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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 in Cornwall. Fate has other plans, to wit:
1. An abbey in the Italian Alps
2. Murder
3. Mayhem
4. Criminals he has known and would rather forget
5. Bondage
6. Sex
7. Sherlock
Not necessarily in that order.
So much for Cornwall.
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 advised 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
*
John awoke to birdsong and the pleasant sensation of having had a long, dreamless span of slumber – peaceful sleep wasn’t a valuable commodity until one couldn’t remember what it was like any longer. He was warm and cosy in the narrow bed, the slightly coarse linen of the pillowcase held a faint fragrance of laundry dried on an outdoor line, and the soothing, familiar sounds of Sherlock rattling around in the bathroom just managed to penetrate through the connecting door. He needed a piss, but he was too comfortable to move.
His phone chirruped twice – text message. Sighing, he stuck a hand out from his cosy pile of blankets and tipped it up. Alice had sent him a text. No, five texts.
Five? He hoped nothing was wrong. Groaning, he glanced at the time – seven-fifteen – and threw the covers aside. The need to urinate was getting urgent. He sat up, swung his feet onto the wool rug, then heaved himself off the bed. The plank flooring was cold.
“Sherlock?” John tapped at the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “You decent?”
“Decent enough,” came the muffled reply, and the door swung open to reveal Sherlock with wet hair, a towel knotted at his hips, his upper body pink from the heat of the shower, and shaving soap lathered over the lower half of his face. Sherlock preferred that old-fashioned, excessively fancy stuff that needed a brush and elbow grease to get foamy, and he was the only man John knew who had a steel razor with replaceable blades. When John had accused him of vanity, Sherlock had replied with the haughtiest of sniffs that his sort of razor was much better than landfill-clogging plastic rubbish – as if he really gave a toss about environmental consciousness – and that his shaving soap was infinitely preferable to cheap, nasty aerosol foam in a can. Whereupon John had called him a snobby bugger.
Well, he was a snobby bugger. John supposed he had a point, though.
“Have to pee,” John muttered, and half-stumbled to the toilet.
Sherlock returned to the sink, rubbing a clear spot in the steamed-up mirror, and began to shave.
John sighed. Better. “Did you go back out last night?”
“Mm.”
“See anything interesting?”
“No. Not really.”
“I suppose there wasn’t much to see. All those forbidden areas.” John yawned, shook off in leisurely fashion, and flushed. He stepped to the side, not wanting to back up and bump into Sherlock. The loo was hardly big enough for both of them. “Any hot water left?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Towels?”
“There,” Sherlock said, casually stretching out one arm in a languorous gesture at a corner shelf where several oatmeal-coloured towels were neatly stacked.
John found himself watching the shift in muscle and bone in Sherlock’s shoulder blade and arm, the long expanse of clean skin, and only dimly registered the towels. His gaze halted at an incongruity. “Oi – what’s that?”
Sherlock dropped his hand. “What’s what?”
“What happened to your hand?”
“Nothing. What on earth are you talking about?”
John heaved an exasperated breath at Sherlock and his semantics. “Your wrist, I mean. What happened?”
“Oh.” Sherlock held his left hand up and regarded the angry red marks on it in bemusement, as if seeing them for the first time. “Caught it in the bathroom door last night.”
“That must have hurt. Want me to have a look at it?”
“No, thank you.” Sherlock dropped his hand and went back to his shaving. “You’ve got another text. Sixth one in the space of twenty minutes.”
“Oh, Christ, yeah.” John went back into his bedroom and picked up his phone. That was six texts from Alice now. With a hint of trepidation, he opened the first one.
I hadn't heard from you for two days so I stopped by the clinic & talked to that doctor you used to date & she said she didn't know where you were. So I
He sighed and opened the second.
I went to your flat & your landlady said that you'd gone to Italy with Sherlock. Thanks for telling me.
“Oh, God.” Hadn’t he told her? He swore he’d sent her a text. He knew he hadn’t phoned. It was a little – all right, a lot caddish of him not to have phoned, but he’d wanted to avoid any protracted discussion of why he’d chosen to take his holiday with Sherlock and not with Alice.
I know it wasn't definite or anything but I did think that maybe you were interested in coming to Cornwall. That was what you said anyway & I believed it.
He had been interested, it was true. But…. John sighed, anticipating the content of the next text. He wasn’t far off.
Whatever John. It's done & that's fine, but I think that when you get back & I come home from Cornwall, we need to sit down & have a talk.
Oh, God. Exactly why he hadn’t wanted to phone her in the first place.
Actually never mind. I'm inviting another friend to come with me. I don't really think you & I are working out & I'm not in the mood for this anymore.
Right. Well, he couldn’t say it was entirely unexpected. She’d accused him of neglect before, and they hadn’t even been dating that long. It was unfortunate, and it left him feeling a bit weary, but not exactly bruised of soul. He opened the last text.
Have a good time with your FLATMATE.
“Christ.” That was unnecessary. He set the phone on the nightstand, peeled off his t-shirt, tossed it on the bed, and trudged back into the bathroom, where Sherlock was pressing a damp towel to his face.
Sherlock took the towel from his face and gave John a brief glance. “She broke up with you.”
He didn’t even try to deny it. “We’d only been dating for a couple of months.” John slipped out of his tracksuit bottoms and hung them on a hook behind his door. “I don’t think she was all that keen on me.” He tried and failed to prevent himself from letting his gaze slide over Sherlock’s naked upper body, milk-pale once more, as he moved toward the corner shelf and snatched a towel. “I thought I’d told her I was leaving, though.”
“You announced your intention to text her night before last,” Sherlock said. He brushed his hair, flattening it almost completely. No matter – it would spring into crazy life in a few moments. “Evidently you failed to follow through.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“We only have a little over half an hour, John. Hurry up.”
That was Sherlock in a nutshell. “Thanks for the words of consolation.” John drew the shower curtain aside and turned on the tap. Hot water cascaded from the narrow showerhead, sending up billowing steam.
“Thirty-seven minutes.”
“Yeah, all right, Mum. Jesus.” John stepped into the shower and stood under the spray. The water was gloriously hot and pounded on his back and shoulders. “Oh, shit. Hey, Sherlock?” He drew the curtain aside. “Could you get my shampoo from my bag? I forgot it.”
“Just use mine, John. It’s on the floor.” Sherlock strode into his bedroom, yanking the towel off as he walked. John had a brief glimpse of high, round bum just before Sherlock turned the corner, and an entirely unsuitable and inappropriate surge of blood went straight to his cock.
Oh, God. Come on now. Light-headed and flushed, John leant against the rough tile of the shower stall and rested his cheek against the wall. It wasn’t the first time, if he was entirely honest with himself, that he’d found himself aroused at the sight of Sherlock partly or wholly undressed. Sherlock was attractive; John wasn’t blind, after all, and he’d have died before admitting it to anyone, but he’d had an experience or two with blokes in the RAMC.
Right, maybe twelve or fifteen. But who was counting? The point was, John wasn’t entirely oblivious to Sherlock’s elusive charms. It happened. It didn’t mean a damned thing, not really. A few stray thoughts here and there didn’t mean he wanted to fuck his flatmate.
