakes everywhere.” He grinned suddenly.
“Any ideas?” John asked.
“Well, whoever killed him knew his habits and the habits of the rest of the community well enough to know that the deed could be committed with relative ease and away from prying eyes, which doesn’t bode well for someone here.” Sherlock sounded inordinately pleased.
“The case of the murderous monk,” a voice said.
John turned and squinted in the waning light at Ian Adler leaning negligently against the door frame, dressed – thank God – in dark jeans, a dark, thin pullover, and a close-fitting black motorbike jacket. “Sorry?”
“I read your blog, Dr. Watson. You have such clever and inventive titles for all your cases. I just took a leaf from your notebook, that’s all.” Adler straightened and walked into the room. He paused beside John and looked down at him for a moment with a peculiar smile on his face, then moved toward Sherlock with lazy, sinuous grace.
Annoyed, John cleared his throat. “Look, Mr. Adler, I’m sorry to be abrupt, but we’re trying to carry on an investigation, and –“
“Oh, I won’t get in the way,” Adler said. “I just wanted to see Mr. Holmes at work. Just for a moment.” He stopped in front of Sherlock. “You don’t mind, do you, Mr. Holmes?”
John watched Sherlock staring at Ian Adler. He folded his arms and sighed. Sherlock, resist showing off for complete strangers? Couldn’t be done.
“I don’t know that Father Trevor would approve of you being here,” Sherlock replied.
“I can be discreet if you can,” Adler said. “Anyhow, I expect the entire community will know that a murder has taken place in a day or so.”
“Oh, I think that’s inevitable,” Sherlock said. There was an odd catch in his voice, and he was staring at Adler as if he were the most fascinating thing on God’s green earth.
“Maybe we’d better head to dinner,” John said. “It’s almost six.”
“Yes, perhaps we had.” Sherlock blinked and turned to John. “I want to talk to the coroner as soon as we can. Let’s ask Brother Edward for a ride into town tomorrow.” He turned back to the fireplace and crouched down. “John – get your phone out. I need a photo.”
“Right.” John brushed by Adler and went to the fireplace. He leant down and stared at the cold, dead ash that stubbornly withheld its secrets from everyone but Sherlock. “What do you see?”
Wordlessly, Sherlock reached out and, without actually disturbing the ash, traced a fingertip around the impression of a very large foot. “That.” He moved his hand slowly across the breadth of the fireplace. “And that.” He pointed at another impression. “Wide stance. Deeper than the others. Stood here a while.”
John took some photos. “Warming up?”
Sherlock shook his head. “Look. The feet aren’t *quite* as wide as they appear. Whoever it was had a shaky grip on his balance – the pattern of the sole created a small sweep of movement in either direction.”
“Maybe it was Brother Adelmo. Maybe he was lifting the kettle.” John nodded toward a large aluminum pot in the corner of the room. “It would be heavy, with a lot of water in it.”
“I wonder,” Sherlock said. “The tread indicates some rather stout boots, and thus far I’ve only seen Brother Edward wearing boots, and his feet aren’t quite this big. Brother Wilfred wore Birkenstocks, and the monk Brother Edward spoke to earlier wore leather walking shoes. Even if Brother Adelmo’s feet were this large, why would a librarian wear heavy boots?” He gave John a pointed look.
“Then perhaps that’s the tread of the man who did him in,” Adler said.
John twisted to stare at Adler, who was standing close behind Sherlock, gazing down at the ash in the fireplace.
“Possibly,” Sherlock said.
“If he couldn’t keep his balance, maybe it was because he was holding something heavy,” Adler went on. “A body.”
Sherlock looked up at him. “Possibly,” he said again, and then glanced at his watch. “It’s two minutes until six. We’d better get to the refectory.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I walk with you,” Adler said.
Sherlock got to his feet. “You’ll have to run. Come on.” Without another word, he strode across the room and out the door, leaving John and Ian Adler gaping after him.
Adler gave John a wide smile. “Well, I guess we’d better follow,” he said, and broke into a trot.
“Right,” John muttered, and stuck his phone into his pocket.
*
They made it to the refectory with seconds to spare, bursting into the hall as the monks were clustering round long tables fitted together in a U-shaped formation. Father Simon’s eyebrows climbed nearly into his high hairline, but he said nothing, merely indicating where Sherlock and John should sit with a backward gesture of his hand. Adler had already slipped into an empty place between a monk and an older man in a thick grey woollen jumper.
The dining hall was spacious, with plaster walls, arched ceilings and windows, a huge fireplace at one end, and a sort of pulpit-cum-table at the other. It had clearly been built to accommodate a much larger number of diners, for the tables in the centre of the room seemed curiously dwarfed, though each was about three metres long. The sound of a bell filtered into the room through an open window, and en masse, the monks bowed their heads and folded their hands.
“Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariae,” Father Simon intoned.
“Et concepit de Spiritu Sancto,” the monks responded, and then the congregation spoke as one. “Ave Maria, gratia plena; Dominus tecum: benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”
The prayer went on for a good bit, and John did his best to listen carefully though his Latin was limited to medical terminology. In the end, he didn’t really know what they were saying. It was pleasant and soothing to listen to, though, and he thought he saw the appeal of living in a routine of deliberate calm and thoughtfulness – not that he could have done it himself. His belief in God was a little amorphous at best, and the thought of lifelong celibacy made him blanch.
He peeked at Sherlock; true to form, Sherlock’s head wasn’t bowed. Instead, he was inspecting the rows of monks – about fifty in all, John guessed quickly. Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed as he appraised each black-and-white clad figure and moved on to the next.
There was no point in elbowing Sherlock to urge him into being a bit more respectful – that would probably result in Sherlock indulging in some dramatic dumbshow, or at least an elbow fight. Instead, John found himself looking at Ian Adler, whose head was bowed, whose hands were folded, and who was moving his lips along with the monks. Well, of course. He knows Latin.
At that moment, Adler glanced up and saw John staring at him. He smiled and dropped John a wink.
Oh, Jesus. Blushing, John stared down at his clasped hands. Cheeky sod.
The prayer ended, and the monks took their seats except for a few who filtered out of the hall. “Not a foot in the bunch as big as the imprints we saw,” Sherlock murmured to John, shrugging out of his coat.
“They’ve all got long robes on. How on earth did you –“ John went silent. “Ah. Right. Hand and foot size correlation.”
“The very thing.” Sherlock nodded approvingly.
John smiled and folded his napkin onto his lap, then turned to greet Brother Edward, who was sitting beside him. “Nice to see you again.”
Brother Edward inclined his head in a friendly fashion. “The guests don’t change much at these dinner parties, but I think you’ll find the brothers interesting – and interested, I reckon.”
“I hope so. I know we’ll need to talk to some of them at least.”
There was a brief conversational lull, in which Father Simon rose to his feet. “Brothers, we are privileged to have in our midst Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.” He indicated Sherlock and John with another languid wave of his hand. “They come to us from London and will be investigating the disappearance of the codex.” He coughed and his complexion turned slightly pink. “They will also be investigating the deaths of our dear departed brothers Matthias and Adelmo, as there may…ah, may be some connection between their deaths and the theft of the codex.”
An excited buzzing broke out among the monks. John scanned their faces rapidly, but saw nothing that would have indicated fear or guilt. In fact, it seemed as though few of the monks were truly surprised. He saw, though, that one young monk sitting at the end of the opposite table covered his face with his hands briefly, and when he took his hands away, his eyes were wet.
