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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
*
--- One day, Sherlock, you’re going to pay rather dearly for this incessant and dreary penchant for exposing yourself to danger. I do hope you realise I cannot be there to extricate you from every perilous situation in which you find yourself entangled.
--- Oh, shut up, Mycroft. When was the last time I begged you for a favour?
--- You were seven, I believe. Stranded in a willow tree.
--- I’ve learnt a thing or two since then, believe me.
The darkness that surrounded Sherlock resonated with smoke, a thick, muffled scraping, the warmth and solidity of another body, and shouting that faded away into a dim, pleasant hum. He wanted to tell John to stay low, that he might possibly survive until help arrived, but he couldn’t speak for the smoke clouding his lungs. His head struck something hard, and a bright flash of pain, along with the depressing notion that Mycroft could have been right, reverberated in his skull before he slipped under entirely.
He came to with his cheek pressed against cool stone and the sound of vaguely familiar voices floating above his head.
“Just lie still, Sherlock. It’s all right.”
He struggled to get up and sucked in a lungful of clean air. Glorious, until he choked on it.
“Get him some water!”
John. Where was John?
“Come on, now, lad, hold still. It’s all right.” A deep voice, English, Northern-accented. Brother Edward.
Where was John?
“He’s all right. He’s right here.”
A hand squeezed his.
“I’m okay, Sherlock.” John’s voice, rough and shaky, but unmistakably his, unmistakably alive. “I’m okay. Brother Edward--” There was a convulsive fit of coughing.
Sherlock’s vision cleared enough to see John bent over, his hand pressed to his mouth.
John. John.
“I’m all right. Choky, that’s all.” John’s hand brushed the hair from Sherlock’s forehead, touched his cheek. Tears occluded Sherlock’s vision. “Brother Edward’s going to take us to a surgery in town. I don’t think it’s --” Another round of coughing. “I don’t think it’s serious, but I think we could both do with a hit of oxygen. And maybe bronchoscopy for you, since you fainted. Oh, good – here, Sherlock.” John’s arm slid under his head and supported his neck, and something cool and wet was put to his lips. “Have a drink. Little sips.”
He sipped. His teeth hit the glass, and water spilled down his neck. He couldn’t see past the burning and stinging in his eyes. He sipped again, and choked again.
“It’s okay.” How soothing John’s voice was. Lovely bedside manner. “I think we can get moving now.”
“Is he all right?” That voice, with a little catch in the centre of the words.
“He will be.” John again, grim and brusque. “Excuse us.”
“Let me help.” Ah. Ian Adler. What was he doing there?
“Right.” John was really dreadful at concealing his animosity. Sherlock couldn’t fault his instincts, though. “Grab him under the arm – Brother Edward, can you support his other side? I can’t --”
For God’s sake, John, don’t worry about me. Look after yourself, you idiot. You inhaled a lot of smoke too.
“Settle down, Sherlock. You want some more water?”
No, I want to find out who decided to sabotage our investigation, for God’s sake.
“Don’t try to talk, you’ll just end up coughing. Wait until you can breathe properly again. Yes or no? Shake your head if it’s no, stop being so bloody – all right, never mind, let’s just go.”
They bundled him downstairs and out of the library and into the back seat of the Volvo. Through a greyish veil of smoke-induced tears, he saw Simon and Brother Edward in the front, John beside him.
“Don’t rub your eyes, Sherlock. Let the tears take care of that, okay?” John’s hand grasped his wrist and set it in his lap.
The execution of a mutinous glare was difficult whilst tears were streaming from one’s eyes, not to mention the frequent seal noises that insisted upon making an escape from one’s chest. Sherlock settled for folding his arms tightly and letting the cold wind from the open windows rush past his face. The clear air felt good, restorative even, though he still coughed continuously. He batted away John’s tentatively comforting hand and bent almost double, annoyed by the constant hacking and the pain in his chest. Not to worry, they were on their way to a surgery. Breathing treatment, a hit of pure oxygen. Beside him, John coughed as well. The back seat of the car sounded like a tuberculosis ward. The front of the car was silent; Brother Edward, driving, whipped the car around the turns, every so often glancing anxiously over his shoulder at his noisy passengers. Simon, back in his ordinary black-and-white habit, sat unmoving, doing his best imitation of an Easter Island statue. Sherlock would have dearly loved to make a snide remark, but he couldn’t gather the breath to speak. Enforced silence was awful.
Half an hour after leaving the abbey they found themselves not in a surgery, but a small hospital, with Simon explaining the situation to a doctor and two nurses in rapid-fire Italian. Sherlock and John were whisked into a room with two beds, and the curtain partition was drawn. Wearily, he submitted to an examination, with Brother Edward standing nearby to translate, though he was able to describe most of his symptoms in faulty Italian. After it was determined, following a great deal of poking and prodding, that no intubation was necessary, he lay back on the narrow, uncomfortable bed and allowed an oxygen mask to be strapped to his face and soothing drops applied to his aching eyes. He heard John’s raspy voice and a brief chuckle, and relaxed enough to fall asleep.
*
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock turned his face toward the hand resting on his forehead, leaning into the touch.
“Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Wake up.”
“Mm?” Sherlock opened his eyes – still a bit sore – and saw John standing over him, looking as though he’d just washed his face. His hair looked a bit sooty and stood up in tufts here and there.
“Hi.” John took his hand away. “I’m going to take the mask off, okay?” His voice sounded a bit ragged, overtaxed, but not dreadful. He was upright and besides the smoky-smelling clothes and hair and eyes that were still a bit bloodshot, he looked fine. He hadn’t been badly injured. Good. Good.
Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes again. He felt better. His lungs hurt less, and breathing wasn’t the effort it had been a while ago. He felt John’s fingers brushing against his face, undoing the straps that held the mask tight over his mouth and nose, and lifting it off. He took an experimental breath: a bit of an ache, nothing terribly debilitating. The medical staff would no doubt tell him to take it easy for a few days. John would almost certainly tell him the same thing.
Highly, highly unlikely. But then John knew that.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Sherlock croaked, and blinked at the rasp in his own voice.
John smiled a little. “Here, drink this.” He handed Sherlock a cup of fruit juice, and Sherlock sipped meekly enough. “They said there’s no need to keep us longer. Got some instructional pamphlets --” John rummaged in a pocket and flourished a handful of folded leaflets. “All in Italian, of course, but it’s standard stuff – watch your breathing and how you sleep and make sure you don’t vomit blood and call 999 if your nails turn blue. I don’t know if it’s 999 here – anyway.” John shrugged.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Worried about you, mostly, you git – you’re the one who sucked in all the smoke. I had your scarf, remember?”
“Of course I remember.” Sherlock tried to frown, but it was too much of a relief to see John up and about. He felt his mouth twitching into a smile and settled for an expression of bored impatience. “Who found us?”
“Never mind that now. Let’s focus on getting you up and about.”
“Do we get to leave now?”
“We do,” John affirmed, stuffing the leaflets back into his pocket. “Simon and Brother Edward are in the waiting room, but you can rest a bit – no need to rush. The oxygen might make you feel a bit shaky on your legs.”
“I’ll be fine.” Sherlock rose and swung his feet onto the floor. His head swam, and he blinked still-scratchy eyes.
John eyed him dubiously. “You sure about that? They checked you for concussion, didn’t they? Let me have a look at your eyes.”
“Of course I’m sure, John, and yes, they did. No need for you to slip into A&E mode.” Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and swayed. His vision blurred a bit.
“Okay, okay.” John caught his arm and guided him very firmly back to the bed. “Let’s not tip over, yeah? Nice and slow. Where are your shoes? Oh.” He crouched and picked up one of Sherlock’s shoes, untying the laces. “Right foot. Come on, don’t make me do all the work.”
“I’m perfectly capable of putting on my own shoes, John.” Nevertheless, Sherlock stuck one foot out and focused on John’s hands pulling the ends of the laces out of the shoe, stretching it open to accommodate Sherlock’s foot.
“Uh-huh. Your other right.”
“Oh.”