And the thing was…he’d never really considered himself sensual. Sexual, yeah – he loved sex, loved looking at the soft, sexy bits of women that were ordinarily covered up – the silky skin and yielding flesh of an inner thigh, the curve of a hip, the lush ripeness of a breast – and he liked just enough foreplay to really get his engine revving, but he didn’t go in for hours of fondling and stroking and kissing and licking. But lately he’d been catching glimpses of Sherlock – not even his arse or anything, for God’s sake, just little things, like a flash of collarbone or the inside of his wrist or the shape of his mouth taking a sip of tea, and an odd, tiny ache would radiate from the center of his chest, and his hands got restless, wanting to touch, and his mouth dried up, and –
Christ, it was ridiculous, like some corny 1950s love song. He was pining. It was one thing to be horny, another to moon dreamily over his flatmate, a man utterly lacking in sexual appetite, a man who, as far as John could tell, regarded sex as messy, inconvenient, and foolishly tied to emotional upheaval. Well, he had the inconvenient bit right, anyhow. What was John supposed to say? ‘Hey, Sherlock, I quite fancy the way you solve crimes and the way that your hair curls on the nape of your neck – let’s fuck!’
Yeah, that would go over like a tin toilet in Siberia.
Idly, John curled his hand round his cock and pulled a bit. In the other room, Sherlock was dressing, wriggling into his underpants, buttoning the shirts that clung so worshipfully to his body. On anyone else they’d have been vulgar, but Sherlock managed to make ridiculously tight shirts seem absolutely right. He imagined the process in reverse, slowed to a crawl: Sherlock undoing his buttons one by one, shedding his shirt and letting it fall to soft folds at his bare feet, pulling down his thin boxer briefs –
Oh, fuck. He didn’t have time for a wank, and it was Sherlock he was thinking about, for fuck’s sake, not Alice or Sarah or any of the lovely women who’d paraded in and out of his life for the past year and a half. Because as gorgeous and sexy as they were, none of them were quite intriguing enough, not quite there enough –
“Twenty-nine minutes!”
“Christ –“ John snatched his hand away and stifled a groan. He was hard and the water was hot and felt marvellous, and he could have lingered for half an hour, but the bellowing martinet he fancied was ticking down the minutes, apparently. He stuck his head out of the shower stall to see Sherlock fully dressed, arms folded, and standing uncomfortably close – well, it was a tiny bathroom. “Are you actually timing me?”
“You haven’t even washed your hair,” Sherlock pointed out. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Enjoying the water,” John snapped. “God, Sherlock.” His erection started to wilt, and he ducked back inside and snatched up Sherlock’s shampoo. He lathered up hastily and washed himself with the big cake of soap sitting on the little built-in ledge – it smelled good, like a field of freshly mown grass – and finished up in five minutes. He towelled off, brushed his teeth, shaved, and was in his room in another five. Sherlock was sitting in the chair in his room, fiddling with his phone, and John saw that he’d laid an outfit on the bed – slim dark jumper, dark trousers, socks, underpants. It occurred to him to demand privacy, but Sherlock appeared to be ignoring him anyway. He gave a mental shrug and started dressing. “This is nice and funereal.”
Sherlock didn’t look up. “Well, we are going to a funeral. Don’t you think it’s appropriate? Hurry up, I don’t want to be late.”
“You’re awfully concerned about getting there on time,” John grumbled.
“According to Mycroft’s sources, the last sighting of Oscar Dzundza was in Prague, two days ago.”
“Back on his home turf,” John remarked, sitting on his bed to slide his socks on. “Enough time for him to finish his job here and leave.”
“And Trevor reports still no word of a newly surfaced codex, no rumours of private sales. Nothing public, naturally. Ah.” Sherlock’s mouth twisted upward. “She’s placed a discreet advert in some pertinent art periodicals – substantial reward for missing book, no real specifics, and no strings attached. Good girl.”
John frowned a little at the affection that had filtered into Sherlock’s voice. Arse, he chided himself. “The thief wouldn’t come forward, though – wouldn’t that just frighten him or her off?”
“Ransoming stolen art is more common than you’d think, especially amongst private collectors. And there are plenty of unsavoury dealers in the business. So much of it changes hands illicitly, provenance can’t be properly verified, law protects private sellers – it’s a lucrative profession for some clever people. But I don’t think Trevor’s on the right track. If whoever did this brought in Dzundza, there’s more to it than simple theft.” Sherlock compressed his lips and slipped his phone into his pocket.
John paused in the act of tying his shoe. “You don’t think it’s –“
Sherlock shrugged, but a strange light came into his eyes. “Could be. Doesn’t matter right now. Another thing – Brother Nicholas, the monk in charge of the infirmary, said that the codex was valuable, but not among the most valuable of all the codices they possess. So – why that one? Why not one worth more?”
“Easiest to pinch?” John suggested. “Father Simon said it was big, so maybe the more valuable ones were too unwieldy. Difficult to hide.”
“Maybe. We’ll find out. Ready?”
“After all your nagging, yeah, I am. Let’s go.”
“Bring your torch.”
“What for?”
“Just bring it.”
As they walked briskly toward the church, a single bell tolled, slow and solemn, echoing in the bright, cold morning. John breathed in the crisp air and admired the light on the mountains soaring high above the monastery. If he had a sight like that to wake up to every morning, he might feel pretty serene too, he thought.
“The service should take about an hour. And they’ll inter him in the crypt, so that should keep them a while longer,” Sherlock said.
“Why are you so keen to go, anyway? What are you hoping to find?”
“We’re not going to the funeral, John.”
“We’re – then – Sherlock, do you want to let me in on what’s happening?”
Sherlock gave John a glance that seemed faintly amused. “Well, we are making an appearance.”
“It’s not a cocktail party, Sherlock,” John said, exasperated. “We can’t just swan in and out.”
“We’re only staying long enough to get a head-count,” Sherlock replied. “I think the entire community will be in attendance, but I want to make certain. Then you and I are going to the library. With any luck, we’ll have at least an hour to look around without interference.”
“That’s why you wanted me to bring the torch. Well, you could have told me,” John said mildly. He knew well enough by now that Sherlock loved hatching plots and keeping him in the dark until the last possible moment, but he was used to being briefed on a need-to-know basis; it might have bothered other people more, he conceded. It was one of Sherlock’s more irritating and oddly endearing traits. He didn’t need to prove he was clever to be clever, but he didn’t seem to realise that quite yet. Someday, maybe.
“You have an underdeveloped sense of urgency.”
“Oh, bollocks – if that’s not the pot calling the kettle black. Every time you’re needed at NSY, Lestrade knows your actual ETA is about an hour after you’re scheduled to turn up. He adjusts his calendar accordingly.”
“Does he?” Sherlock seemed pleased. “I’ll have to show up early next time. Wouldn’t do to have him get complacent.”
John saw Sherlock’s smile and felt his heart give a funny little twist. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He held the heavy wooden door of the church open so Sherlock could go in.
The church wasn’t enormous, but its high, vaulted ceilings and tall columns contributed to a sensation of vast space, made kaleidoscopic thanks to the arched stained-glass windows that dappled the interior with clear, luminescent colour. The place was smoky with incense, and in the centre aisle stood a white-draped coffin on a wheeled wooden platform.
John moved toward the rows of pews at the front of the church, but Sherlock caught his arm and indicated, with a slight gesture of his hand, that they should stand near the back. Sherlock led him to a column of scored white stone. “There are forty-seven monks in the abbey, if every one of them was present at supper last evening.” He frowned, peering at the monks already gathered in the pews and on a raised dais near the altar in two small rows. “Forty-four, including the choir on the side there. I expect the celebrants will proceed through the back.”