“Particular friend?” Sherlock murmured.
“We can talk to him.”
“Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson have been given licence to examine most of the abbey,” Simon went on. “Those of you who are given charge over areas forbidden to them will be duly notified.”
John and Sherlock exchanged a glance, and John saw Sherlock’s eyes light up. If there was one thing guaranteed to pique Sherlock’s curiosity, it was a locked door. Forbidden, my arse, John thought with a stifled grin.
“Our lay guests, Mr. Adler and Mr. Figueroa, are exempt from questioning as they know little of these events and in any case arrived only a few days ago. To the rest of my brothers, I entreat you to answer their questions candidly so that justice may be done in the sight of God. Let us pray.”
The monks bowed their heads again. John looked around, puzzled. Hadn’t they just prayed? It was only a short grace, though, and John sniffed in anticipation as the monks who’d left the table earlier returned bearing wheeled carts of food. He turned to Brother Edward. “I don’t know the protocol….”
“They’ll serve us,” Brother Edward said. “We all get our turn at it, even Father Simon.”
John was given two slices of bread and butter, a wedge of cheese, and a hearty vegetable stew that smelled absolutely glorious. He dove in happily, slowing down deliberately so he wouldn’t bolt his food. Beside him, Sherlock was stirring his stew and regarding it with suspicion. “It’s delicious, Sherlock. And probably really good for you.”
Sherlock snorted and took a tentative spoonful. His face screwed itself up into a grimace.
“It’s mostly hothouse stuff right now, but those are our own veggies and herbs,” Brother Edward said, dunking his bread in the stew. “We buy the cheese and butter from local farmers, but the bread’s ours as well. You should taste the fresh tomatoes and summer peas.”
“It’s amazing,” John said. “Best I’ve ever tasted.” He took an enthusiastic chomp of bread and butter. The bread was still warm from the oven and he tried not to moan with pleasure at its taste and texture. “God. Sorry.”
Brother Edward smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment. So how does a doctor become a private investigator?”
“I sort of fell into it,” John admitted. “I’m still a GP, but I help Sherlock where and when I can. We’re flatmates.”
“Interesting fellow, Mr. Holmes. Bet you’ve seen some mad stuff with him.”
“Life’s never dull,” John said.
“You’d probably go barmy here. The missing codex is probably the most fascinating thing that’s happened here in a hundred years – until the deaths, of course.”
“I have to say nobody seemed really shocked,” John remarked.
“We live simply, but we’re not fools, Dr. Watson,” Brother Edward replied.
“Sorry,” John said. “I didn’t mean –“
“It’s nowt,” Brother Edward said. “It’s only that I think Father Simon was the only one who didn’t believe that something funny was up with Brother Matthias’ death. Took Brother Adelmo’s suicide to convince him.”
Wasn’t a suicide, John thought, but refrained from speaking the thought aloud. “Is this a huge imposition on you?” he asked instead. “I don’t know much about monasteries. Are we breaking a vow of silence or anything?”
Brother Edward laughed. “That’s a pretty common misperception. No, we’re not. Some communities are quieter than others, but we’re not forbidden to speak to one another. We are cautioned against idle talk, but even that’s relaxed. There are times specified for silent contemplation, though, and every one of us participates in that. My brother gardeners and I often work in silence. Suits me. We’re not chatterboxes, as a rule.”
John glanced at Sherlock, who’d eaten his bread and butter and cheese but left the stew mostly untouched. John suddenly pictured Sherlock as a kid, one of the fussy ones who only liked sticky toffee pudding and ice cream and who refused to eat his vegetables on a nightly basis. Sherlock was deep in conversation with the monk on his right, and the monk was talking to him happily. John bit his lip. Sherlock could be quite charming, when he chose to be. It was just that he didn’t usually choose to be.
“There should be a pamphlet in your room,” Brother Edward went on. “It’s got the abbey map on it as well as the rules and rubrics of conduct. I expect a lot of that will be waived in your case, though, since you’re investigating. Oh, and speaking of rubrics, you’ll probably want to have a lie-in tomorrow, unless you want to go to Brother Adelmo’s funeral mass. It’s at eight a.m. and the entire community will be there, so you won’t be able to ask questions until afterward.”
“Ah,” John said. “I didn’t realise.”
“No reason you should. They just brought his body back from the coroner’s yesterday.” Brother Edward shook his head. “Poor lad.”
An idea began to coalesce in John’s head. After supper and a short post-meal prayer, John drew Sherlock aside as the monks were filing out for vespers. “Brother Adelmo’s funeral is tomorrow,” he whispered.
“Yes, and there’s nobody in the infirmary at present,” Sherlock said. “Except for the unfortunate monk’s corpse.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“I was sitting next to the monk in charge of the infirmary. He’s a doctor, and while I’d ordinarily say you two should have a lot to talk about, you won’t. I found him extraordinarily obstructive.”
John couldn’t keep the smile from his face. “One of those areas forbidden to us, is it?”
Sherlock gave John a rather naughty answering smile and turned away. “You’re learning, John.”
There was a funny little glow in John’s chest, but he didn’t poke too deeply at the embers of feeling buried within. Sherlock was sparing with his praise; it was nice to be acknowledged sometimes, that was all.
Really sort of nice.
*
The sound of plainsong came faint and ghostly from the dimly lit church. John looked over his shoulder. “I feel like we’re committing a sin.”
“The only sin is the lock on this door,” Sherlock grunted, working his picklock back and forth. “You’d think they’d keep it up a bit better.”
“Maybe they only lock the infirmary when there are corpses inside.”
“Ha – maybe so. Oh, there it goes.” Sherlock stood and turned the iron knob. “Come on.” He led the way into the infirmary, letting John close the door, and swung his torch round the room. It was kitted out in fairly standard order: curtain-separated beds marched along one wall, some low cabinets along another, and John saw some modern medical equipment – an IV pole, a blood-pressure cuff, a medical scale.
“Presumably there’s a place set aside for corpses,” Sherlock said.
“Further back,” John said. He moved across the room and into the next, which was fitted with more examination equipment. There was a single low door set in the wall, and John turned the handle and stepped inside.
“Yeah. Here.” It was cold, and a mortuary refrigerator squatted against the wall. “Close the door, Sherlock. There aren’t windows in here for anyone to see us.”
Sherlock closed the door and flipped a light switch. Two bright banks of fluorescent light came to blinding life with their accompanying irritating hum. He strode to the topmost compartment and opened it. “Ah, there we are.” Nodding in satisfaction, he grasped the little handle on the slab and rolled it out.
“Oh, Christ – he’s just a kid,” John said softly. He sighed at the discoloured face. “Can’t be more than twenty-three, twenty-four.”
“His age is irrelevant,” Sherlock said. “Tell me about how he died.”
John gave Sherlock a brief glance of disapproval, but Sherlock had whipped out his glass and was gazing at the corpse. “Right.” He slid on a pair of latex gloves, bent close and examined the marks on the young monk’s neck. “Definite ligature marks in accordance with what Father Simon said, but….” Gently, he felt the throat and moved his fingers up and down.
“But?”
“Broken neck for sure. But…no evident compression of the laryngopharynx, larynx, or trachea. I wouldn’t be able to tell if the carotid artery or jugular veins had been compressed without cutting him open, and the coroner evidently didn’t feel he needed to do that.” John nodded toward the Y-shaped incision in the young man’s chest.