John squinted up at him. “You sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Absolutely. One hundred percent.”
“Right,” John snorted. “I’ll tell you this – I don’t care what you say, you’re taking it easy for the rest of the day. No running around and fainting because you’re short of breath and too bloody stubborn to say so. You’ve got to let your lungs re-acclimate to ordinary respiration. Deep breathing at intervals, food and water.”
“Whilst the trail grows cold and whoever managed to attack us gets away.”
John shook his head as he tied Sherlock’s shoelace. “You know better than I do that if it was outside talent, he’s long gone by now, and if it was an inside job, he’s not going anywhere. In either case, whatever he was trying to prevent us from seeing is probably still in the library, so just resign yourself to a day of enforced leisure, all right? It’s already noon, anyway. Half the day’s gone.” He peered up at Sherlock, challenge darkening his eyes.
A sharp retort constructed itself from the still-lingering haze and disorientation inside Sherlock’s cranium, and he opened his mouth to let it fly out – and then, contrary to his temperament and nature, shut it again and regarded John curiously. A certain blunt practicality always infused John’s utterances, and he was learning – with agonising slowness to be sure, but learning nonetheless – some of the more obvious processes of deduction, but it was still surprising and not altogether unpleasurable to discern a measure of personal concern in his admonitions, insofar as emotions were unpredictable and routinely defied analysis. It had been a long-held tenet of Sherlock’s personal beliefs that anyone who hadn’t been able to discipline themselves enough to display the thinnest possible slivers of emotion was unmistakably a fool, but there was John, who laughed and swore and even got misty at ludicrously stupid movies, and John wasn’t, Sherlock admitted – if only to himself – a fool.
And then there had been that fleeting moment in the cupboard, where Sherlock had thought, just for a moment, that John had been excited by his proximity. He’d heard John’s breathing speed up, felt the slightest tremor of John’s lips beneath his fingers – but then John had moved away from him, wriggling into the furthest corner of the cupboard. In the midst of danger, Sherlock had experienced a brief yet acute stab of disappointment. Quickening hearts and trembling breaths in the context of desire had always meant very little to him, but lately –
“Sherlock, are you listening to me? I want you to rest today.”
“I heard you perfectly well,” Sherlock replied, adopting his crossest tone to disguise the vague embarrassment of having been caught staring into John’s eyes – slate blue with a corona of hazel round the pupil, and a sunburst of striation in each iris – and thrusting his left foot imperiously forward. “I want to talk to a few people, and I suppose I can do that sitting down, if you insist. And we’re going back to the library and the balneary.”
“We can do that tomorrow, if Simon doesn’t throw us off the premises. He looked like thunder.”
“We’re the best hope he’s got right now,” Sherlock said, then slid off the bed as John finished tying his shoe. “Come on, we’ve wasted enough time here.”
The first ten minutes of the ride back to the abbey were silent and thickly weighted with Simon’s disapproval. Sherlock watched his face darken to crimson – even the bald patch at the back of his head had turned bright pink – and waited in amused patience for the explosion he knew was coming.
He didn’t have to wait long. “I thought I had made it perfectly clear, Sherlock, that you would receive an escort to the library. Moreover, I indicated last night that there were certain areas that were forbidden to you. I would have thought that someone with your cognitive capabilities would understand what that meant.”
“Yes, but fortunately I have a talent for ignoring pointless edicts and hindrances. Who was it that let us out?”
Simon turned and glared at Sherlock, then at John. “I have half a mind to turn you both out,” he said. “So far as I’ve heard, the best you’ve done is to turn up a couple of footprints in the balneary, which doesn’t bring us any closer to retrieving the book or discovering who murdered Brother Adelmo.”
“And yet someone was keen enough on keeping us from discovering more about the library, and willing enough to suffocate Dr. Watson and me to death in order to do it.” Sherlock’s voice began to rasp. “I’d call that significant, wouldn’t you? Well, maybe you wouldn’t. Now are you going to answer my question or not? Who let us out of the cupboard? And it’s not really a cupboard, is it?”
John gave Sherlock a startled glance. “It’s --”
“Come on, John. An empty cupboard in a library – not a single box or broom or dustbin? Libraries are overcrowded by nature, constantly expanding with new acquisitions, and in this particular sort of library, they don’t just chuck the old books to make room for the new, do they? An empty space in any library is practically a contradiction in terms. Add to that the source of ventilation that kept us from succumbing to the smoke immediately – what happened to the smoke bomb, by the way?”
“Father Simon asked me to take it to the police,” Brother Edward said.
Sherlock sighed loudly. “Oh, excellent move, Simon. Tell me, are you actively attempting to grind this investigation to a screeching halt or is it just a symptom of your general idiocy that prevents you from making decisions that involve more than three brain cells at a time?”
Simon’s face was an intriguing shade of purple. “I had Brother Edward take the device to the police for fingerprinting, in the hopes of discovering your assailant.”
“You might as well have tossed it in the bin. Well done.” Sherlock turned back to John. “The library’s constructed of stone and despite the presence of Simon here, relatively well-kept. Chinks are regularly mortared, windows kept tight, that sort of thing. And the cupboard that wasn’t a cupboard was an interior room, so where did that airflow come from? Another door, I think – yes, Simon?”
Simon glared at Sherlock, then shook his head. “Yes.”
“So are you going to give us carte blanche to examine the library or do we have to make another stealth entry? Breaking and entering gets a little boring. Waste of time.”
Simon seemed to be struggling with himself. Beside him, Brother Edward bit his lip and looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else. “Mr. Holmes,” Brother Edward ventured, “I know it’s difficult to understand our ways, but the truth is we’re not very used to laypeople having free run of the abbey. Father Simon is only –“
“I understand that you’re not accustomed to it, Brother Edward, but Simon seems more interested in protecting some petty little non-existent fiefdom than in actually getting this case solved and bringing a murderer to justice. So to get back to an earlier question – who was it that responded to John’s banging and shouting?”
“It was Mr. Adler,” Simon said. “He was on the second floor.”
“Mr. Adler has the run of the library?” Sherlock mused. “Interesting.”
“Not in the least,” Simon retorted. “He was accompanied by Brother Marcelo, one of our novices. Marcelo had expressed interest in the library when he joined us, and is now in the unique and unenviable position of learning to maintain it without the benefit of Brother Matthias or Brother Adelmo’s counsel.”
Sherlock sat up. “Brother Marcelo.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Brother Marcelo, who’d wept at supper over his colleague’s death. Brother Marcelo, who’d been photographed in the most compromising position by Ian Adler. How very interesting indeed. “I’d like to speak to him as soon as possible.”
“I suppose that can be arranged,” Simon said ungraciously. The car drew to a stop in the cobbled courtyard and Simon heaved himself out and walked away. Sherlock followed as quickly as he could – not as quickly as he’d have liked, thanks to the still-wobbly state of his legs.
“See that it is,” Sherlock called. “Because someone in your community gave our assailant the means to enter the third floor.”
Simon halted in his tracks and stood quite still for a moment before turning slowly on his heel. “What are you saying?”
“I think you know what I’m saying,” Sherlock replied, “but I’ll clarify nonetheless, and I’ll be sure to use small words so you understand. Someone gave third-floor access to the man who tried to kill us. We didn’t prop the door open. Whoever it was couldn’t have got in without knowing how. So the question is: who was it? Brother Marcelo? Brother Matthias or Brother Adelmo? You, Simon?”
Simon shook his head. “If you believe that anyone here is capable of murder --”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. That’s why you brought me here, Simon.”
“Vickie wanted you here,” Simon said. He moved a few steps closer to Sherlock. “I never wanted you here, Sherlock. I still don’t. You’ve managed to disrupt a very solemn day, and if you hadn’t broken into the library, you wouldn’t have been assaulted. I’ll grant that something very peculiar is happening, but you seem to be causing more trouble than you’re averting.”
“So boot us out,” Sherlock said. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“I want this solved. I want the murderers brought to justice, and I want the codex back.”