The sound of footsteps silenced Sherlock. John saw Ian Adler, immaculately dressed in a dark suit and tie, dip his fingers in the holy water font and cross himself. He glanced at John and Sherlock, nodded, and made his way up the far right aisle to an empty pew, where he genuflected deeply and then knelt, folding his hands and bowing his head.
John scowled. Adler didn’t strike him as the praying sort, but one never knew about people.
“Thought he wasn’t coming,” Sherlock murmured.
“Huh?”
Sherlock shook his head and raised a finger to his lips. The back door swung open once more, and the choir began to intone a solemn chant. Sherlock had been right about the choir near the front. There was no loft; the rear wall soared straight up to the ceiling, broken by weight-bearing piers and pointed arched windows of stained glass, topped with a brilliantly hued rose window.
Two monks entered the church, one bearing a crucifix on a metal pole, the other swinging a brass censer that billowed smoke. Behind him came Father Simon Trevor and an aged, stooped monk who shuffled forward slowly as if each step might have been his last. The first two monks were in their regular habits; Simon and the old monk were in heavy, richly embroidered vestments. Simon, John saw, supported the ancient monk by one arm as they made their way up the centre aisle.
“Forty-eight,” Sherlock whispered. “All right, John – that’s all of them. One extra, actually. Let’s go.”
“Who was the old fella?” John wondered as they swung onto the path toward the library. “Didn’t see him last night.”
“Don’t know. Neither did I. Maybe some emeritus monk they wheel out on special occasions.”
“Sherlock,” John scolded.
“Anyway, the point is we won’t have anyone hovering as we work.” Sherlock ducked down a side path of smooth flagstone and came to a plain wooden door. He tried the knob and then fished his picklock out. “Terribly suspicious now, these friars.”
“With good reason.”
“True.” Sherlock felt about patiently and then made a small noise of satisfaction. “There. Come along, John.”
John followed Sherlock into the library and closed the door behind him. It wasn’t much different from an ordinary library; there were rows of tables, and shelves and shelves of books. The atmosphere was still and peaceful and a bit dusty, and it held that smell of old books that sometimes made John mildly horny – some of his earliest make-out sessions had been in the stacks at school, and he’d never forgot the association. Light poured in from the clear glass windows, and an old steam heat system clanked faintly in a nearby radiator.
“What was the name of the fellow who died here?” John asked.
“Matthias. Brother Matthias. Fell down a flight of stairs.” Sherlock looked around. “Plausible enough, for the moment. Where are the most precious and unusual books kept in any library?”
“Top floor,” John said promptly. “The one near me had a creaky old lift that only the librarians were allowed to use. We had to take the stairs, but even then, the top floor was barred off.”
“Right,” Sherlock said. “And they’d be…right there.” He pointed toward an arched doorway and strode toward it. “Up we go.”
The staircase proved to be quite narrow and dark, with stone steps worn in the centre from hundreds of years of tread. “Easy to fall down these,” John said, taking out his torch and flicking it on.
“Or be pushed,” replied Sherlock. He moved past the landing to the second floor and made his way to the third. “John – give me your torch.”
John reached the top of the stairs and handed the torch over. Sherlock played the beam over the door, which had no handle or knob. The arched doorway was of stone, elaborately carved with strange and fanciful creatures that looked like the product of some feverish and possibly demented imagination – snakes with the heads of dogs, dolphins with legs, birds with hands at the ends of their wings, clawed and fanged deer, rampant lions with oddly human legs. “Christ, that’s creepy,” John muttered. “Is that supposed to inspire devotion?”
“More likely to scare off any would-be intruders.” Sherlock moved the beam to the door. “Hinges are on the inside.”
“How do we get in?”
“I’m sure it was a conundrum when it was built,” Sherlock said, letting the light play over the carvings. “Fortunately, we have hundreds of years on our side.” He pointed to the upper left side of the doorway. “There – see how worn it is? Years and years of arms and sleeves brushing against the stone.” Carefully, he began to explore the carvings with his fingertips. “Should be here somewhere. Hold the torch, John.”
John held the light and backed up against the wall. “Skinny space here.”
“Yes, isn’t it? If Brother Matthias was pushed, whoever pushed him was probably in the library already. Hard to shove someone down the stairs without taking a tumble yourself.”
“Does that mean he let them in, then?”
“Maybe. Maybe the codex wasn’t so much stolen as it was given away. Oh!” Sherlock stopped and traced his fingers over the face of a snarling dog, or some snarling creature with sharp fangs and gaping tongue and weird, hollow eyes. “There it is. Ha.” He put his finger inside one of the eyes and pushed hard.
John waited, and bit his lip.
“Damn it,” Sherlock muttered.
“Try it again,” John suggested.
Sherlock frowned over at John, but he put his finger inside the hole and pushed again. “It’s a sort of latch. I can feel it yielding.”
“Maybe there’s a – a code or something,” John said. “Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“The Trinity, perhaps,” Sherlock said. “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Here goes nothing.” He pushed again, and there was an audible click. The door swung open quietly.
“Good guess,” John said. “I’m impressed. You’re not even a churchgoer.”
“I never guess,” Sherlock replied smugly, but it was obvious he was pleased. “Hold on, don’t move. Give me the light.” He played the beam over the floor. “No obvious prints – all right, we might as well go in.”
They stepped into a dark, narrow passageway. Three doors stood before them, plain, unadorned, and a bit ominous. “There’s a tiger behind one of them,” John joked.
“Pick one.”
“Right.” John looked at the identical doors and placed his hand on the knob of the one closest to him. “This one.” He turned it, and stepped inside.
Something brushed John’s cheek, and he leapt back with a stifled yelp. Behind him, Sherlock chuckled, reached past him, and tugged at something hanging in the air. A yellowish bulb flickered into life, feebly illuminating a not-very-large room with stacks of bookshelves holding books and what appeared to be carved wooden boxes.
“Relax, John.”
“Oh, shut it,” John murmured, and moved into the room. He examined some of the spines of the books, most of which were far too old and worn to read properly and in any case were in a number of different languages. He saw German, Spanish, Latin, Italian, French, and what looked like Farsi before he finally came upon an English title. “The Anatomy of Melancholie. Nice one.” Carefully, he touched an ornately carved and gilded wooden box. “Pretty. What are they?”
“I imagine they hold the codices.” Sherlock grasped one and set it onto a small table. “This one’s still inside. Heavy.” He unhooked the latch and lifted the lid, then opened the front cover of the thick book.
“Wow.” John peered closely at the page covered in coloured illuminations that seemed to glow under the light of the bulb. The central figure was an angel with a glowing sword, treading upon a feathered serpent, surrounded with tiny pictures of animals and people working in fields, starry skies, carefully inscribed flowers, and flourishes and curlicues that held no meaning that John could see but that were very beautiful indeed. The inks were as bright and vivid as if it had been completed the day before, and there was a faint sheen of gold here and there, carefully etched into the illustrations. “I can see why they’re so valuable.”
Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and turned a page.
John shook his head. “What is this? Latin?” He squinted at the words. Ic eom wunderlicu wiht wifum on hyhte neahbuendum nyt; nægum sceþþe burgsittendra nymthe bonan anum. “Hang on, that’s not Latin.”
“Old English.”
“Can you read it?”