Sherlock was examining the fingernails of one pale hand. “So he wasn’t drowned and he wasn’t strangled. Could the rock have been heavy enough to snap his neck, if he was tied to it?”
“Any ligature marks on the wrist?” John asked, bending close to the young man’s face.
“None.”
John tried to imagine what it would be like to have his neck suddenly snapped in two. The strength it would have taken, or the weight of a very heavy rock –
“He fought his attacker,” Sherlock said.
John looked up. “Poor kid.” He resumed his examination of the face. There was something odd –
“Skin and blood under the fingernails.” Sherlock moved down and examined the knees and feet. “Bruised knuckles. And two – no, three broken toes. He kicked and struggled. No lividity on the knees, however.”
“Sherlock.”
“Much taller than Adelmo here. He can’t be more than five-eight at most, and if those footprints were an attacker’s, then he was considerably taller. Kept him upright.”
“Sherlock.”
“If it was the weight of the rock that snapped his neck, how did the killer manage to tie it while he was still conscious – no, can’t be. Had to be a quick break. Imagine that sort of strength –“
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock looked up. “What?”
An awful foreboding sensation prickled at John’s spine. “Looks familiar, don’t you think?”
A frown creased Sherlock’s brow. “What do you mean?”
“Look. Hard to see because of the discolouring in the face, but –“ Carefully, he turned the face to one side and pointed out the large finger-shaped marks on the skin. “There, and there. I mean…it could be a coincidence, but….”
Sherlock slipped his glass into his pocket. His mouth moved soundlessly, but John knew exactly what word his lips had shaped.
Golem.
“Shit,” John whispered.
*
They sat quietly in John’s room. It was spare, but comfortable enough, with a bed, a dresser, a night table, and a little desk in the corner. There was also a little electric heater, and a kneeler that Sherlock had called a prie-dieu upon which John had draped his jacket. Sherlock sat cross-legged atop the desk, idly paging through the monastery brochure, and John lay back on the bed, his shoes off, his arms crossed behind his head, his eyelids drooping. It was nearly midnight, and he was knackered.
“Could be someone else,” he ventured. “Might just be a coincidence.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Sherlock said, not lifting his eyes from the brochure.
“If it is Dzundza, he gets around.”
“He’s an assassin for hire. That’s what assassins for hire do.”
“Yeah, I know.” John yawned. The initial scare he’d experienced had dwindled quickly enough. It was highly unlikely that Oskar Dzundza would be hanging about, just waiting to smother the next over-curious monk to death. Even if he had committed the murder, the immediate danger was past. He hoped, anyway. An inadvertent shudder travelled up his spine as he thought of the Golem slowly squeezing the life from Sherlock’s body. And he remembered Sherlock’s panicked eyes; most of all he recalled the fear in Sherlock’s eyes, and his own sudden killing rage. “I just don’t fancy tangling with him again, that’s all.”
Sherlock looked up, and an unexpectedly gentle smile curved his mouth. “No, nor do I.” He regarded John in silence for a moment, then heaved himself off the desk. “It’s late, and you’re tired. Get some sleep.”
“I’m all right,” John protested. “Did you want to –“
“Sleep,” Sherlock said. “We’ve a funeral to attend in the morning.”
“I’m not usually this tired.”
“Probably the altitude. Good night, John.”
“G’night, Sherlock,” John murmured. As Sherlock left, closing the door quietly, John shucked most of his clothes and crawled underneath the blankets and sheets. He mused for a moment on Sherlock’s unflappability – if it was a front, it was a damned good one. The only other time he’d seen Sherlock scared was when John had been draped in Semtex.
Sleepily, he put a hand between his legs and stroked himself. He wasn’t thinking of anything in particular; not really. It just felt good.
He fell asleep before the hazy image in his mind could solidify into something that might prove disconcerting.
*
Ian watched as the light was extinguished in Dr. Watson’s room, and the light in Sherlock Holmes’ room went on. He lifted a set of tiny but high-powered binoculars, but saw only bare wall through the rippling glass. Presumably Sherlock was sitting or lying in bed. Tempting thought. He could go there now, no-one would be the wiser…but it was too soon. Just a little too soon.
He drew out his mobile and punched in a number. There was a faint, faraway buzz, a ringing, and then an oddly high-pitched “Hellooo, darling.”
“I think you should be careful,” Ian said without preamble. “Holmes broke into the infirmary tonight, and I’m fairly certain it wasn’t just for a giggle. And he noticed a few interesting and incriminating details at the murder scene. I’ve cleaned up a bit there, but he’s got photos.”
“You’d better hurry up, then.” The voice on the other end lost its teasing musicality and became flat and menacing.
“I’ve only got two hands, clever as they are. It’s not my fault you hire incompetents to do your work for you.”
“What can I say? I dig loyalty.” There was a noisy hiss. “This isn’t part of the game – it’s just a straightforward transaction that’s going to put billions in my pocket, Ian honey. So you distract him. Do what you need to do. Is his little doggie with him?”
“Watson? Yeah, he’s here. And I don’t know why you call him that. He’s quite fit, you know. I thought I might have a go myself – that is, if he can take his eyes from Sherlock for a minute.”
“Why do you think I call him that? Duh.” The voice faded out for a moment. “Look, I don’t care who you fuck, as long as you get the job done. It won’t be Sherlock, though. Purer than the driven snow, that one.”
“How much do you want to bet that he’ll fuck me?”
A thousand miles away, Jim Moriarty giggled, and the sound rippled unpleasantly in Ian’s ear and down his spine. “If you do, and provide proof, I’ll give you a bonus of a quarter million pounds.”
“Done.”
“And if you don’t, I get to watch Oskar fuck you. He has a taste for blonds. He’s not all that gentle, though, so I’d be awfully diligent about winning if I were you.”
Ian bit his lip and thought about deals with the devil. “Fine. I’ve got to go. I just wanted to warn you.”
“How kind,” Jim purred. “Talk later, sweetie.” There was a click as Jim disconnected, and Ian was left standing in the evening chill of the lodgings garden. He was freezing cold, he realised; cold enough to shiver uncontrollably. Surely it wasn’t talking to Jim Moriarty that made him shiver.
Surely not.
He slipped back into the long building that held the monks’ quarters, and swiftly and silently made his way to a cell in an unused wing. With only fifty-one…well, forty-eight monks now, there was a great deal of unused space. It made his job so much easier.
The little room was unfurnished except for a single bed, upon which lay Brother Marcelo, the youngest monk in the community. His wrists and ankles were bound to the iron slats, and a blindfold covered his eyes. A leather bit had been bound between his teeth, and a long band of soft leather snugly confined his balls and the thick, rigid cock that lay nearly flat against his belly. He’d been surprisingly and quite deliciously accommodating, to Ian’s delight. Made his job so much easier.
As Ian approached the bed, the young monk groaned and shifted his hips.
“Shh.” Ian arranged the tiny camera in the corner of the room, securing it to the wall with a bit of Blu-tack. He switched it on, then set a leather valise on the floor. He took out a little velvet box, opened it, and lifted out three braided lengths of stiff leather fitted with gold ferrules on the ends. He sat on the bed, stroked Brother Marcelo’s thigh, then fitted the lengths together. He rose to his feet, stripped off his jacket, and removed the monk’s blindfold. Large, dark eyes fringed with thick lashes stared at him in mingled arousal and apprehension.