“Then don’t obstruct me,” Sherlock said. “Believe it or not, Simon, I’m trying to help you. Someone doesn’t want me to discover more about what’s happening here, and you might find yourself with another dead monk on your hands.”
“Or a dead detective.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
“I’m sorry.” Simon bit his lip. “That was…unnecessary and unkind. What I mean is that Vicki would never forgive me if something happened to you.”
“I trust you’ll send Brother Marcelo my way in a short while, then.” Sherlock turned to join John, who was talking quietly to Brother Edward.
John gave him a faintly reproachful look. “You just had to piss him off more, didn’t you?”
“Oh, God, he deserves it. If I didn’t know him already, I’d say he had a hand in this whole thing, he’s so determined to be difficult, but that’s just Simon being Simon.”
“Don’t blame him too much,” Brother Edward said. He saw both Sherlock and John staring at him and a blush rose to his cheeks. “It’s not easy, running this place. He’s been under some pressure to sell recently, and the abbey isn’t making money. We’re operating in the red, to tell you the truth.”
“Money,” John said. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you didn’t get the grand tour,” Brother Edward said, scratching his neck. “We brew beer, and the profits offset our cost of living. The information’s in the leaflets that should have been in your room.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I saw that.”
“It’s lovely stuff – a winter stout and a summer blend. We brew it in small batches and sell it under the name San Stefano. It’s artisanal – snob appeal, I guess you’d say. But the economy hasn’t been kind to us – costs are up and sales aren’t what they used to be, so he’s worried. We all are. And even though Simon’s not the abbot, all the burdens of the abbey fall on his shoulders.”
“So who’s the abbot?” John asked.
“Father Umberto. He was the co-celebrant at the funeral this morning, but he’s old and frail and hardly leaves his room these days.” Brother Edward shrugged. “Anyhow, if Father Simon’s a bit…abrupt, or unhelpful, try to remember that he’s under quite a lot of strain.”
“All the more reason for him to want to get this case solved in short order,” Sherlock said.
Brother Edward smiled. “You’re a bit relentless, Mr. Holmes. How did you get into the library? And onto the third floor, for that matter?”
Sherlock dove into his pocket and produced his picklock. “With this. As to your second question – only a few people seem to know how to access the third floor. I doubt you want to add to those numbers. It would only complicate matters.”
“True enough,” Brother Edward sighed. “Forget I asked. Oh – you should know that Brother Marcelo doesn’t speak much English. You might have a time of it trying to ask him questions.”
“Perhaps you’d be so good as to translate for me, then.”
“Aye, I suppose I could,” Brother Edward said. “I don’t reckon either of you have had any breakfast.” He squinted up at the sun. “And it’s past lunch now. I’ll have someone bring something to your room.”
Sherlock glanced at John, who was looking a bit pale and drawn. “That would be appreciated, thank you.” He nodded a farewell to Brother Edward and he and John made their way back to their lodgings.
“You’re eating something,” John said.
“Not if it’s that God-awful stew from last night.”
“It was delicious,” John said. His voice was still a bit raspy. “You have the eating habits of a primary school kid.”
“Untrue. I like a glass of wine now and again.”
“I wouldn’t mind trying some of that beer,” John said. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” Sherlock grasped the lapel of his coat and put it to his nose. “My clothes smell, though. I should air the coat out, at least, and get the rest laundered.”
“I doubt they have dry cleaning here, unless it’s the old-fashioned sort – you know, sponge it down and hang it outside.”
“Remind me never to be a monk.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” John said. “I think you’d do all right.”
Sherlock peered at John. “What makes you say that?”
There was a momentary silence, then John shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ve got that Jedi thing going on sometimes.”
“What?”
“Never mind, scratch that. You’d go mad without your mobile after two days, not to mention being out of London for more than a month would send you round the twist completely. Come on, I’m starving.” John surged ahead, leaving Sherlock to follow.
Sherlock watched John’s progress for a moment. There was, he knew, an entire vocabulary of reference that separated the two of them, but Sherlock had never troubled to learn it; it simply wasn’t important. But a year of observing John had taught him that there were small obscurities woven into John’s speech. Coupled with recurring facial expressions indicating some strong emotion on John’s part, it made for the most aggrieving perplexity at times, as if John was attempting to convey something in a code he couldn’t possibly understand. More confounding and annoying still was that it had begun to bother him at all.
He scowled and set off after John. He wondered what a Jedi was, but he’d be damned if he’d ask.
*
Lunch turned out to be thick sandwiches of ham and cheese, with accompanying bowls of the previous evening’s stew. Sherlock pushed his soup and half his sandwich toward John and ate while he stripped out of his smoky clothes and changed into fresh garments.
John, who’d changed first thing, finished his lunch and tucked into Sherlock’s, looking a little guilty. “Waste not, want not.”
“Enjoy it. You missed breakfast, after all.”
John pointed at Sherlock’s glass of water. “You’re drinking every bit of that, at least. How are you feeling?”
Sherlock put his sandwich on his plate. “You do realise that’s the sixth time you’ve asked me that today?”
“I’m concerned. You passed out, you know, and hit your head and you were unconscious for a few minutes. You weren’t breathing. That’s not a good thing, Sherlock, especially with how often it happens. In fact, I’m starting to think about insisting on you wearing a crash helmet when we go out on cases.”
Sherlock chuckled. “Excellent idea for a Christmas gift.”
John tried to frown, then snickered, then looked stern again. “Come on, I’m not joking. You’ve only got one skull, Sherlock, and as careless of it as you are at times, I wonder if you remember your brain’s in it.”
“In fact, John, I have –“
“Yeah, I know. The one at home on the mantel doesn’t count. Look, all I’m asking is that you take reasonable care of yourself after something like this happens, yeah? Don’t let yourself get dehydrated, don’t let your blood sugar drop too much, don’t run around and exhaust yourself.”
“You’re exhausting me. I’m perfectly fine, as you’d know if you’d been listening the first five times I’ve said so. Cognitive function is entirely unimpaired, and motor skills have returned in full, thank you very much and for heaven’s sake don’t ask me again.” He opened the window and hung the coat from the outside hinge. “Ugh, potassium nitrate – it’ll take forever to get the smell out. I’d like to wring Simon’s neck for giving the smoke bomb to the police.” He turned at a knock on the door. “Come in.”
The door opened to admit Brother Edward. “Is this a convenient time, Mr. Holmes?”
“Now’s as good a time as any. Have you got Brother Marcelo with you?”
“I do that.” He opened the door wider and urged forward a young monk with dark, closely cropped hair, and large brown eyes with purple smudges beneath. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, this is Brother Marcelo.”
Brother Marcelo peered apprehensively at Sherlock and John, then nodded politely. “Hello.”
“Thank you for translating, Brother Edward. Please duplicate my questions with as much exactness as you can manage, and convey his answers with the same exactitude. And please keep in confidence anything you hear until after the case is concluded.” Sherlock leant against the windowsill and folded his hands together. “Now, Brother Marcelo. Was it your desire to be a librarian when you first joined this particular community?”
Brother Edward frowned a little, then turned to Brother Marcelo and translated. Brother Marcelo answered in voluble Italian. Brother Edward said, “He’s always loved books. In university he studied Latin and classical Greek, and part of the reason he joined this particular community was because of its fame as a…repository of learning.”
“So even as a little tot in the schoolyard,” Sherlock mused aloud. And Latin and classical Greek. “I take it you and Mr. Adler had a lot to talk about.”
Brother Marcelo’s eyes widened. He bit his lip and shrugged as he answered. “Mr. Adler is a learned man, a scholar, and knows a great deal about ancient texts. We have found much in common,” Brother Edward translated.
“Oh, I’ll bet you have.” Sherlock noticed John staring at him in puzzlement and moved on. “What time did the funeral end this morning?”
“It lasted about forty minutes,” Brother Edward said. “Sorry – I won’t bother to ask him that one as I was there. Simon and Father Umberto performed the graveside service about five minutes later, and that lasted about ten minutes. We were finished just before nine.”
Sherlock tilted his head to one side. “And you and Mr. Adler came to the library straight away.”