“No.” Sherlock closed the book and replaced the lid. He sighed and scanned the shelves rapidly, giving each box a little push to ensure that it held a codex. “There doesn’t seem to be anything missing here. Let’s try the next room.”
John paused over the codex box. “Funny that. If we time-travelled – if we went back a thousand years, we’d have no idea what anyone was saying to us.”
“We’d probably be burned at the stake,” Sherlock said. “Come on, hurry up. We only have about forty-five minutes left.”
“There’s a cheerful thought.” John pulled the light chain and closed the door quietly. All at once, he paused. “Was that –“
Somewhere far below them, in the main room of the library, there was a sound of approaching footsteps. Sherlock wheeled on John, a finger pressed to his lips, and gestured for John to open the middle door. John scrabbled for the handle and hurried inside, only to run soundly into a stone wall. He grunted, touched the sore spot on his head, and was about to turn to tell Sherlock that they’d found a closet when the door closed behind them, plunging them into complete darkness. Sherlock collided with John and let out a low cry of surprise. “What the hell, John?” he whispered.
“Cupboard,” John whispered back. Sherlock’s body was pressed tightly against his. “Come on, back up.”
“Shh.”
John held his breath and heard the heavy tread of footsteps ascending the library stairs. It was probably one of the monks – Simon, maybe. The funeral apparently hadn’t run long. “Why do we have to –“
Sherlock pressed his fingers against John’s mouth, and all at once his lips were against John’s ear. “Quiet,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the sensitive flesh.
It was the most sudden and unexpected erotic contact, and as he felt the light, teasing sensation of Sherlock’s lips and the long length of his body pressing close, John’s cock answered happily, ready for action. Appalled, John squirmed into the corner. Oh, Christ’s sake, not now. He held himself very still and listened as the footsteps came closer.
It was a heavy tread, slow and even, but were they booted feet? Was it perhaps their old pal the Golem? Sherlock would probably know, but John had no idea. He longed for his weapon, but he’d been obliged to leave it behind. Probably one of the monks. Don’t want to be shooting at them. He breathed in Sherlock’s scent. He had to; Sherlock’s neck was practically smashed into his nose, and his fingers still lay lightly over John’s mouth. A terrible impulse leapt into his head to touch his tongue to Sherlock’s hand. Oh, God, what the hell is wrong with you? Sherlock’s thigh and hip nudged at him; he felt wool and the warm insistent pressure of Sherlock’s lanky body.
The footsteps ceased at the top of the stairs, and there was another sound – heavy breathing, as if the person was out of shape. John shuddered slightly as he heard the left door open, then the right, then a frustrated, wordless growl.
“Get ready,” Sherlock whispered. His hair tickled John’s face; his lips were soft against John’s ear. Slowly, noiselessly, he turned, not without some difficulty – it was close and getting stifling – and reached down to briefly grasp John’s wrist.
The handle of the middle door rattled, but the door stayed closed. John felt his body thrumming with tension and anticipation. Come on, you bastard.
The footsteps moved away, and began to descend the stairs. After a long, agonising moment, the footsteps faded away altogether, and the tiny closet was silent once more. John let out a sigh and sagged against the stone wall. “Christ,” he said softly. “I – what the hell….”
A faint hiss insinuated itself into the tiny room, and John began to smell something noxious, like rotting eggs and swamp water. Inadvertently, he sucked in a deep breath and took in a lungful of smoke. “Oh, Jesus, what –“
“There’s no handle on the inside of the door.” Sherlock’s voice was still a whisper, but unexpectedly harsh and agitated.
“What do you mean? How did you close it?”
“I mean –“ Sherlock coughed. “I didn’t – it must be weighted. I can’t get out.” He coughed again. “Here.”
John felt something soft and warm thrust into his hands. “What’s th—“
“Tie it over your mouth and nose and get down on the floor. I’ve got to figure this out.”
“Where’s the torch?”
“I left it on the table.”
John groaned. “Oh, fucking hell, Sherlock –“ He sucked in another mouthful of smoke and choked. Tears filled his eyes, and he rubbed at them.
“I didn’t do it deliberately, for God’s sake!” Sherlock snapped. He coughed again, and the sound of his voice dipped, as if he’d bent double. “Have to find the hinge – might be a simple pin –“ He coughed again, convulsively. “Whoever that was…must have known….”
“Sherlock, you take the scarf –“
“I said tie it over your mouth and nose! Don’t waste my time arguing.”
“Fuck.” John tied the scarf around his face, knelt on the floor, and groped forward to help Sherlock. “Here, let me try.”
Sherlock moved aside as much as he could, which wasn’t much. He coughed and gasped. “There’s some sort of ventilation pulling at the smoke, or we’d both be unconscious by now. It’s –“ He broke off, wheezing. “It’s got to be here somewhere.”
John tugged frantically at the door’s lower hinges, but they were tight and secure. He blinked against tears as he felt along the door frame for something that might get them out. Frustrated, he pounded on the door. “Hey!”
“What the hell are you doing?” Sherlock demanded.
“I don’t feel like suffocating in here,” he retorted, and began to slam against the door in earnest. “Hey! Help! Let us out!”
“Move aside,” Sherlock gasped, and John pressed himself against the wall. He felt Sherlock back up, then lash out with one foot, trying to kick the door down. The sound of Sherlock’s foot connecting with the thick, solid wood was depressing, to say the least. “Hell.” He took a hitching breath, spluttered, and began hacking again.
John resumed pounding on the door. “Simon! Brother Edward! Somebody! Anybody, for God’s sake! Help!” He had the horrible suspicion, if not the certainty, that any sound they made was swallowed by the thickness of the wood and the stone walls. “Hey!” His last shout broke on a series of coughs that made his head spin. He was getting dizzy.
“John—“ Sherlock said, and John let out a startled cry as Sherlock’s body pitched forward, crumpling heavily against him.
“Oh, fuck – Sherlock? Sherlock, please –“ Despite the scarf, John was getting light-headed. He caught Sherlock around the waist, trying to support him, but it was no good. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t suck in the slightest bit of clean air, and he was sliding down the stone wall, falling into an endless well of thick choking blackness.
*
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 in Cornwall. Fate has other plans, to wit:
1. An abbey in the Italian Alps
2. Murder
3. Mayhem
4. Criminals he has known and would rather forget
5. Bondage
6. Sex
7. Sherlock
Not necessarily in that order.
So much for Cornwall.
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 advised 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
*
John awoke to birdsong and the pleasant sensation of having had a long, dreamless span of slumber – peaceful sleep wasn’t a valuable commodity until one couldn’t remember what it was like any longer. He was warm and cosy in the narrow bed, the slightly coarse linen of the pillowcase held a faint fragrance of laundry dried on an outdoor line, and the soothing, familiar sounds of Sherlock rattling around in the bathroom just managed to penetrate through the connecting door. He needed a piss, but he was too comfortable to move.
His phone chirruped twice – text message. Sighing, he stuck a hand out from his cosy pile of blankets and tipped it up. Alice had sent him a text. No, five texts.
Five? He hoped nothing was wrong. Groaning, he glanced at the time – seven-fifteen – and threw the covers aside. The need to urinate was getting urgent. He sat up, swung his feet onto the wool rug, then heaved himself off the bed. The plank flooring was cold.
“Sherlock?” John tapped at the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “You decent?”