Moonlight streamed into the room, limning Ian’s body. He raised the riding crop and addressed the young man in Italian. “I appreciate your patience. Do you see this?”
Brother Marcelo nodded. His cock twitched in its bindings of leather.
Ian stroked the crop down the youth’s naked chest. “Penance comes in so many forms. Saint Ignatius said that the safest and most suitable form of penance is that which causes pain in the flesh but does not penetrate to the bones. Wise, don’t you think?”
The young monk nodded again. His body gleamed with sweat.
“Well, then. Let us begin.”
*
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.
Thanks to
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.This fic is a gift for sithdragn, with affection.
Can also be read on AO3
*
He hadn’t given it a great deal of thought, but if he’d been asked, John would have said yes, he considered himself socially adept in most situations. He’d always had lots of friends in school and uni, being a GP meant that you more or less had to get on with most sorts of people, and his stint in the military had given him a liberal helping of international diplomacy. He wasn’t some wet-behind-the-ears intern any longer. There were some situations that just warranted a little awkwardness, though, and one of them was standing eye to…whatever…with some strange bloke’s twig and berries.
And the worst bit was that the bloke wasn’t moving – no, he was just standing there smiling benignly at Sherlock as if he were bloody Venus on the half shell, as if he expected a choir of angels to descend from the heavens and hand him a towel spun out of moonbeams or something. It just wasn’t on. So John did the only thing possible under the circumstances: he turned round and examined the weathered flagstones of the courtyard.
They looked really old.
“That’s right,” Sherlock said.
John heard an odd, unfamiliar twist in Sherlock’s voice and stole a glance at him. A frown laddered Sherlock’s brow and his posture was a bit more rigid than usual. He couldn’t be upset by the man’s casual nudity, surely. Sherlock wasn’t flustered by that sort of thing. Most people, clothed or unclothed, fit into one of two categories – useful or not, and he’d seen plenty of people – okay, most of them had been corpses – naked. So had John, to be fair – it was a bit different when it was a live human being just standing there as if nothing was amiss.
“I confess I’d hoped to meet you when I heard you were coming,” the young man said. “And I must say, your newspaper photographs don’t do you justice.”
John spun on his heel and peered curiously at the man. Was that…flirtation? He’d seen a few people try to flirt with Sherlock, only to be met with a stony wall of indifference. He stole another look at Sherlock, who was still frowning, and who didn’t appear to be melting beneath the warmth of the compliment.
A funny little tug of irritation and confusion pulled at John’s insides. Christ, was he pleased by Sherlock’s demeanour? Well, maybe, just a little. It was oddly refreshing to have a flatmate who wasn’t a self-described horny bastard, who didn’t bring people home at odd hours and stumble into the kitchen with the latest in a long line of lovers in tow at eight in the morning, wanting a fry-up and half of John’s coffee. Sherlock preferred bouts of frantic crime-solving activity interspersed with periods of intense silence and a dash of violin abuse, and body parts in the fridge instead of bacon. After a year, John really couldn’t imagine living with anyone else, and the introduction of sexual interest in Sherlock’s life would have been more than a little odd. So maybe it was just relief at preserving the status quo.
Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. “Do you have some particular connection to the case, Brother….”
The young man laughed, showing a great many perfect teeth. “Oh, I’m not a member of the community.” He stepped over the lip of the tub and descended to the courtyard, apparently undisturbed by the chilly weather. He stretched out a hand. “Adler. Ian Adler.”
“Mr. Adler.” Sherlock shook Adler’s hand. “You would be the Latin scholar, then.”
“Yes.” Adler beamed. “How did you work that out?”
“Simple enough. The other guest is an itinerant monastery traveller, and he wouldn’t have had time, nor probably the inclination or vanity for a haircut and conditioning treatment four, possibly five days ago. Particularly not using products from….” Sherlock leaned a little closer to the man. “Molton Brown, generally not available in monasteries, I should think.”
If Adler’s smile got any wider, John thought a bit sourly, the top of his head would unhinge and fall off. “That’s absolutely correct, Mr. Holmes.” Adler leant back against the stone tub. Christ, was he totally unaware that he was stark-bollocks-naked? “But that was simple, wasn’t it, especially for someone like you? What else can you discern about me, just by looking?”
John stiffened. Now if that wasn’t a bloody come-on – not that it mattered, because obviously Sherlock wasn’t interested. He looked at Sherlock again and saw him studying Adler – not with the critical detachment that characterised most of his interactions with people, but with keen intent and, John thought, though he couldn’t have absolutely sworn to it, a bit of confusion.
What the fuck? Christ, Sherlock, you’ve never seen a naked man before?
Any further detection on Sherlock’s part was interrupted by Brother Wilfred, who took a step forward. “Mr. Adler, have you left your dressing gown inside the balneary?”
Adler’s eyes flicked toward Brother Wilfred, and then back to Sherlock. “You’re absolutely right, Brother Wilfred. Terribly immodest of me. Forgive my dishabille, Mr. Holmes.” He pushed himself away from the tub and seemed to notice John for the first time. “And this must be Dr. John Watson. I’ve read some amazing things about you in the papers.”
This time the brilliance of his smile was directed at John, and John would have been a liar if he’d said it wasn’t at least a bit flattering. John wasn’t about to fall over himself, though. “That’s me,” he replied coolly. He glanced at Sherlock, who was still staring at Adler, and wondered what was going on in that complicated and infuriating brain. “Sherlock, we should get a move on, yeah? Father Simon said dinner was at six, and even if you don’t eat, he’s going to introduce you.”
Sherlock wrenched his gaze from Adler and focused on John. His eyes lost some of their ferocious concentration. “Yes. All right.” He turned to Brother Wilfred. “Sorry, Brother Wilfred. Lead on, if you please.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing more of you,” Adler said to Sherlock. His regard took in John for a moment. “Of both of you. And if you need anything translated, Mr. Holmes, don’t hesitate to let me know. I know a little Greek as well.” He smiled again. “See you at dinner.” He lifted a hand in farewell and sauntered toward the balneary. John looked at his retreating figure. He was a handsome bloke all right; slender, but lightly muscled in all the right places, and a round, firm arse, like a statue come to life.
“John.”
“Huh?” John turned a bit clumsily on his heel.
“Stop gaping and come along.”
“Me?” John spluttered indignantly, but Sherlock was already out of earshot, following Brother Wilhelm through the door on the other side of the courtyard. “I’m not the one who was staring like an idiot thirty seconds ago….” He sighed and broke into a trot.
A little Greek?
“John!”
“Yeah, coming! Give me a minute, for God’s sake.” He was beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t have gone to Cornwall after all.
He reached the other side of the balneary and stepped inside. Its proportions seemed identical to the first room, but because it faced east, it was considerably darker. The tubs in this room were much larger, easily accommodating a man, and stood in rows on either side, each separated by a heavy curtain. Sherlock was at the far end of the long chamber, in front of a sizeable fireplace. “You said this building hadn’t been modernised, Brother Wilfred? Therefore no electricity?”
“That is correct.” The monk stood by the door, his hands folded within the sleeves of his habit.
“Torch, John.”
John dove in the pocket of his jacket, came up with a small, high-powered torch, and tossed it to Sherlock, who caught it one-handed and switched it on immediately. “Which tub was it?”
“The one closest to you – there.” The monk pointed.
John drew closer as Sherlock swung the torch over the tub. “Better to examine everything more closely in the morning, but it won’t hurt to have a look now,” Sherlock murmured. “What happened to the stone that was tied to Brother Adelmo’s neck?” he demanded.