Brother Marcelo nodded. “Yes,” Brother Edward said. “And we heard the shouting and banging on the door and found you immediately thereafter.”
“I see. Can you tell me who found Brother Matthias immediately after his death?”
Brother Edward hesitated, then asked the question. Brother Marcelo’s face contracted as if he were in pain and his gaze darted to the floor as he mumbled an answer. “I did,” Brother Edward said. “That is --”
“Yes, I do understand a little Italian, thank you. I thought as much. Brother Marcelo,” Sherlock said sharply, “Tell me about the condition of Brother Matthias’ body in as much detail as you can recall.”
Brother Marcelo’s answer was halting, and several times he paused to wipe a tear from his face. He spoke to the floor, and his hands played nervously over each other as he talked. Brother Edward listened carefully, and then began to speak. “He was on the second floor landing, and he lay face-up. The passage is dark, so I didn’t see him right away – my foot struck his body. I knelt and then realised he was dead. I ran back for a torch, and when I saw his face I cried out. He looked….” Brother Edward turned to the younger monk. “Paura?”
Brother Marcelo shook his head. “Terrorizzato.”
“Terror-stricken,” Brother Edward said. “As if he’d seen something dreadful.”
Sherlock sighed. “Naturally.”
“His body was still warm. His habit had been torn, and his fingers were broken.” Brother Edward held his hand up to Brother Marcelo, who nodded. “And he had bruises, many bruises on his face.”
“On one side, or both?” Sherlock asked.
“I can’t remember. I only remember that his face was bruised.”
Sherlock touched his own cheek, conscious of a strange apprehension churning in his stomach. An unpleasant and ultimately useless memory, one he should have deleted some time ago, left to shadows. Why had he saved it at all? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John looking at him and clasped his hands together.
Let him go, or I will kill you.
Sherlock bit back a smile. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t deleted it. He turned his attention back to the wan-looking Brother Marcelo. “You saw nobody leave the library this morning?”
“Nobody.”
“And were you close to Brother Adelmo?”
Brother Marcelo frowned at the question. “Yes. Yes, he was like a brother to me,” Brother Edward translated.
“Then why didn’t you stay for the graveside service?”
Brother Edward hesitated before asking the question, and shook his head as if in disapproval. Brother Marcelo’s complexion paled, and he stammered his answer. “I had to let Mr. Adler into the library. He was anxious to begin his work.”
“Surely another ten minutes wouldn’t have made a difference.”
Brother Marcelo’s posture became rigid, and he folded his hands tightly together.
“Yes. That’s true.” Brother Edward gave the young man a compassionate glance and turned to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, the lad’s had a bad time of things lately.”
“Yes, I’ve absolutely no doubt of that at all,” Sherlock replied. “Thank you for your time, Brother Edward. Grazie, Fra Marcelo.” He turned and faced the window. He saw the library, one of the taller structures of the abbey, and focused on it for a moment, only dimly hearing John thanking them as well and ushering them out. Three floors, and that middle room – the back wall had been stone, with no door. Which meant –
“So. What was that about Ian Adler?”
Sherlock glanced at John. “What?”
“Those questions you were asking about Adler. You think Adler’s connected to this in some way? He didn’t show up until after the last murder.”
“I think Brother Marcelo had an inordinate interest in escorting Mr. Adler to the library when by all rights he should have been paying his respects to his superior and colleague.” And Ian Adler had incriminating and explicit photos of Brother Marcelo on his mobile – there was no mistaking that Brother Marcelo and the young man in the photos were one and the same. But why the rush? Sherlock turned back to John. “John, it’s not even two o’clock and the rest of the day yawns before us. Since we’d both make terrible monks, let’s not even bother spending it in contemplation. I want to go back to the balneary and re-examine the spot where Brother Adelmo died.” He saw John’s face and heaved an impatient breath. “And yes – I’m feeling fine.”
John shook his head slowly, and a smile tugged the corners of his mouth outward. “You’re impossible. You know that, right?”
“Yes, I suppose I do.” Sherlock couldn’t help an answering smile.
“Thanks, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For the scarf. You didn’t have to give it to me, you know.”
“Oh, John, don’t be ridiculous. One of us has to stay conscious, after all. We only have three skulls between us.”
“Two, unless you brought the other one with you.”
“Hm. Fair point.” Sherlock grabbed his coat from the outer hinge and shrugged it on. “Are you coming?”
“Of course I am,” John sighed. “Someone’s got to keep an eye on you.”
Sherlock swept out the door, holding it open for John and wondering at the most peculiar sensation – despite the abbey’s stubborn withholding of information, the possession of undisclosed secrets that always produced a wonderful mingling of driven curiosity and avidity – it was the oddest admixture of contentment and desire that he now experienced.
Strange. Very, very strange.
*
“You’re certain nobody can hear us?” Ian glanced apprehensively up at the low stone ceiling of the crypt. “I don’t trust the conduction of sound in this place.”
“You’re the one who insisted on meeting now,” replied a low, gravelly voice from the shadows. “It would have attracted attention if you’d left abruptly.”
Ian dismissed the response with an impatient chopping gesture of his hand. “Why, Dzundza?” He spoke French, the only language they had in common. “Why did you do that? What in God’s name possessed you?”
“They were a bit too close to the truth.”
“I had it under control. They’ll only go back, you know – now they’ll be even more curious. Well done, you. Unless you planned to kill them outright. I didn’t think Moriarty wanted that. Of all people, you were the last one I expected to go rogue.” Ian paced back and forth, unnerved by the darkness of the crypt, by Dzundza’s refusal to emerge from the shadows.
“You had it under control – in what way? You knew they’d entered the library, that’s all. And what do you care if I kill them?”
“Moriarty might care. I don’t need you throwing spanners into the works. Why are you even here? You’ve finished your assignment, haven’t you?”
“Mr. Moriarty requested that I remain on hand in case I’m needed. If Holmes and Watson can’t survive, then they’re not worth his time.”
“You do realise that’s not exactly a compliment to you. And they’ve escaped you once already.”
“It pays the same.” Dzundza’s voice was soft and implacable and vaguely frightening.
“It’s in my best interests to keep Sherlock alive at the moment. And by extension, Dr. Watson. Sherlock would be…upset if something happened to him.”
“Would he?”
“Don’t touch him. Don’t touch either of them. I’ll call Moriarty myself if I have to.” Ian took a deep breath. “You need to leave, Dzundza. Let me handle this on my own.”
“Why? Afraid you’ll lose your bet?”
Ian’s breath caught in his throat. “What --” He stiffened as he felt powerful arms wrap round his body. Before he could pull away, he was pulled against a broad chest and a hand clamped over his mouth. He hadn’t heard Dzundza moving toward him, hadn’t seen a shift in the shadows. A scarlet blossom of terror unfolded in his vision and he longed to fight, but held himself perfectly still. Dzundza wouldn’t dare to kill him. He wouldn’t dare.
“Yes. I know about your little bet with him, Ian.” Dzundza pulled him closer. “You’re trembling, Ian.”
Ian forced himself not to claw at the hand over his mouth. He closed his eyes and waited.
“It’s always said, isn’t it, that one should do what one loves. You’ve found your calling, Ian, and so have I. This is not my only means of disposal – far from it. It is, however, my favorite.” Dzundza’s breath was hot against Ian’s ear, and two hard fingers pinched Ian’s nose shut.
Oh, God. No, no -- Ian writhed in Dzundza’s grasp, unable to suppress a protest that was swiftly smothered by Dzundza’s huge hand.
“Did you know I live for this moment – the fear, the small, strangled noises of panic, that inexorable knowledge of approaching finality? The little death for me, Ian, in one way or another. Every time.” The hand not clamped over Ian’s mouth and nose drifted downward until it rested on Ian’s belly. “And the great abyss for you, after I’ve had my way with you. Who would miss you, after all? So win your bet, and good luck. We’ll see who reaches Mr. Holmes first, no?” He released Ian abruptly and shoved him forward.