“Decent enough,” came the muffled reply, and the door swung open to reveal Sherlock with wet hair, a towel knotted at his hips, his upper body pink from the heat of the shower, and shaving soap lathered over the lower half of his face. Sherlock preferred that old-fashioned, excessively fancy stuff that needed a brush and elbow grease to get foamy, and he was the only man John knew who had a steel razor with replaceable blades. When John had accused him of vanity, Sherlock had replied with the haughtiest of sniffs that his sort of razor was much better than landfill-clogging plastic rubbish – as if he really gave a toss about environmental consciousness – and that his shaving soap was infinitely preferable to cheap, nasty aerosol foam in a can. Whereupon John had called him a snobby bugger.
Well, he was a snobby bugger. John supposed he had a point, though.
“Have to pee,” John muttered, and half-stumbled to the toilet.
Sherlock returned to the sink, rubbing a clear spot in the steamed-up mirror, and began to shave.
John sighed. Better. “Did you go back out last night?”
“Mm.”
“See anything interesting?”
“No. Not really.”
“I suppose there wasn’t much to see. All those forbidden areas.” John yawned, shook off in leisurely fashion, and flushed. He stepped to the side, not wanting to back up and bump into Sherlock. The loo was hardly big enough for both of them. “Any hot water left?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Towels?”
“There,” Sherlock said, casually stretching out one arm in a languorous gesture at a corner shelf where several oatmeal-coloured towels were neatly stacked.
John found himself watching the shift in muscle and bone in Sherlock’s shoulder blade and arm, the long expanse of clean skin, and only dimly registered the towels. His gaze halted at an incongruity. “Oi – what’s that?”
Sherlock dropped his hand. “What’s what?”
“What happened to your hand?”
“Nothing. What on earth are you talking about?”
John heaved an exasperated breath at Sherlock and his semantics. “Your wrist, I mean. What happened?”
“Oh.” Sherlock held his left hand up and regarded the angry red marks on it in bemusement, as if seeing them for the first time. “Caught it in the bathroom door last night.”
“That must have hurt. Want me to have a look at it?”
“No, thank you.” Sherlock dropped his hand and went back to his shaving. “You’ve got another text. Sixth one in the space of twenty minutes.”
“Oh, Christ, yeah.” John went back into his bedroom and picked up his phone. That was six texts from Alice now. With a hint of trepidation, he opened the first one.
I hadn't heard from you for two days so I stopped by the clinic & talked to that doctor you used to date & she said she didn't know where you were. So I
He sighed and opened the second.
I went to your flat & your landlady said that you'd gone to Italy with Sherlock. Thanks for telling me.
“Oh, God.” Hadn’t he told her? He swore he’d sent her a text. He knew he hadn’t phoned. It was a little – all right, a lot caddish of him not to have phoned, but he’d wanted to avoid any protracted discussion of why he’d chosen to take his holiday with Sherlock and not with Alice.
I know it wasn't definite or anything but I did think that maybe you were interested in coming to Cornwall. That was what you said anyway & I believed it.
He had been interested, it was true. But…. John sighed, anticipating the content of the next text. He wasn’t far off.
Whatever John. It's done & that's fine, but I think that when you get back & I come home from Cornwall, we need to sit down & have a talk.
Oh, God. Exactly why he hadn’t wanted to phone her in the first place.
Actually never mind. I'm inviting another friend to come with me. I don't really think you & I are working out & I'm not in the mood for this anymore.
Right. Well, he couldn’t say it was entirely unexpected. She’d accused him of neglect before, and they hadn’t even been dating that long. It was unfortunate, and it left him feeling a bit weary, but not exactly bruised of soul. He opened the last text.
Have a good time with your FLATMATE.
“Christ.” That was unnecessary. He set the phone on the nightstand, peeled off his t-shirt, tossed it on the bed, and trudged back into the bathroom, where Sherlock was pressing a damp towel to his face.
Sherlock took the towel from his face and gave John a brief glance. “She broke up with you.”
He didn’t even try to deny it. “We’d only been dating for a couple of months.” John slipped out of his tracksuit bottoms and hung them on a hook behind his door. “I don’t think she was all that keen on me.” He tried and failed to prevent himself from letting his gaze slide over Sherlock’s naked upper body, milk-pale once more, as he moved toward the corner shelf and snatched a towel. “I thought I’d told her I was leaving, though.”
“You announced your intention to text her night before last,” Sherlock said. He brushed his hair, flattening it almost completely. No matter – it would spring into crazy life in a few moments. “Evidently you failed to follow through.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“We only have a little over half an hour, John. Hurry up.”
That was Sherlock in a nutshell. “Thanks for the words of consolation.” John drew the shower curtain aside and turned on the tap. Hot water cascaded from the narrow showerhead, sending up billowing steam.
“Thirty-seven minutes.”
“Yeah, all right, Mum. Jesus.” John stepped into the shower and stood under the spray. The water was gloriously hot and pounded on his back and shoulders. “Oh, shit. Hey, Sherlock?” He drew the curtain aside. “Could you get my shampoo from my bag? I forgot it.”
“Just use mine, John. It’s on the floor.” Sherlock strode into his bedroom, yanking the towel off as he walked. John had a brief glimpse of high, round bum just before Sherlock turned the corner, and an entirely unsuitable and inappropriate surge of blood went straight to his cock.
Oh, God. Come on now. Light-headed and flushed, John leant against the rough tile of the shower stall and rested his cheek against the wall. It wasn’t the first time, if he was entirely honest with himself, that he’d found himself aroused at the sight of Sherlock partly or wholly undressed. Sherlock was attractive; John wasn’t blind, after all, and he’d have died before admitting it to anyone, but he’d had an experience or two with blokes in the RAMC.
Right, maybe twelve or fifteen. But who was counting? The point was, John wasn’t entirely oblivious to Sherlock’s elusive charms. It happened. It didn’t mean a damned thing, not really. A few stray thoughts here and there didn’t mean he wanted to fuck his flatmate.
And the thing was…he’d never really considered himself sensual. Sexual, yeah – he loved sex, loved looking at the soft, sexy bits of women that were ordinarily covered up – the silky skin and yielding flesh of an inner thigh, the curve of a hip, the lush ripeness of a breast – and he liked just enough foreplay to really get his engine revving, but he didn’t go in for hours of fondling and stroking and kissing and licking. But lately he’d been catching glimpses of Sherlock – not even his arse or anything, for God’s sake, just little things, like a flash of collarbone or the inside of his wrist or the shape of his mouth taking a sip of tea, and an odd, tiny ache would radiate from the center of his chest, and his hands got restless, wanting to touch, and his mouth dried up, and –
Christ, it was ridiculous, like some corny 1950s love song. He was pining. It was one thing to be horny, another to moon dreamily over his flatmate, a man utterly lacking in sexual appetite, a man who, as far as John could tell, regarded sex as messy, inconvenient, and foolishly tied to emotional upheaval. Well, he had the inconvenient bit right, anyhow. What was John supposed to say? ‘Hey, Sherlock, I quite fancy the way you solve crimes and the way that your hair curls on the nape of your neck – let’s fuck!’
Yeah, that would go over like a tin toilet in Siberia.