“It’s in the infirmary,” Brother Wilfred explained. “Brother Adelmo was carried there once discovered.”
“Good, I’ll want to see it.” Sherlock swung the torch back to the fireplace. He scowled and moved closer to it. “He died last Thursday – or last Wednesday night. I assume there was a great deal of activity that night, judging by the sheer variety of footprints here.”
“Yes. Several of the brothers assisted in getting him to the infirmary.”
Sherlock moved the flashlight to the floor. “And nobody’s used this section of the balneary since?”
“No.”
“But someone built a fire here more recently, and extinguished it quickly as well. Look, the wood’s hardly burnt at all, and it’s sitting atop a large pile of ash.” Sherlock touched a small section of log with the tip of one gloved finger. “Whoever found the body discovered it in the morning. And whoever killed him either followed him here with the express purpose of murder, or sat here waiting for him.”
“How do you know?” John asked.
“There’s very little untidiness here, John. The drive as we came in was free of snow and ice, the earth around the trees and plants has been tilled recently, the car that brought us here was in tip-top shape despite its age, and the interior of the first balneary was as clean as a whistle. So either Brother Adelmo came here alone to have a bath and lit the fire himself, to heat the water and warm the room, or the murderer lit the fire to keep warm against the chilly weather and the stone walls while he waited. Was it his habit to bathe at night, Brother Wilfred?”
“Yes,” the young monk said. “He bathed nightly. Most of the brothers do not – as you see, it’s a great deal of trouble to heat the fire and water to get a decent bath so most of the brothers use the showers, but Brother Adelmo considered it a spiritual exercise. And as you correctly observed, Mr. Holmes, the balneary is usually very clean. Brother Adelmo cleaned it himself, as he was one of the few who used the tubs. Mr. Holmes, the Angelus bell is about to ring, and I have duties. Will you please make your way to the refectory in a moment? It is the long building on the top of the eastern walk. I will be happy to bring you both here tomorrow morning.”
“Yes. Thank you,” Sherlock murmured, and as Brother Wilfred left, returned his attention to the fireplace. “The murderer likely knew he’d be here, then. Had he been brought here by force, there’d be no need for a fire. And the screen’s been moved aside.” He pointed to the wall where a large ornamental screen leaned against the white stone. “Look, soot marks where it’s been dragged. And the pot, there….”
“He heated his bath water,” John said. “But…wouldn’t he have dragged it over before he’d built the fire? That screen’s made of metal; he’d have burned his hands otherwise. If there are soot marks, then that means the fire had already produced ash and had been burning awhile.”
“The murderer tried to make it look like a suicide,” Sherlock mused. “And maybe counted on a religious community not wanting an autopsy. Mistakes everywhere.” He grinned suddenly.
“Any ideas?” John asked.
“Well, whoever killed him knew his habits and the habits of the rest of the community well enough to know that the deed could be committed with relative ease and away from prying eyes, which doesn’t bode well for someone here.” Sherlock sounded inordinately pleased.
“The case of the murderous monk,” a voice said.
John turned and squinted in the waning light at Ian Adler leaning negligently against the door frame, dressed – thank God – in dark jeans, a dark, thin pullover, and a close-fitting black motorbike jacket. “Sorry?”
“I read your blog, Dr. Watson. You have such clever and inventive titles for all your cases. I just took a leaf from your notebook, that’s all.” Adler straightened and walked into the room. He paused beside John and looked down at him for a moment with a peculiar smile on his face, then moved toward Sherlock with lazy, sinuous grace.
Annoyed, John cleared his throat. “Look, Mr. Adler, I’m sorry to be abrupt, but we’re trying to carry on an investigation, and –“
“Oh, I won’t get in the way,” Adler said. “I just wanted to see Mr. Holmes at work. Just for a moment.” He stopped in front of Sherlock. “You don’t mind, do you, Mr. Holmes?”
John watched Sherlock staring at Ian Adler. He folded his arms and sighed. Sherlock, resist showing off for complete strangers? Couldn’t be done.
“I don’t know that Father Trevor would approve of you being here,” Sherlock replied.
“I can be discreet if you can,” Adler said. “Anyhow, I expect the entire community will know that a murder has taken place in a day or so.”
“Oh, I think that’s inevitable,” Sherlock said. There was an odd catch in his voice, and he was staring at Adler as if he were the most fascinating thing on God’s green earth.
“Maybe we’d better head to dinner,” John said. “It’s almost six.”
“Yes, perhaps we had.” Sherlock blinked and turned to John. “I want to talk to the coroner as soon as we can. Let’s ask Brother Edward for a ride into town tomorrow.” He turned back to the fireplace and crouched down. “John – get your phone out. I need a photo.”
“Right.” John brushed by Adler and went to the fireplace. He leant down and stared at the cold, dead ash that stubbornly withheld its secrets from everyone but Sherlock. “What do you see?”
Wordlessly, Sherlock reached out and, without actually disturbing the ash, traced a fingertip around the impression of a very large foot. “That.” He moved his hand slowly across the breadth of the fireplace. “And that.” He pointed at another impression. “Wide stance. Deeper than the others. Stood here a while.”
John took some photos. “Warming up?”
Sherlock shook his head. “Look. The feet aren’t *quite* as wide as they appear. Whoever it was had a shaky grip on his balance – the pattern of the sole created a small sweep of movement in either direction.”
“Maybe it was Brother Adelmo. Maybe he was lifting the kettle.” John nodded toward a large aluminum pot in the corner of the room. “It would be heavy, with a lot of water in it.”
“I wonder,” Sherlock said. “The tread indicates some rather stout boots, and thus far I’ve only seen Brother Edward wearing boots, and his feet aren’t quite this big. Brother Wilfred wore Birkenstocks, and the monk Brother Edward spoke to earlier wore leather walking shoes. Even if Brother Adelmo’s feet were this large, why would a librarian wear heavy boots?” He gave John a pointed look.
“Then perhaps that’s the tread of the man who did him in,” Adler said.
John twisted to stare at Adler, who was standing close behind Sherlock, gazing down at the ash in the fireplace.
“Possibly,” Sherlock said.
“If he couldn’t keep his balance, maybe it was because he was holding something heavy,” Adler went on. “A body.”
Sherlock looked up at him. “Possibly,” he said again, and then glanced at his watch. “It’s two minutes until six. We’d better get to the refectory.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I walk with you,” Adler said.
Sherlock got to his feet. “You’ll have to run. Come on.” Without another word, he strode across the room and out the door, leaving John and Ian Adler gaping after him.
Adler gave John a wide smile. “Well, I guess we’d better follow,” he said, and broke into a trot.
“Right,” John muttered, and stuck his phone into his pocket.
*
They made it to the refectory with seconds to spare, bursting into the hall as the monks were clustering round long tables fitted together in a U-shaped formation. Father Simon’s eyebrows climbed nearly into his high hairline, but he said nothing, merely indicating where Sherlock and John should sit with a backward gesture of his hand. Adler had already slipped into an empty place between a monk and an older man in a thick grey woollen jumper.
The dining hall was spacious, with plaster walls, arched ceilings and windows, a huge fireplace at one end, and a sort of pulpit-cum-table at the other. It had clearly been built to accommodate a much larger number of diners, for the tables in the centre of the room seemed curiously dwarfed, though each was about three metres long. The sound of a bell filtered into the room through an open window, and en masse, the monks bowed their heads and folded their hands.
“Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariae,” Father Simon intoned.
“Et concepit de Spiritu Sancto,” the monks responded, and then the congregation spoke as one. “Ave Maria, gratia plena; Dominus tecum: benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”
The prayer went on for a good bit, and John did his best to listen carefully though his Latin was limited to medical terminology. In the end, he didn’t really know what they were saying. It was pleasant and soothing to listen to, though, and he thought he saw the appeal of living in a routine of deliberate calm and thoughtfulness – not that he could have done it himself. His belief in God was a little amorphous at best, and the thought of lifelong celibacy made him blanch.
He peeked at Sherlock; true to form, Sherlock’s head wasn’t bowed. Instead, he was inspecting the rows of monks – about fifty in all, John guessed quickly. Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed as he appraised each black-and-white clad figure and moved on to the next.
There was no point in elbowing Sherlock to urge him into being a bit more respectful – that would probably result in Sherlock indulging in some dramatic dumbshow, or at least an elbow fight. Instead, John found himself looking at Ian Adler, whose head was bowed, whose hands were folded, and who was moving his lips along with the monks. Well, of course. He knows Latin.
At that moment, Adler glanced up and saw John staring at him. He smiled and dropped John a wink.
Oh, Jesus. Blushing, John stared down at his clasped hands. Cheeky sod.
The prayer ended, and the monks took their seats except for a few who filtered out of the hall. “Not a foot in the bunch as big as the imprints we saw,” Sherlock murmured to John, shrugging out of his coat.
“They’ve all got long robes on. How on earth did you –“ John went silent. “Ah. Right. Hand and foot size correlation.”
“The very thing.” Sherlock nodded approvingly.
John smiled and folded his napkin onto his lap, then turned to greet Brother Edward, who was sitting beside him. “Nice to see you again.”
Brother Edward inclined his head in a friendly fashion. “The guests don’t change much at these dinner parties, but I think you’ll find the brothers interesting – and interested, I reckon.”
“I hope so. I know we’ll need to talk to some of them at least.”
There was a brief conversational lull, in which Father Simon rose to his feet. “Brothers, we are privileged to have in our midst Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.” He indicated Sherlock and John with another languid wave of his hand. “They come to us from London and will be investigating the disappearance of the codex.” He coughed and his complexion turned slightly pink. “They will also be investigating the deaths of our dear departed brothers Matthias and Adelmo, as there may…ah, may be some connection between their deaths and the theft of the codex.”
An excited buzzing broke out among the monks. John scanned their faces rapidly, but saw nothing that would have indicated fear or guilt. In fact, it seemed as though few of the monks were truly surprised. He saw, though, that one young monk sitting at the end of the opposite table covered his face with his hands briefly, and when he took his hands away, his eyes were wet.
“Particular friend?” Sherlock murmured.
“We can talk to him.”
“Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson have been given licence to examine most of the abbey,” Simon went on. “Those of you who are given charge over areas forbidden to them will be duly notified.”
John and Sherlock exchanged a glance, and John saw Sherlock’s eyes light up. If there was one thing guaranteed to pique Sherlock’s curiosity, it was a locked door. Forbidden, my arse, John thought with a stifled grin.
“Our lay guests, Mr. Adler and Mr. Figueroa, are exempt from questioning as they know little of these events and in any case arrived only a few days ago. To the rest of my brothers, I entreat you to answer their questions candidly so that justice may be done in the sight of God. Let us pray.”
The monks bowed their heads again. John looked around, puzzled. Hadn’t they just prayed? It was only a short grace, though, and John sniffed in anticipation as the monks who’d left the table earlier returned bearing wheeled carts of food. He turned to Brother Edward. “I don’t know the protocol….”
“They’ll serve us,” Brother Edward said. “We all get our turn at it, even Father Simon.”
John was given two slices of bread and butter, a wedge of cheese, and a hearty vegetable stew that smelled absolutely glorious. He dove in happily, slowing down deliberately so he wouldn’t bolt his food. Beside him, Sherlock was stirring his stew and regarding it with suspicion. “It’s delicious, Sherlock. And probably really good for you.”
Sherlock snorted and took a tentative spoonful. His face screwed itself up into a grimace.
“It’s mostly hothouse stuff right now, but those are our own veggies and herbs,” Brother Edward said, dunking his bread in the stew. “We buy the cheese and butter from local farmers, but the bread’s ours as well. You should taste the fresh tomatoes and summer peas.”
“It’s amazing,” John said. “Best I’ve ever tasted.” He took an enthusiastic chomp of bread and butter. The bread was still warm from the oven and he tried not to moan with pleasure at its taste and texture. “God. Sorry.”
Brother Edward smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment. So how does a doctor become a private investigator?”
“I sort of fell into it,” John admitted. “I’m still a GP, but I help Sherlock where and when I can. We’re flatmates.”
“Interesting fellow, Mr. Holmes. Bet you’ve seen some mad stuff with him.”
“Life’s never dull,” John said.
“You’d probably go barmy here. The missing codex is probably the most fascinating thing that’s happened here in a hundred years – until the deaths, of course.”
“I have to say nobody seemed really shocked,” John remarked.
“We live simply, but we’re not fools, Dr. Watson,” Brother Edward replied.
“Sorry,” John said. “I didn’t mean –“
“It’s nowt,” Brother Edward said. “It’s only that I think Father Simon was the only one who didn’t believe that something funny was up with Brother Matthias’ death. Took Brother Adelmo’s suicide to convince him.”
Wasn’t a suicide, John thought, but refrained from speaking the thought aloud. “Is this a huge imposition on you?” he asked instead. “I don’t know much about monasteries. Are we breaking a vow of silence or anything?”
Brother Edward laughed. “That’s a pretty common misperception. No, we’re not. Some communities are quieter than others, but we’re not forbidden to speak to one another. We are cautioned against idle talk, but even that’s relaxed. There are times specified for silent contemplation, though, and every one of us participates in that. My brother gardeners and I often work in silence. Suits me. We’re not chatterboxes, as a rule.”
John glanced at Sherlock, who’d eaten his bread and butter and cheese but left the stew mostly untouched. John suddenly pictured Sherlock as a kid, one of the fussy ones who only liked sticky toffee pudding and ice cream and who refused to eat his vegetables on a nightly basis. Sherlock was deep in conversation with the monk on his right, and the monk was talking to him happily. John bit his lip. Sherlock could be quite charming, when he chose to be. It was just that he didn’t usually choose to be.
“There should be a pamphlet in your room,” Brother Edward went on. “It’s got the abbey map on it as well as the rules and rubrics of conduct. I expect a lot of that will be waived in your case, though, since you’re investigating. Oh, and speaking of rubrics, you’ll probably want to have a lie-in tomorrow, unless you want to go to Brother Adelmo’s funeral mass. It’s at eight a.m. and the entire community will be there, so you won’t be able to ask questions until afterward.”
“Ah,” John said. “I didn’t realise.”
“No reason you should. They just brought his body back from the coroner’s yesterday.” Brother Edward shook his head. “Poor lad.”
An idea began to coalesce in John’s head. After supper and a short post-meal prayer, John drew Sherlock aside as the monks were filing out for vespers. “Brother Adelmo’s funeral is tomorrow,” he whispered.