Ian stumbled and fell to the ground, breaking his fall with his hands and knees. Terrified and enraged, he curled up on the cold stone, gasping for breath. “Keep away from me, you bastard. You --”
But there was only silence in response. Dzundza had gone.
Ian placed trembling hands on a nearby stone sarcophagus and climbed to his feet. He sat on the casket, afraid his legs would give out, and ruefully picked tiny pebbles from the heels of his palms as he waited for his breathing and heartbeat to resume its normal rhythm.
He wouldn’t be rushed or pushed out of the picture. His was a delicate craft, and he executed it with skill and surety. Why had Moriarty allowed Dzundza to remain? The man was a brute, a mindless killing machine, fit only for sweeping up –
Ian froze. Sweeping up leavings.
He glanced round the crypt, but it was empty. The only illumination came from a red glass lamp with a guttering candle inside, presumably left over from the morning’s funeral. Poor Brother Adelmo, another one of Dzundza’s casualties.
Cautiously, he exited the crypt through the church and slipped into the daylight. Immediately, his mobile rang. “Ian Adler,” he said, his voice a trifle shaky. God damn it.
“Hi, honey! Been trying to call you.”
A shudder of loathing travelled up Ian’s spine. “Really? I did get your message.”
“Oh, good! The thing is, we’re going to have to step it up a little. You have enough evidence by now, with Simon and that pretty piece you were fucking.”
“I wasn’t fucking him,” Ian hissed.
“Oh, right – you’re saving that for Sherlock. I forgot. You’d better get on that, as well, hm? Don’t get too sidetracked, though – I want you to talk to Simon tomorrow at the latest.”
Ian rubbed his eyes. “All right.”
“Good boy! By the way, I do hope Oscar wasn’t too forceful. He has a way of letting things get out of hand sometimes.”
“I have to go,” Ian said.
“Tomorrow, Ian.” Moriarty’s voice had lost its singsong jollity. “I don’t want to have to come up there.”
“You can rely on me.”
“That’s my boy.” Moriarty rang off, leaving dead air behind.
Ian put his phone in his pocket and turned round to examine the church, pristine and beautiful in the crisp spring air. Crushing cold shuddered through his body as he realised that Oscar Dzundza was right – nobody would miss him if he disappeared. Ian had to depend on the quicksilver swiftness of his own wits to protect himself. He’d got in too deep, and there was no escaping now.
Gingerly, he touched his jaw, sore from Dzundza’s hand, and impotent anger coursed ice through his veins. He’d come out of this elegantly, and most importantly, on top.
He always did, after all.
*
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
*
--- One day, Sherlock, you’re going to pay rather dearly for this incessant and dreary penchant for exposing yourself to danger. I do hope you realise I cannot be there to extricate you from every perilous situation in which you find yourself entangled.
--- Oh, shut up, Mycroft. When was the last time I begged you for a favour?
--- You were seven, I believe. Stranded in a willow tree.
--- I’ve learnt a thing or two since then, believe me.
The darkness that surrounded Sherlock resonated with smoke, a thick, muffled scraping, the warmth and solidity of another body, and shouting that faded away into a dim, pleasant hum. He wanted to tell John to stay low, that he might possibly survive until help arrived, but he couldn’t speak for the smoke clouding his lungs. His head struck something hard, and a bright flash of pain, along with the depressing notion that Mycroft could have been right, reverberated in his skull before he slipped under entirely.
He came to with his cheek pressed against cool stone and the sound of vaguely familiar voices floating above his head.
“Just lie still, Sherlock. It’s all right.”
He struggled to get up and sucked in a lungful of clean air. Glorious, until he choked on it.
“Get him some water!”
John. Where was John?
“Come on, now, lad, hold still. It’s all right.” A deep voice, English, Northern-accented. Brother Edward.
Where was John?
“He’s all right. He’s right here.”
A hand squeezed his.
“I’m okay, Sherlock.” John’s voice, rough and shaky, but unmistakably his, unmistakably alive. “I’m okay. Brother Edward--” There was a convulsive fit of coughing.
Sherlock’s vision cleared enough to see John bent over, his hand pressed to his mouth.
John. John.
“I’m all right. Choky, that’s all.” John’s hand brushed the hair from Sherlock’s forehead, touched his cheek. Tears occluded Sherlock’s vision. “Brother Edward’s going to take us to a surgery in town. I don’t think it’s --” Another round of coughing. “I don’t think it’s serious, but I think we could both do with a hit of oxygen. And maybe bronchoscopy for you, since you fainted. Oh, good – here, Sherlock.” John’s arm slid under his head and supported his neck, and something cool and wet was put to his lips. “Have a drink. Little sips.”
He sipped. His teeth hit the glass, and water spilled down his neck. He couldn’t see past the burning and stinging in his eyes. He sipped again, and choked again.
“It’s okay.” How soothing John’s voice was. Lovely bedside manner. “I think we can get moving now.”
“Is he all right?” That voice, with a little catch in the centre of the words.
“He will be.” John again, grim and brusque. “Excuse us.”
“Let me help.” Ah. Ian Adler. What was he doing there?
“Right.” John was really dreadful at concealing his animosity. Sherlock couldn’t fault his instincts, though. “Grab him under the arm – Brother Edward, can you support his other side? I can’t --”
For God’s sake, John, don’t worry about me. Look after yourself, you idiot. You inhaled a lot of smoke too.
“Settle down, Sherlock. You want some more water?”
No, I want to find out who decided to sabotage our investigation, for God’s sake.
“Don’t try to talk, you’ll just end up coughing. Wait until you can breathe properly again. Yes or no? Shake your head if it’s no, stop being so bloody – all right, never mind, let’s just go.”
They bundled him downstairs and out of the library and into the back seat of the Volvo. Through a greyish veil of smoke-induced tears, he saw Simon and Brother Edward in the front, John beside him.
“Don’t rub your eyes, Sherlock. Let the tears take care of that, okay?” John’s hand grasped his wrist and set it in his lap.
The execution of a mutinous glare was difficult whilst tears were streaming from one’s eyes, not to mention the frequent seal noises that insisted upon making an escape from one’s chest. Sherlock settled for folding his arms tightly and letting the cold wind from the open windows rush past his face. The clear air felt good, restorative even, though he still coughed continuously. He batted away John’s tentatively comforting hand and bent almost double, annoyed by the constant hacking and the pain in his chest. Not to worry, they were on their way to a surgery. Breathing treatment, a hit of pure oxygen. Beside him, John coughed as well. The back seat of the car sounded like a tuberculosis ward. The front of the car was silent; Brother Edward, driving, whipped the car around the turns, every so often glancing anxiously over his shoulder at his noisy passengers. Simon, back in his ordinary black-and-white habit, sat unmoving, doing his best imitation of an Easter Island statue. Sherlock would have dearly loved to make a snide remark, but he couldn’t gather the breath to speak. Enforced silence was awful.
Half an hour after leaving the abbey they found themselves not in a surgery, but a small hospital, with Simon explaining the situation to a doctor and two nurses in rapid-fire Italian. Sherlock and John were whisked into a room with two beds, and the curtain partition was drawn. Wearily, he submitted to an examination, with Brother Edward standing nearby to translate, though he was able to describe most of his symptoms in faulty Italian. After it was determined, following a great deal of poking and prodding, that no intubation was necessary, he lay back on the narrow, uncomfortable bed and allowed an oxygen mask to be strapped to his face and soothing drops applied to his aching eyes. He heard John’s raspy voice and a brief chuckle, and relaxed enough to fall asleep.
*
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock turned his face toward the hand resting on his forehead, leaning into the touch.
“Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Wake up.”
“Mm?” Sherlock opened his eyes – still a bit sore – and saw John standing over him, looking as though he’d just washed his face. His hair looked a bit sooty and stood up in tufts here and there.
“Hi.” John took his hand away. “I’m going to take the mask off, okay?” His voice sounded a bit ragged, overtaxed, but not dreadful. He was upright and besides the smoky-smelling clothes and hair and eyes that were still a bit bloodshot, he looked fine. He hadn’t been badly injured. Good. Good.
Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes again. He felt better. His lungs hurt less, and breathing wasn’t the effort it had been a while ago. He felt John’s fingers brushing against his face, undoing the straps that held the mask tight over his mouth and nose, and lifting it off. He took an experimental breath: a bit of an ache, nothing terribly debilitating. The medical staff would no doubt tell him to take it easy for a few days. John would almost certainly tell him the same thing.
Highly, highly unlikely. But then John knew that.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Sherlock croaked, and blinked at the rasp in his own voice.
John smiled a little. “Here, drink this.” He handed Sherlock a cup of fruit juice, and Sherlock sipped meekly enough. “They said there’s no need to keep us longer. Got some instructional pamphlets --” John rummaged in a pocket and flourished a handful of folded leaflets. “All in Italian, of course, but it’s standard stuff – watch your breathing and how you sleep and make sure you don’t vomit blood and call 999 if your nails turn blue. I don’t know if it’s 999 here – anyway.” John shrugged.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Worried about you, mostly, you git – you’re the one who sucked in all the smoke. I had your scarf, remember?”
“Of course I remember.” Sherlock tried to frown, but it was too much of a relief to see John up and about. He felt his mouth twitching into a smile and settled for an expression of bored impatience. “Who found us?”
“Never mind that now. Let’s focus on getting you up and about.”
“Do we get to leave now?”
“We do,” John affirmed, stuffing the leaflets back into his pocket. “Simon and Brother Edward are in the waiting room, but you can rest a bit – no need to rush. The oxygen might make you feel a bit shaky on your legs.”
“I’ll be fine.” Sherlock rose and swung his feet onto the floor. His head swam, and he blinked still-scratchy eyes.
John eyed him dubiously. “You sure about that? They checked you for concussion, didn’t they? Let me have a look at your eyes.”
“Of course I’m sure, John, and yes, they did. No need for you to slip into A&E mode.” Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and swayed. His vision blurred a bit.
“Okay, okay.” John caught his arm and guided him very firmly back to the bed. “Let’s not tip over, yeah? Nice and slow. Where are your shoes? Oh.” He crouched and picked up one of Sherlock’s shoes, untying the laces. “Right foot. Come on, don’t make me do all the work.”
“I’m perfectly capable of putting on my own shoes, John.” Nevertheless, Sherlock stuck one foot out and focused on John’s hands pulling the ends of the laces out of the shoe, stretching it open to accommodate Sherlock’s foot.
“Uh-huh. Your other right.”
“Oh.”
John squinted up at him. “You sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Absolutely. One hundred percent.”
“Right,” John snorted. “I’ll tell you this – I don’t care what you say, you’re taking it easy for the rest of the day. No running around and fainting because you’re short of breath and too bloody stubborn to say so. You’ve got to let your lungs re-acclimate to ordinary respiration. Deep breathing at intervals, food and water.”
“Whilst the trail grows cold and whoever managed to attack us gets away.”
John shook his head as he tied Sherlock’s shoelace. “You know better than I do that if it was outside talent, he’s long gone by now, and if it was an inside job, he’s not going anywhere. In either case, whatever he was trying to prevent us from seeing is probably still in the library, so just resign yourself to a day of enforced leisure, all right? It’s already noon, anyway. Half the day’s gone.” He peered up at Sherlock, challenge darkening his eyes.
A sharp retort constructed itself from the still-lingering haze and disorientation inside Sherlock’s cranium, and he opened his mouth to let it fly out – and then, contrary to his temperament and nature, shut it again and regarded John curiously. A certain blunt practicality always infused John’s utterances, and he was learning – with agonising slowness to be sure, but learning nonetheless – some of the more obvious processes of deduction, but it was still surprising and not altogether unpleasurable to discern a measure of personal concern in his admonitions, insofar as emotions were unpredictable and routinely defied analysis. It had been a long-held tenet of Sherlock’s personal beliefs that anyone who hadn’t been able to discipline themselves enough to display the thinnest possible slivers of emotion was unmistakably a fool, but there was John, who laughed and swore and even got misty at ludicrously stupid movies, and John wasn’t, Sherlock admitted – if only to himself – a fool.
And then there had been that fleeting moment in the cupboard, where Sherlock had thought, just for a moment, that John had been excited by his proximity. He’d heard John’s breathing speed up, felt the slightest tremor of John’s lips beneath his fingers – but then John had moved away from him, wriggling into the furthest corner of the cupboard. In the midst of danger, Sherlock had experienced a brief yet acute stab of disappointment. Quickening hearts and trembling breaths in the context of desire had always meant very little to him, but lately –
“Sherlock, are you listening to me? I want you to rest today.”
“I heard you perfectly well,” Sherlock replied, adopting his crossest tone to disguise the vague embarrassment of having been caught staring into John’s eyes – slate blue with a corona of hazel round the pupil, and a sunburst of striation in each iris – and thrusting his left foot imperiously forward. “I want to talk to a few people, and I suppose I can do that sitting down, if you insist. And we’re going back to the library and the balneary.”
“We can do that tomorrow, if Simon doesn’t throw us off the premises. He looked like thunder.”
“We’re the best hope he’s got right now,” Sherlock said, then slid off the bed as John finished tying his shoe. “Come on, we’ve wasted enough time here.”
The first ten minutes of the ride back to the abbey were silent and thickly weighted with Simon’s disapproval. Sherlock watched his face darken to crimson – even the bald patch at the back of his head had turned bright pink – and waited in amused patience for the explosion he knew was coming.
He didn’t have to wait long. “I thought I had made it perfectly clear, Sherlock, that you would receive an escort to the library. Moreover, I indicated last night that there were certain areas that were forbidden to you. I would have thought that someone with your cognitive capabilities would understand what that meant.”
“Yes, but fortunately I have a talent for ignoring pointless edicts and hindrances. Who was it that let us out?”
Simon turned and glared at Sherlock, then at John. “I have half a mind to turn you both out,” he said. “So far as I’ve heard, the best you’ve done is to turn up a couple of footprints in the balneary, which doesn’t bring us any closer to retrieving the book or discovering who murdered Brother Adelmo.”
“And yet someone was keen enough on keeping us from discovering more about the library, and willing enough to suffocate Dr. Watson and me to death in order to do it.” Sherlock’s voice began to rasp. “I’d call that significant, wouldn’t you? Well, maybe you wouldn’t. Now are you going to answer my question or not? Who let us out of the cupboard? And it’s not really a cupboard, is it?”
John gave Sherlock a startled glance. “It’s --”
“Come on, John. An empty cupboard in a library – not a single box or broom or dustbin? Libraries are overcrowded by nature, constantly expanding with new acquisitions, and in this particular sort of library, they don’t just chuck the old books to make room for the new, do they? An empty space in any library is practically a contradiction in terms. Add to that the source of ventilation that kept us from succumbing to the smoke immediately – what happened to the smoke bomb, by the way?”
“Father Simon asked me to take it to the police,” Brother Edward said.
Sherlock sighed loudly. “Oh, excellent move, Simon. Tell me, are you actively attempting to grind this investigation to a screeching halt or is it just a symptom of your general idiocy that prevents you from making decisions that involve more than three brain cells at a time?”
Simon’s face was an intriguing shade of purple. “I had Brother Edward take the device to the police for fingerprinting, in the hopes of discovering your assailant.”
“You might as well have tossed it in the bin. Well done.” Sherlock turned back to John. “The library’s constructed of stone and despite the presence of Simon here, relatively well-kept. Chinks are regularly mortared, windows kept tight, that sort of thing. And the cupboard that wasn’t a cupboard was an interior room, so where did that airflow come from? Another door, I think – yes, Simon?”
Simon glared at Sherlock, then shook his head. “Yes.”
“So are you going to give us carte blanche to examine the library or do we have to make another stealth entry? Breaking and entering gets a little boring. Waste of time.”