Idly, John curled his hand round his cock and pulled a bit. In the other room, Sherlock was dressing, wriggling into his underpants, buttoning the shirts that clung so worshipfully to his body. On anyone else they’d have been vulgar, but Sherlock managed to make ridiculously tight shirts seem absolutely right. He imagined the process in reverse, slowed to a crawl: Sherlock undoing his buttons one by one, shedding his shirt and letting it fall to soft folds at his bare feet, pulling down his thin boxer briefs –
Oh, fuck. He didn’t have time for a wank, and it was Sherlock he was thinking about, for fuck’s sake, not Alice or Sarah or any of the lovely women who’d paraded in and out of his life for the past year and a half. Because as gorgeous and sexy as they were, none of them were quite intriguing enough, not quite there enough –
“Twenty-nine minutes!”
“Christ –“ John snatched his hand away and stifled a groan. He was hard and the water was hot and felt marvellous, and he could have lingered for half an hour, but the bellowing martinet he fancied was ticking down the minutes, apparently. He stuck his head out of the shower stall to see Sherlock fully dressed, arms folded, and standing uncomfortably close – well, it was a tiny bathroom. “Are you actually timing me?”
“You haven’t even washed your hair,” Sherlock pointed out. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Enjoying the water,” John snapped. “God, Sherlock.” His erection started to wilt, and he ducked back inside and snatched up Sherlock’s shampoo. He lathered up hastily and washed himself with the big cake of soap sitting on the little built-in ledge – it smelled good, like a field of freshly mown grass – and finished up in five minutes. He towelled off, brushed his teeth, shaved, and was in his room in another five. Sherlock was sitting in the chair in his room, fiddling with his phone, and John saw that he’d laid an outfit on the bed – slim dark jumper, dark trousers, socks, underpants. It occurred to him to demand privacy, but Sherlock appeared to be ignoring him anyway. He gave a mental shrug and started dressing. “This is nice and funereal.”
Sherlock didn’t look up. “Well, we are going to a funeral. Don’t you think it’s appropriate? Hurry up, I don’t want to be late.”
“You’re awfully concerned about getting there on time,” John grumbled.
“According to Mycroft’s sources, the last sighting of Oscar Dzundza was in Prague, two days ago.”
“Back on his home turf,” John remarked, sitting on his bed to slide his socks on. “Enough time for him to finish his job here and leave.”
“And Trevor reports still no word of a newly surfaced codex, no rumours of private sales. Nothing public, naturally. Ah.” Sherlock’s mouth twisted upward. “She’s placed a discreet advert in some pertinent art periodicals – substantial reward for missing book, no real specifics, and no strings attached. Good girl.”
John frowned a little at the affection that had filtered into Sherlock’s voice. Arse, he chided himself. “The thief wouldn’t come forward, though – wouldn’t that just frighten him or her off?”
“Ransoming stolen art is more common than you’d think, especially amongst private collectors. And there are plenty of unsavoury dealers in the business. So much of it changes hands illicitly, provenance can’t be properly verified, law protects private sellers – it’s a lucrative profession for some clever people. But I don’t think Trevor’s on the right track. If whoever did this brought in Dzundza, there’s more to it than simple theft.” Sherlock compressed his lips and slipped his phone into his pocket.
John paused in the act of tying his shoe. “You don’t think it’s –“
Sherlock shrugged, but a strange light came into his eyes. “Could be. Doesn’t matter right now. Another thing – Brother Nicholas, the monk in charge of the infirmary, said that the codex was valuable, but not among the most valuable of all the codices they possess. So – why that one? Why not one worth more?”
“Easiest to pinch?” John suggested. “Father Simon said it was big, so maybe the more valuable ones were too unwieldy. Difficult to hide.”
“Maybe. We’ll find out. Ready?”
“After all your nagging, yeah, I am. Let’s go.”
“Bring your torch.”
“What for?”
“Just bring it.”
As they walked briskly toward the church, a single bell tolled, slow and solemn, echoing in the bright, cold morning. John breathed in the crisp air and admired the light on the mountains soaring high above the monastery. If he had a sight like that to wake up to every morning, he might feel pretty serene too, he thought.
“The service should take about an hour. And they’ll inter him in the crypt, so that should keep them a while longer,” Sherlock said.
“Why are you so keen to go, anyway? What are you hoping to find?”
“We’re not going to the funeral, John.”
“We’re – then – Sherlock, do you want to let me in on what’s happening?”
Sherlock gave John a glance that seemed faintly amused. “Well, we are making an appearance.”
“It’s not a cocktail party, Sherlock,” John said, exasperated. “We can’t just swan in and out.”
“We’re only staying long enough to get a head-count,” Sherlock replied. “I think the entire community will be in attendance, but I want to make certain. Then you and I are going to the library. With any luck, we’ll have at least an hour to look around without interference.”
“That’s why you wanted me to bring the torch. Well, you could have told me,” John said mildly. He knew well enough by now that Sherlock loved hatching plots and keeping him in the dark until the last possible moment, but he was used to being briefed on a need-to-know basis; it might have bothered other people more, he conceded. It was one of Sherlock’s more irritating and oddly endearing traits. He didn’t need to prove he was clever to be clever, but he didn’t seem to realise that quite yet. Someday, maybe.
“You have an underdeveloped sense of urgency.”
“Oh, bollocks – if that’s not the pot calling the kettle black. Every time you’re needed at NSY, Lestrade knows your actual ETA is about an hour after you’re scheduled to turn up. He adjusts his calendar accordingly.”
“Does he?” Sherlock seemed pleased. “I’ll have to show up early next time. Wouldn’t do to have him get complacent.”
John saw Sherlock’s smile and felt his heart give a funny little twist. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He held the heavy wooden door of the church open so Sherlock could go in.
The church wasn’t enormous, but its high, vaulted ceilings and tall columns contributed to a sensation of vast space, made kaleidoscopic thanks to the arched stained-glass windows that dappled the interior with clear, luminescent colour. The place was smoky with incense, and in the centre aisle stood a white-draped coffin on a wheeled wooden platform.
John moved toward the rows of pews at the front of the church, but Sherlock caught his arm and indicated, with a slight gesture of his hand, that they should stand near the back. Sherlock led him to a column of scored white stone. “There are forty-seven monks in the abbey, if every one of them was present at supper last evening.” He frowned, peering at the monks already gathered in the pews and on a raised dais near the altar in two small rows. “Forty-four, including the choir on the side there. I expect the celebrants will proceed through the back.”
The sound of footsteps silenced Sherlock. John saw Ian Adler, immaculately dressed in a dark suit and tie, dip his fingers in the holy water font and cross himself. He glanced at John and Sherlock, nodded, and made his way up the far right aisle to an empty pew, where he genuflected deeply and then knelt, folding his hands and bowing his head.
John scowled. Adler didn’t strike him as the praying sort, but one never knew about people.
“Thought he wasn’t coming,” Sherlock murmured.
“Huh?”
Sherlock shook his head and raised a finger to his lips. The back door swung open once more, and the choir began to intone a solemn chant. Sherlock had been right about the choir near the front. There was no loft; the rear wall soared straight up to the ceiling, broken by weight-bearing piers and pointed arched windows of stained glass, topped with a brilliantly hued rose window.
Two monks entered the church, one bearing a crucifix on a metal pole, the other swinging a brass censer that billowed smoke. Behind him came Father Simon Trevor and an aged, stooped monk who shuffled forward slowly as if each step might have been his last. The first two monks were in their regular habits; Simon and the old monk were in heavy, richly embroidered vestments. Simon, John saw, supported the ancient monk by one arm as they made their way up the centre aisle.
“Forty-eight,” Sherlock whispered. “All right, John – that’s all of them. One extra, actually. Let’s go.”