“Yes, and there’s nobody in the infirmary at present,” Sherlock said. “Except for the unfortunate monk’s corpse.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“I was sitting next to the monk in charge of the infirmary. He’s a doctor, and while I’d ordinarily say you two should have a lot to talk about, you won’t. I found him extraordinarily obstructive.”
John couldn’t keep the smile from his face. “One of those areas forbidden to us, is it?”
Sherlock gave John a rather naughty answering smile and turned away. “You’re learning, John.”
There was a funny little glow in John’s chest, but he didn’t poke too deeply at the embers of feeling buried within. Sherlock was sparing with his praise; it was nice to be acknowledged sometimes, that was all.
Really sort of nice.
*
The sound of plainsong came faint and ghostly from the dimly lit church. John looked over his shoulder. “I feel like we’re committing a sin.”
“The only sin is the lock on this door,” Sherlock grunted, working his picklock back and forth. “You’d think they’d keep it up a bit better.”
“Maybe they only lock the infirmary when there are corpses inside.”
“Ha – maybe so. Oh, there it goes.” Sherlock stood and turned the iron knob. “Come on.” He led the way into the infirmary, letting John close the door, and swung his torch round the room. It was kitted out in fairly standard order: curtain-separated beds marched along one wall, some low cabinets along another, and John saw some modern medical equipment – an IV pole, a blood-pressure cuff, a medical scale.
“Presumably there’s a place set aside for corpses,” Sherlock said.
“Further back,” John said. He moved across the room and into the next, which was fitted with more examination equipment. There was a single low door set in the wall, and John turned the handle and stepped inside.
“Yeah. Here.” It was cold, and a mortuary refrigerator squatted against the wall. “Close the door, Sherlock. There aren’t windows in here for anyone to see us.”
Sherlock closed the door and flipped a light switch. Two bright banks of fluorescent light came to blinding life with their accompanying irritating hum. He strode to the topmost compartment and opened it. “Ah, there we are.” Nodding in satisfaction, he grasped the little handle on the slab and rolled it out.
“Oh, Christ – he’s just a kid,” John said softly. He sighed at the discoloured face. “Can’t be more than twenty-three, twenty-four.”
“His age is irrelevant,” Sherlock said. “Tell me about how he died.”
John gave Sherlock a brief glance of disapproval, but Sherlock had whipped out his glass and was gazing at the corpse. “Right.” He slid on a pair of latex gloves, bent close and examined the marks on the young monk’s neck. “Definite ligature marks in accordance with what Father Simon said, but….” Gently, he felt the throat and moved his fingers up and down.
“But?”
“Broken neck for sure. But…no evident compression of the laryngopharynx, larynx, or trachea. I wouldn’t be able to tell if the carotid artery or jugular veins had been compressed without cutting him open, and the coroner evidently didn’t feel he needed to do that.” John nodded toward the Y-shaped incision in the young man’s chest.
Sherlock was examining the fingernails of one pale hand. “So he wasn’t drowned and he wasn’t strangled. Could the rock have been heavy enough to snap his neck, if he was tied to it?”
“Any ligature marks on the wrist?” John asked, bending close to the young man’s face.
“None.”
John tried to imagine what it would be like to have his neck suddenly snapped in two. The strength it would have taken, or the weight of a very heavy rock –
“He fought his attacker,” Sherlock said.
John looked up. “Poor kid.” He resumed his examination of the face. There was something odd –
“Skin and blood under the fingernails.” Sherlock moved down and examined the knees and feet. “Bruised knuckles. And two – no, three broken toes. He kicked and struggled. No lividity on the knees, however.”
“Sherlock.”
“Much taller than Adelmo here. He can’t be more than five-eight at most, and if those footprints were an attacker’s, then he was considerably taller. Kept him upright.”
“Sherlock.”
“If it was the weight of the rock that snapped his neck, how did the killer manage to tie it while he was still conscious – no, can’t be. Had to be a quick break. Imagine that sort of strength –“
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock looked up. “What?”
An awful foreboding sensation prickled at John’s spine. “Looks familiar, don’t you think?”
A frown creased Sherlock’s brow. “What do you mean?”
“Look. Hard to see because of the discolouring in the face, but –“ Carefully, he turned the face to one side and pointed out the large finger-shaped marks on the skin. “There, and there. I mean…it could be a coincidence, but….”
Sherlock slipped his glass into his pocket. His mouth moved soundlessly, but John knew exactly what word his lips had shaped.
Golem.
“Shit,” John whispered.
*
They sat quietly in John’s room. It was spare, but comfortable enough, with a bed, a dresser, a night table, and a little desk in the corner. There was also a little electric heater, and a kneeler that Sherlock had called a prie-dieu upon which John had draped his jacket. Sherlock sat cross-legged atop the desk, idly paging through the monastery brochure, and John lay back on the bed, his shoes off, his arms crossed behind his head, his eyelids drooping. It was nearly midnight, and he was knackered.
“Could be someone else,” he ventured. “Might just be a coincidence.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Sherlock said, not lifting his eyes from the brochure.
“If it is Dzundza, he gets around.”
“He’s an assassin for hire. That’s what assassins for hire do.”
“Yeah, I know.” John yawned. The initial scare he’d experienced had dwindled quickly enough. It was highly unlikely that Oskar Dzundza would be hanging about, just waiting to smother the next over-curious monk to death. Even if he had committed the murder, the immediate danger was past. He hoped, anyway. An inadvertent shudder travelled up his spine as he thought of the Golem slowly squeezing the life from Sherlock’s body. And he remembered Sherlock’s panicked eyes; most of all he recalled the fear in Sherlock’s eyes, and his own sudden killing rage. “I just don’t fancy tangling with him again, that’s all.”
Sherlock looked up, and an unexpectedly gentle smile curved his mouth. “No, nor do I.” He regarded John in silence for a moment, then heaved himself off the desk. “It’s late, and you’re tired. Get some sleep.”
“I’m all right,” John protested. “Did you want to –“
“Sleep,” Sherlock said. “We’ve a funeral to attend in the morning.”
“I’m not usually this tired.”
“Probably the altitude. Good night, John.”
“G’night, Sherlock,” John murmured. As Sherlock left, closing the door quietly, John shucked most of his clothes and crawled underneath the blankets and sheets. He mused for a moment on Sherlock’s unflappability – if it was a front, it was a damned good one. The only other time he’d seen Sherlock scared was when John had been draped in Semtex.
Sleepily, he put a hand between his legs and stroked himself. He wasn’t thinking of anything in particular; not really. It just felt good.
He fell asleep before the hazy image in his mind could solidify into something that might prove disconcerting.
*
Ian watched as the light was extinguished in Dr. Watson’s room, and the light in Sherlock Holmes’ room went on. He lifted a set of tiny but high-powered binoculars, but saw only bare wall through the rippling glass. Presumably Sherlock was sitting or lying in bed. Tempting thought. He could go there now, no-one would be the wiser…but it was too soon. Just a little too soon.
He drew out his mobile and punched in a number. There was a faint, faraway buzz, a ringing, and then an oddly high-pitched “Hellooo, darling.”
“I think you should be careful,” Ian said without preamble. “Holmes broke into the infirmary tonight, and I’m fairly certain it wasn’t just for a giggle. And he noticed a few interesting and incriminating details at the murder scene. I’ve cleaned up a bit there, but he’s got photos.”
“You’d better hurry up, then.” The voice on the other end lost its teasing musicality and became flat and menacing.
“I’ve only got two hands, clever as they are. It’s not my fault you hire incompetents to do your work for you.”