Simon seemed to be struggling with himself. Beside him, Brother Edward bit his lip and looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else. “Mr. Holmes,” Brother Edward ventured, “I know it’s difficult to understand our ways, but the truth is we’re not very used to laypeople having free run of the abbey. Father Simon is only –“
“I understand that you’re not accustomed to it, Brother Edward, but Simon seems more interested in protecting some petty little non-existent fiefdom than in actually getting this case solved and bringing a murderer to justice. So to get back to an earlier question – who was it that responded to John’s banging and shouting?”
“It was Mr. Adler,” Simon said. “He was on the second floor.”
“Mr. Adler has the run of the library?” Sherlock mused. “Interesting.”
“Not in the least,” Simon retorted. “He was accompanied by Brother Marcelo, one of our novices. Marcelo had expressed interest in the library when he joined us, and is now in the unique and unenviable position of learning to maintain it without the benefit of Brother Matthias or Brother Adelmo’s counsel.”
Sherlock sat up. “Brother Marcelo.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Brother Marcelo, who’d wept at supper over his colleague’s death. Brother Marcelo, who’d been photographed in the most compromising position by Ian Adler. How very interesting indeed. “I’d like to speak to him as soon as possible.”
“I suppose that can be arranged,” Simon said ungraciously. The car drew to a stop in the cobbled courtyard and Simon heaved himself out and walked away. Sherlock followed as quickly as he could – not as quickly as he’d have liked, thanks to the still-wobbly state of his legs.
“See that it is,” Sherlock called. “Because someone in your community gave our assailant the means to enter the third floor.”
Simon halted in his tracks and stood quite still for a moment before turning slowly on his heel. “What are you saying?”
“I think you know what I’m saying,” Sherlock replied, “but I’ll clarify nonetheless, and I’ll be sure to use small words so you understand. Someone gave third-floor access to the man who tried to kill us. We didn’t prop the door open. Whoever it was couldn’t have got in without knowing how. So the question is: who was it? Brother Marcelo? Brother Matthias or Brother Adelmo? You, Simon?”
Simon shook his head. “If you believe that anyone here is capable of murder --”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. That’s why you brought me here, Simon.”
“Vickie wanted you here,” Simon said. He moved a few steps closer to Sherlock. “I never wanted you here, Sherlock. I still don’t. You’ve managed to disrupt a very solemn day, and if you hadn’t broken into the library, you wouldn’t have been assaulted. I’ll grant that something very peculiar is happening, but you seem to be causing more trouble than you’re averting.”
“So boot us out,” Sherlock said. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“I want this solved. I want the murderers brought to justice, and I want the codex back.”
“Then don’t obstruct me,” Sherlock said. “Believe it or not, Simon, I’m trying to help you. Someone doesn’t want me to discover more about what’s happening here, and you might find yourself with another dead monk on your hands.”
“Or a dead detective.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
“I’m sorry.” Simon bit his lip. “That was…unnecessary and unkind. What I mean is that Vicki would never forgive me if something happened to you.”
“I trust you’ll send Brother Marcelo my way in a short while, then.” Sherlock turned to join John, who was talking quietly to Brother Edward.
John gave him a faintly reproachful look. “You just had to piss him off more, didn’t you?”
“Oh, God, he deserves it. If I didn’t know him already, I’d say he had a hand in this whole thing, he’s so determined to be difficult, but that’s just Simon being Simon.”
“Don’t blame him too much,” Brother Edward said. He saw both Sherlock and John staring at him and a blush rose to his cheeks. “It’s not easy, running this place. He’s been under some pressure to sell recently, and the abbey isn’t making money. We’re operating in the red, to tell you the truth.”
“Money,” John said. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you didn’t get the grand tour,” Brother Edward said, scratching his neck. “We brew beer, and the profits offset our cost of living. The information’s in the leaflets that should have been in your room.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I saw that.”
“It’s lovely stuff – a winter stout and a summer blend. We brew it in small batches and sell it under the name San Stefano. It’s artisanal – snob appeal, I guess you’d say. But the economy hasn’t been kind to us – costs are up and sales aren’t what they used to be, so he’s worried. We all are. And even though Simon’s not the abbot, all the burdens of the abbey fall on his shoulders.”
“So who’s the abbot?” John asked.
“Father Umberto. He was the co-celebrant at the funeral this morning, but he’s old and frail and hardly leaves his room these days.” Brother Edward shrugged. “Anyhow, if Father Simon’s a bit…abrupt, or unhelpful, try to remember that he’s under quite a lot of strain.”
“All the more reason for him to want to get this case solved in short order,” Sherlock said.
Brother Edward smiled. “You’re a bit relentless, Mr. Holmes. How did you get into the library? And onto the third floor, for that matter?”
Sherlock dove into his pocket and produced his picklock. “With this. As to your second question – only a few people seem to know how to access the third floor. I doubt you want to add to those numbers. It would only complicate matters.”
“True enough,” Brother Edward sighed. “Forget I asked. Oh – you should know that Brother Marcelo doesn’t speak much English. You might have a time of it trying to ask him questions.”
“Perhaps you’d be so good as to translate for me, then.”
“Aye, I suppose I could,” Brother Edward said. “I don’t reckon either of you have had any breakfast.” He squinted up at the sun. “And it’s past lunch now. I’ll have someone bring something to your room.”
Sherlock glanced at John, who was looking a bit pale and drawn. “That would be appreciated, thank you.” He nodded a farewell to Brother Edward and he and John made their way back to their lodgings.
“You’re eating something,” John said.
“Not if it’s that God-awful stew from last night.”
“It was delicious,” John said. His voice was still a bit raspy. “You have the eating habits of a primary school kid.”
“Untrue. I like a glass of wine now and again.”
“I wouldn’t mind trying some of that beer,” John said. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” Sherlock grasped the lapel of his coat and put it to his nose. “My clothes smell, though. I should air the coat out, at least, and get the rest laundered.”
“I doubt they have dry cleaning here, unless it’s the old-fashioned sort – you know, sponge it down and hang it outside.”
“Remind me never to be a monk.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” John said. “I think you’d do all right.”
Sherlock peered at John. “What makes you say that?”
There was a momentary silence, then John shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ve got that Jedi thing going on sometimes.”
“What?”
“Never mind, scratch that. You’d go mad without your mobile after two days, not to mention being out of London for more than a month would send you round the twist completely. Come on, I’m starving.” John surged ahead, leaving Sherlock to follow.
Sherlock watched John’s progress for a moment. There was, he knew, an entire vocabulary of reference that separated the two of them, but Sherlock had never troubled to learn it; it simply wasn’t important. But a year of observing John had taught him that there were small obscurities woven into John’s speech. Coupled with recurring facial expressions indicating some strong emotion on John’s part, it made for the most aggrieving perplexity at times, as if John was attempting to convey something in a code he couldn’t possibly understand. More confounding and annoying still was that it had begun to bother him at all.
He scowled and set off after John. He wondered what a Jedi was, but he’d be damned if he’d ask.
*
Lunch turned out to be thick sandwiches of ham and cheese, with accompanying bowls of the previous evening’s stew. Sherlock pushed his soup and half his sandwich toward John and ate while he stripped out of his smoky clothes and changed into fresh garments.
John, who’d changed first thing, finished his lunch and tucked into Sherlock’s, looking a little guilty. “Waste not, want not.”
“Enjoy it. You missed breakfast, after all.”
John pointed at Sherlock’s glass of water. “You’re drinking every bit of that, at least. How are you feeling?”
Sherlock put his sandwich on his plate. “You do realise that’s the sixth time you’ve asked me that today?”
“I’m concerned. You passed out, you know, and hit your head and you were unconscious for a few minutes. You weren’t breathing. That’s not a good thing, Sherlock, especially with how often it happens. In fact, I’m starting to think about insisting on you wearing a crash helmet when we go out on cases.”
Sherlock chuckled. “Excellent idea for a Christmas gift.”
John tried to frown, then snickered, then looked stern again. “Come on, I’m not joking. You’ve only got one skull, Sherlock, and as careless of it as you are at times, I wonder if you remember your brain’s in it.”