“Who was the old fella?” John wondered as they swung onto the path toward the library. “Didn’t see him last night.”
“Don’t know. Neither did I. Maybe some emeritus monk they wheel out on special occasions.”
“Sherlock,” John scolded.
“Anyway, the point is we won’t have anyone hovering as we work.” Sherlock ducked down a side path of smooth flagstone and came to a plain wooden door. He tried the knob and then fished his picklock out. “Terribly suspicious now, these friars.”
“With good reason.”
“True.” Sherlock felt about patiently and then made a small noise of satisfaction. “There. Come along, John.”
John followed Sherlock into the library and closed the door behind him. It wasn’t much different from an ordinary library; there were rows of tables, and shelves and shelves of books. The atmosphere was still and peaceful and a bit dusty, and it held that smell of old books that sometimes made John mildly horny – some of his earliest make-out sessions had been in the stacks at school, and he’d never forgot the association. Light poured in from the clear glass windows, and an old steam heat system clanked faintly in a nearby radiator.
“What was the name of the fellow who died here?” John asked.
“Matthias. Brother Matthias. Fell down a flight of stairs.” Sherlock looked around. “Plausible enough, for the moment. Where are the most precious and unusual books kept in any library?”
“Top floor,” John said promptly. “The one near me had a creaky old lift that only the librarians were allowed to use. We had to take the stairs, but even then, the top floor was barred off.”
“Right,” Sherlock said. “And they’d be…right there.” He pointed toward an arched doorway and strode toward it. “Up we go.”
The staircase proved to be quite narrow and dark, with stone steps worn in the centre from hundreds of years of tread. “Easy to fall down these,” John said, taking out his torch and flicking it on.
“Or be pushed,” replied Sherlock. He moved past the landing to the second floor and made his way to the third. “John – give me your torch.”
John reached the top of the stairs and handed the torch over. Sherlock played the beam over the door, which had no handle or knob. The arched doorway was of stone, elaborately carved with strange and fanciful creatures that looked like the product of some feverish and possibly demented imagination – snakes with the heads of dogs, dolphins with legs, birds with hands at the ends of their wings, clawed and fanged deer, rampant lions with oddly human legs. “Christ, that’s creepy,” John muttered. “Is that supposed to inspire devotion?”
“More likely to scare off any would-be intruders.” Sherlock moved the beam to the door. “Hinges are on the inside.”
“How do we get in?”
“I’m sure it was a conundrum when it was built,” Sherlock said, letting the light play over the carvings. “Fortunately, we have hundreds of years on our side.” He pointed to the upper left side of the doorway. “There – see how worn it is? Years and years of arms and sleeves brushing against the stone.” Carefully, he began to explore the carvings with his fingertips. “Should be here somewhere. Hold the torch, John.”
John held the light and backed up against the wall. “Skinny space here.”
“Yes, isn’t it? If Brother Matthias was pushed, whoever pushed him was probably in the library already. Hard to shove someone down the stairs without taking a tumble yourself.”
“Does that mean he let them in, then?”
“Maybe. Maybe the codex wasn’t so much stolen as it was given away. Oh!” Sherlock stopped and traced his fingers over the face of a snarling dog, or some snarling creature with sharp fangs and gaping tongue and weird, hollow eyes. “There it is. Ha.” He put his finger inside one of the eyes and pushed hard.
John waited, and bit his lip.
“Damn it,” Sherlock muttered.
“Try it again,” John suggested.
Sherlock frowned over at John, but he put his finger inside the hole and pushed again. “It’s a sort of latch. I can feel it yielding.”
“Maybe there’s a – a code or something,” John said. “Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“The Trinity, perhaps,” Sherlock said. “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Here goes nothing.” He pushed again, and there was an audible click. The door swung open quietly.
“Good guess,” John said. “I’m impressed. You’re not even a churchgoer.”
“I never guess,” Sherlock replied smugly, but it was obvious he was pleased. “Hold on, don’t move. Give me the light.” He played the beam over the floor. “No obvious prints – all right, we might as well go in.”
They stepped into a dark, narrow passageway. Three doors stood before them, plain, unadorned, and a bit ominous. “There’s a tiger behind one of them,” John joked.
“Pick one.”
“Right.” John looked at the identical doors and placed his hand on the knob of the one closest to him. “This one.” He turned it, and stepped inside.
Something brushed John’s cheek, and he leapt back with a stifled yelp. Behind him, Sherlock chuckled, reached past him, and tugged at something hanging in the air. A yellowish bulb flickered into life, feebly illuminating a not-very-large room with stacks of bookshelves holding books and what appeared to be carved wooden boxes.
“Relax, John.”
“Oh, shut it,” John murmured, and moved into the room. He examined some of the spines of the books, most of which were far too old and worn to read properly and in any case were in a number of different languages. He saw German, Spanish, Latin, Italian, French, and what looked like Farsi before he finally came upon an English title. “The Anatomy of Melancholie. Nice one.” Carefully, he touched an ornately carved and gilded wooden box. “Pretty. What are they?”
“I imagine they hold the codices.” Sherlock grasped one and set it onto a small table. “This one’s still inside. Heavy.” He unhooked the latch and lifted the lid, then opened the front cover of the thick book.
“Wow.” John peered closely at the page covered in coloured illuminations that seemed to glow under the light of the bulb. The central figure was an angel with a glowing sword, treading upon a feathered serpent, surrounded with tiny pictures of animals and people working in fields, starry skies, carefully inscribed flowers, and flourishes and curlicues that held no meaning that John could see but that were very beautiful indeed. The inks were as bright and vivid as if it had been completed the day before, and there was a faint sheen of gold here and there, carefully etched into the illustrations. “I can see why they’re so valuable.”
Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and turned a page.
John shook his head. “What is this? Latin?” He squinted at the words. Ic eom wunderlicu wiht wifum on hyhte neahbuendum nyt; nægum sceþþe burgsittendra nymthe bonan anum. “Hang on, that’s not Latin.”
“Old English.”
“Can you read it?”
“No.” Sherlock closed the book and replaced the lid. He sighed and scanned the shelves rapidly, giving each box a little push to ensure that it held a codex. “There doesn’t seem to be anything missing here. Let’s try the next room.”
John paused over the codex box. “Funny that. If we time-travelled – if we went back a thousand years, we’d have no idea what anyone was saying to us.”
“We’d probably be burned at the stake,” Sherlock said. “Come on, hurry up. We only have about forty-five minutes left.”
“There’s a cheerful thought.” John pulled the light chain and closed the door quietly. All at once, he paused. “Was that –“
Somewhere far below them, in the main room of the library, there was a sound of approaching footsteps. Sherlock wheeled on John, a finger pressed to his lips, and gestured for John to open the middle door. John scrabbled for the handle and hurried inside, only to run soundly into a stone wall. He grunted, touched the sore spot on his head, and was about to turn to tell Sherlock that they’d found a closet when the door closed behind them, plunging them into complete darkness. Sherlock collided with John and let out a low cry of surprise. “What the hell, John?” he whispered.
“Cupboard,” John whispered back. Sherlock’s body was pressed tightly against his. “Come on, back up.”
“Shh.”
John held his breath and heard the heavy tread of footsteps ascending the library stairs. It was probably one of the monks – Simon, maybe. The funeral apparently hadn’t run long. “Why do we have to –“
Sherlock pressed his fingers against John’s mouth, and all at once his lips were against John’s ear. “Quiet,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the sensitive flesh.