“What can I say? I dig loyalty.” There was a noisy hiss. “This isn’t part of the game – it’s just a straightforward transaction that’s going to put billions in my pocket, Ian honey. So you distract him. Do what you need to do. Is his little doggie with him?”
“Watson? Yeah, he’s here. And I don’t know why you call him that. He’s quite fit, you know. I thought I might have a go myself – that is, if he can take his eyes from Sherlock for a minute.”
“Why do you think I call him that? Duh.” The voice faded out for a moment. “Look, I don’t care who you fuck, as long as you get the job done. It won’t be Sherlock, though. Purer than the driven snow, that one.”
“How much do you want to bet that he’ll fuck me?”
A thousand miles away, Jim Moriarty giggled, and the sound rippled unpleasantly in Ian’s ear and down his spine. “If you do, and provide proof, I’ll give you a bonus of a quarter million pounds.”
“Done.”
“And if you don’t, I get to watch Oskar fuck you. He has a taste for blonds. He’s not all that gentle, though, so I’d be awfully diligent about winning if I were you.”
Ian bit his lip and thought about deals with the devil. “Fine. I’ve got to go. I just wanted to warn you.”
“How kind,” Jim purred. “Talk later, sweetie.” There was a click as Jim disconnected, and Ian was left standing in the evening chill of the lodgings garden. He was freezing cold, he realised; cold enough to shiver uncontrollably. Surely it wasn’t talking to Jim Moriarty that made him shiver.
Surely not.
He slipped back into the long building that held the monks’ quarters, and swiftly and silently made his way to a cell in an unused wing. With only fifty-one…well, forty-eight monks now, there was a great deal of unused space. It made his job so much easier.
The little room was unfurnished except for a single bed, upon which lay Brother Marcelo, the youngest monk in the community. His wrists and ankles were bound to the iron slats, and a blindfold covered his eyes. A leather bit had been bound between his teeth, and a long band of soft leather snugly confined his balls and the thick, rigid cock that lay nearly flat against his belly. He’d been surprisingly and quite deliciously accommodating, to Ian’s delight. Made his job so much easier.
As Ian approached the bed, the young monk groaned and shifted his hips.
“Shh.” Ian arranged the tiny camera in the corner of the room, securing it to the wall with a bit of Blu-tack. He switched it on, then set a leather valise on the floor. He took out a little velvet box, opened it, and lifted out three braided lengths of stiff leather fitted with gold ferrules on the ends. He sat on the bed, stroked Brother Marcelo’s thigh, then fitted the lengths together. He rose to his feet, stripped off his jacket, and removed the monk’s blindfold. Large, dark eyes fringed with thick lashes stared at him in mingled arousal and apprehension.
Moonlight streamed into the room, limning Ian’s body. He raised the riding crop and addressed the young man in Italian. “I appreciate your patience. Do you see this?”
Brother Marcelo nodded. His cock twitched in its bindings of leather.
Ian stroked the crop down the youth’s naked chest. “Penance comes in so many forms. Saint Ignatius said that the safest and most suitable form of penance is that which causes pain in the flesh but does not penetrate to the bones. Wise, don’t you think?”
The young monk nodded again. His body gleamed with sweat.
“Well, then. Let us begin.”
*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2012-09-16 11:16 pm (UTC)There's something about Ian Adler that reminds me a great deal of one of my colleagues. Except that I think Ian is more what T wants to be rather than what he actually is.
It'll be interesting to see how a seven-foot-tall Ted Cassidy lookalike manages to hide in the monastery.
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Date: 2012-09-17 01:48 am (UTC)Except that I think Ian is more what T wants to be rather than what he actually is.
Aww. Well, that's kind of sad, a little.
OMG, he IS a Ted Cassidy lookalike, you've hit the nail on the head. Well, there are lots of dark corners in this abbey. Stay tuned. :D Thank you so very much for reading and your lovely and funny comments!
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Date: 2012-09-17 03:16 am (UTC)T really wants to be all suave and cool and tragically hip. But he's only made it as far as Major Douchebag.
Back when I did my recap/review of The Great Game, I think I noted that, in that instance, Showing The Monster turned out to be not such a great idea, because the planetarium scene became significantly less scary once you saw that Sherlock was being attacked by either Lurch or Ruk from the Star Trek episode "What Are Little Girls Made Of?" But, honestly, the concept of a seven-foot-tall latter-day Ted Cassidy professional assassin fascinates me. He's so damn noticeable and memorable, two qualities that one would not ordinarily associate with the idea of "professional assassin." I kind of want to write about him just to see what could be done. Let's see. I'm (please, please) about a chapter away from finishing the current story, then there's the Improbable Crossover, and then maybe I can get to writing about Lurch The Assassin.
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Date: 2012-09-17 03:36 am (UTC)Ooh, Major Douchebag is not, I hope, what he was going for. That just deserves heaps of contempt.
Ha! I totally remember that ST ep. And he was kind of slow-moving to boot, wasn't he? You could time his punches with relative ease. I was watching the ep with my sister and she shrieked "JUST SHOOT HIM JOHN! HE'S NOT LETTING SHERLOCK GO!" or words to that effect. :)
Excellent to hear there will be more stories from you, yay!
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Date: 2012-09-17 03:44 am (UTC)I really hope T isn't going for Major Douchebag. I really really hope he can get past it. Because he's really smart and he has some good ideas, and it'd be a shame to waste a really sharp mind on being a douchebag.
"JUST SHOOT HIM JOHN! HE'S NOT LETTING SHERLOCK GO!"
And it's not like Crack!Shot!John doesn't have at least a foot of space above Sherlock's head to aim for. The guy who could shoot a cabbie through two windows and a breezeway really shouldn't have a problem with that.
In my life, stories go verrrry slowly. They compete with my dissertation, journal article, and job applications. So, slowly. But they do come.
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Date: 2012-09-17 08:56 am (UTC)I really love this fic. I have been fascinated by monasteries since being taken to various ruined abbeys as a child. We have lots of them in Yorkshire. Our local one was Kirkstall and my aunt lived just across the road in Vesper Gate Drive. (Nice monastic street name:)) Add to that my love of The Name of the Rose and I am a pushover.
Very enticing introduction to Ian Adler in this and I am sure he will rise to the challenge in every way. *g*
So this is not part of Moriarty's game, but something on the side? Intriguing. Nice final scene, too! You certainly know how to keep us panting impatiently for the next instalment.
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Date: 2012-09-17 02:40 pm (UTC)Glad you like Ian. I'm sure he will rise to the challenge also. :D Thanks so much for the lovely feedback!
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Date: 2012-09-17 01:17 pm (UTC)John suddenly pictured Sherlock as a kid, one of the fussy ones who only liked sticky toffee pudding and ice cream and who refused to eat his vegetables on a nightly basis That made me grin, I can picture him like that too!
Your Ian Adler is great. Fascinating too and Iparticularly like your last scene very much. Tasty and hot.. As always you leave me wanting more, much more.
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Date: 2012-09-17 02:42 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you liked it, dear! Thank you so much. xoxo
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Date: 2012-09-17 11:15 pm (UTC)Sherlocks curiosity/fascination about Ian is going to get him in soooooo much trouble. I can hardly wait.
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Date: 2012-09-18 02:19 am (UTC)Sherlock is definitely headed for trouble - but then he always is, the silly sausage. Thank you so much for commenting - I'm so happy that you're reading and following along. :)