It was the most sudden and unexpected erotic contact, and as he felt the light, teasing sensation of Sherlock’s lips and the long length of his body pressing close, John’s cock answered happily, ready for action. Appalled, John squirmed into the corner. Oh, Christ’s sake, not now. He held himself very still and listened as the footsteps came closer.
It was a heavy tread, slow and even, but were they booted feet? Was it perhaps their old pal the Golem? Sherlock would probably know, but John had no idea. He longed for his weapon, but he’d been obliged to leave it behind. Probably one of the monks. Don’t want to be shooting at them. He breathed in Sherlock’s scent. He had to; Sherlock’s neck was practically smashed into his nose, and his fingers still lay lightly over John’s mouth. A terrible impulse leapt into his head to touch his tongue to Sherlock’s hand. Oh, God, what the hell is wrong with you? Sherlock’s thigh and hip nudged at him; he felt wool and the warm insistent pressure of Sherlock’s lanky body.
The footsteps ceased at the top of the stairs, and there was another sound – heavy breathing, as if the person was out of shape. John shuddered slightly as he heard the left door open, then the right, then a frustrated, wordless growl.
“Get ready,” Sherlock whispered. His hair tickled John’s face; his lips were soft against John’s ear. Slowly, noiselessly, he turned, not without some difficulty – it was close and getting stifling – and reached down to briefly grasp John’s wrist.
The handle of the middle door rattled, but the door stayed closed. John felt his body thrumming with tension and anticipation. Come on, you bastard.
The footsteps moved away, and began to descend the stairs. After a long, agonising moment, the footsteps faded away altogether, and the tiny closet was silent once more. John let out a sigh and sagged against the stone wall. “Christ,” he said softly. “I – what the hell….”
A faint hiss insinuated itself into the tiny room, and John began to smell something noxious, like rotting eggs and swamp water. Inadvertently, he sucked in a deep breath and took in a lungful of smoke. “Oh, Jesus, what –“
“There’s no handle on the inside of the door.” Sherlock’s voice was still a whisper, but unexpectedly harsh and agitated.
“What do you mean? How did you close it?”
“I mean –“ Sherlock coughed. “I didn’t – it must be weighted. I can’t get out.” He coughed again. “Here.”
John felt something soft and warm thrust into his hands. “What’s th—“
“Tie it over your mouth and nose and get down on the floor. I’ve got to figure this out.”
“Where’s the torch?”
“I left it on the table.”
John groaned. “Oh, fucking hell, Sherlock –“ He sucked in another mouthful of smoke and choked. Tears filled his eyes, and he rubbed at them.
“I didn’t do it deliberately, for God’s sake!” Sherlock snapped. He coughed again, and the sound of his voice dipped, as if he’d bent double. “Have to find the hinge – might be a simple pin –“ He coughed again, convulsively. “Whoever that was…must have known….”
“Sherlock, you take the scarf –“
“I said tie it over your mouth and nose! Don’t waste my time arguing.”
“Fuck.” John tied the scarf around his face, knelt on the floor, and groped forward to help Sherlock. “Here, let me try.”
Sherlock moved aside as much as he could, which wasn’t much. He coughed and gasped. “There’s some sort of ventilation pulling at the smoke, or we’d both be unconscious by now. It’s –“ He broke off, wheezing. “It’s got to be here somewhere.”
John tugged frantically at the door’s lower hinges, but they were tight and secure. He blinked against tears as he felt along the door frame for something that might get them out. Frustrated, he pounded on the door. “Hey!”
“What the hell are you doing?” Sherlock demanded.
“I don’t feel like suffocating in here,” he retorted, and began to slam against the door in earnest. “Hey! Help! Let us out!”
“Move aside,” Sherlock gasped, and John pressed himself against the wall. He felt Sherlock back up, then lash out with one foot, trying to kick the door down. The sound of Sherlock’s foot connecting with the thick, solid wood was depressing, to say the least. “Hell.” He took a hitching breath, spluttered, and began hacking again.
John resumed pounding on the door. “Simon! Brother Edward! Somebody! Anybody, for God’s sake! Help!” He had the horrible suspicion, if not the certainty, that any sound they made was swallowed by the thickness of the wood and the stone walls. “Hey!” His last shout broke on a series of coughs that made his head spin. He was getting dizzy.
“John—“ Sherlock said, and John let out a startled cry as Sherlock’s body pitched forward, crumpling heavily against him.
“Oh, fuck – Sherlock? Sherlock, please –“ Despite the scarf, John was getting light-headed. He caught Sherlock around the waist, trying to support him, but it was no good. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t suck in the slightest bit of clean air, and he was sliding down the stone wall, falling into an endless well of thick choking blackness.
*
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no subject
Date: 2012-10-01 06:39 pm (UTC)I love the atmosphere in this chapter and all the imagery.
Not to mention some of the descriptions which had me grinning like a loon... 'bellowing martinet' for instance to describe Sherlock. That's one of the most accurate descriptors I've ever read. And learning that the smell of old books makes John 'mildly horny' due to associating it with early make-out sessions... priceless.
Hope the next chapter is up soon; I'm really enjoying this.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-01 08:11 pm (UTC)That's one of the most accurate descriptors I've ever read.
Hee! Oh, I'm pleased to hear that! And glad you liked the bit about the books. :D Thank you so much, I'm jazzed to write the next chapter! I'm so glad you're enjoying it.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-01 08:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-02 01:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-01 08:58 pm (UTC)And AAAAUGH at the ending! Nooooo!
no subject
Date: 2012-10-02 02:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-01 10:23 pm (UTC)I love the description of the book. Parchment preserves so well! I remember once being allowed into Special Collections to look at a big, big book of chants, like one that was big enough for a whole choir of monks to sing out of, and it was so pretty and crisp.
Alas for Sherlock and John, though! They should have stuck with the pretty pictures.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-02 02:05 am (UTC)I was looking at this AMAZING photo of a page from the Book of Kells, which sadly I did not see when I was in Dublin, and it just blew me away. http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/ee/KellsFol034rChiRhoMonogram.jpg I have seen one or two parchment books, and they fill me with awe.
Count on Sherlock and John to find trouble! More to come - thanks so much for reading and commenting! Much appreciated. :)
no subject
Date: 2012-10-02 06:32 am (UTC)Love the description of the library, can almost see it.
Have a good time with your FLATMATE. *grins* Tough competition, sister..
A terrible impulse leapt into his head to touch his tongue to Sherlock’s hand. That is so hot.
I really love this fic, love the surroundings and the dark secrets. Eagerly waiting your next chapter!
no subject
Date: 2012-10-02 02:25 pm (UTC)Hm, you think Sherlock is being deliberate about making John horny? Hee.
I'm so glad you like it, dearest! Thank you so much. :D
no subject
Date: 2012-10-02 10:23 am (UTC)I liked seeing things from John's pov and his inappropriate erections made me grin. Can Sherlock really be oblivious to the effect he has on John, what with him being so observant and all? More soon, please.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-02 02:27 pm (UTC)I really love writing John's POV - maybe because it's so much easier than writing Sherlock! He's a tough cookie to try to duplicate, the clever sod. I wonder if he is as oblivious as he seems. :D Thank you so much!!
no subject
Date: 2012-10-02 07:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-02 07:38 pm (UTC)