“In fact, John, I have –“
“Yeah, I know. The one at home on the mantel doesn’t count. Look, all I’m asking is that you take reasonable care of yourself after something like this happens, yeah? Don’t let yourself get dehydrated, don’t let your blood sugar drop too much, don’t run around and exhaust yourself.”
“You’re exhausting me. I’m perfectly fine, as you’d know if you’d been listening the first five times I’ve said so. Cognitive function is entirely unimpaired, and motor skills have returned in full, thank you very much and for heaven’s sake don’t ask me again.” He opened the window and hung the coat from the outside hinge. “Ugh, potassium nitrate – it’ll take forever to get the smell out. I’d like to wring Simon’s neck for giving the smoke bomb to the police.” He turned at a knock on the door. “Come in.”
The door opened to admit Brother Edward. “Is this a convenient time, Mr. Holmes?”
“Now’s as good a time as any. Have you got Brother Marcelo with you?”
“I do that.” He opened the door wider and urged forward a young monk with dark, closely cropped hair, and large brown eyes with purple smudges beneath. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, this is Brother Marcelo.”
Brother Marcelo peered apprehensively at Sherlock and John, then nodded politely. “Hello.”
“Thank you for translating, Brother Edward. Please duplicate my questions with as much exactness as you can manage, and convey his answers with the same exactitude. And please keep in confidence anything you hear until after the case is concluded.” Sherlock leant against the windowsill and folded his hands together. “Now, Brother Marcelo. Was it your desire to be a librarian when you first joined this particular community?”
Brother Edward frowned a little, then turned to Brother Marcelo and translated. Brother Marcelo answered in voluble Italian. Brother Edward said, “He’s always loved books. In university he studied Latin and classical Greek, and part of the reason he joined this particular community was because of its fame as a…repository of learning.”
“So even as a little tot in the schoolyard,” Sherlock mused aloud. And Latin and classical Greek. “I take it you and Mr. Adler had a lot to talk about.”
Brother Marcelo’s eyes widened. He bit his lip and shrugged as he answered. “Mr. Adler is a learned man, a scholar, and knows a great deal about ancient texts. We have found much in common,” Brother Edward translated.
“Oh, I’ll bet you have.” Sherlock noticed John staring at him in puzzlement and moved on. “What time did the funeral end this morning?”
“It lasted about forty minutes,” Brother Edward said. “Sorry – I won’t bother to ask him that one as I was there. Simon and Father Umberto performed the graveside service about five minutes later, and that lasted about ten minutes. We were finished just before nine.”
Sherlock tilted his head to one side. “And you and Mr. Adler came to the library straight away.”
Brother Marcelo nodded. “Yes,” Brother Edward said. “And we heard the shouting and banging on the door and found you immediately thereafter.”
“I see. Can you tell me who found Brother Matthias immediately after his death?”
Brother Edward hesitated, then asked the question. Brother Marcelo’s face contracted as if he were in pain and his gaze darted to the floor as he mumbled an answer. “I did,” Brother Edward said. “That is --”
“Yes, I do understand a little Italian, thank you. I thought as much. Brother Marcelo,” Sherlock said sharply, “Tell me about the condition of Brother Matthias’ body in as much detail as you can recall.”
Brother Marcelo’s answer was halting, and several times he paused to wipe a tear from his face. He spoke to the floor, and his hands played nervously over each other as he talked. Brother Edward listened carefully, and then began to speak. “He was on the second floor landing, and he lay face-up. The passage is dark, so I didn’t see him right away – my foot struck his body. I knelt and then realised he was dead. I ran back for a torch, and when I saw his face I cried out. He looked….” Brother Edward turned to the younger monk. “Paura?”
Brother Marcelo shook his head. “Terrorizzato.”
“Terror-stricken,” Brother Edward said. “As if he’d seen something dreadful.”
Sherlock sighed. “Naturally.”
“His body was still warm. His habit had been torn, and his fingers were broken.” Brother Edward held his hand up to Brother Marcelo, who nodded. “And he had bruises, many bruises on his face.”
“On one side, or both?” Sherlock asked.
“I can’t remember. I only remember that his face was bruised.”
Sherlock touched his own cheek, conscious of a strange apprehension churning in his stomach. An unpleasant and ultimately useless memory, one he should have deleted some time ago, left to shadows. Why had he saved it at all? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John looking at him and clasped his hands together.
Let him go, or I will kill you.
Sherlock bit back a smile. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t deleted it. He turned his attention back to the wan-looking Brother Marcelo. “You saw nobody leave the library this morning?”
“Nobody.”
“And were you close to Brother Adelmo?”
Brother Marcelo frowned at the question. “Yes. Yes, he was like a brother to me,” Brother Edward translated.
“Then why didn’t you stay for the graveside service?”
Brother Edward hesitated before asking the question, and shook his head as if in disapproval. Brother Marcelo’s complexion paled, and he stammered his answer. “I had to let Mr. Adler into the library. He was anxious to begin his work.”
“Surely another ten minutes wouldn’t have made a difference.”
Brother Marcelo’s posture became rigid, and he folded his hands tightly together.
“Yes. That’s true.” Brother Edward gave the young man a compassionate glance and turned to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, the lad’s had a bad time of things lately.”
“Yes, I’ve absolutely no doubt of that at all,” Sherlock replied. “Thank you for your time, Brother Edward. Grazie, Fra Marcelo.” He turned and faced the window. He saw the library, one of the taller structures of the abbey, and focused on it for a moment, only dimly hearing John thanking them as well and ushering them out. Three floors, and that middle room – the back wall had been stone, with no door. Which meant –
“So. What was that about Ian Adler?”
Sherlock glanced at John. “What?”
“Those questions you were asking about Adler. You think Adler’s connected to this in some way? He didn’t show up until after the last murder.”
“I think Brother Marcelo had an inordinate interest in escorting Mr. Adler to the library when by all rights he should have been paying his respects to his superior and colleague.” And Ian Adler had incriminating and explicit photos of Brother Marcelo on his mobile – there was no mistaking that Brother Marcelo and the young man in the photos were one and the same. But why the rush? Sherlock turned back to John. “John, it’s not even two o’clock and the rest of the day yawns before us. Since we’d both make terrible monks, let’s not even bother spending it in contemplation. I want to go back to the balneary and re-examine the spot where Brother Adelmo died.” He saw John’s face and heaved an impatient breath. “And yes – I’m feeling fine.”
John shook his head slowly, and a smile tugged the corners of his mouth outward. “You’re impossible. You know that, right?”
“Yes, I suppose I do.” Sherlock couldn’t help an answering smile.
“Thanks, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For the scarf. You didn’t have to give it to me, you know.”
“Oh, John, don’t be ridiculous. One of us has to stay conscious, after all. We only have three skulls between us.”
“Two, unless you brought the other one with you.”
“Hm. Fair point.” Sherlock grabbed his coat from the outer hinge and shrugged it on. “Are you coming?”
“Of course I am,” John sighed. “Someone’s got to keep an eye on you.”
Sherlock swept out the door, holding it open for John and wondering at the most peculiar sensation – despite the abbey’s stubborn withholding of information, the possession of undisclosed secrets that always produced a wonderful mingling of driven curiosity and avidity – it was the oddest admixture of contentment and desire that he now experienced.
Strange. Very, very strange.
*
“You’re certain nobody can hear us?” Ian glanced apprehensively up at the low stone ceiling of the crypt. “I don’t trust the conduction of sound in this place.”
“You’re the one who insisted on meeting now,” replied a low, gravelly voice from the shadows. “It would have attracted attention if you’d left abruptly.”
Ian dismissed the response with an impatient chopping gesture of his hand. “Why, Dzundza?” He spoke French, the only language they had in common. “Why did you do that? What in God’s name possessed you?”
“They were a bit too close to the truth.”
“I had it under control. They’ll only go back, you know – now they’ll be even more curious. Well done, you. Unless you planned to kill them outright. I didn’t think Moriarty wanted that. Of all people, you were the last one I expected to go rogue.” Ian paced back and forth, unnerved by the darkness of the crypt, by Dzundza’s refusal to emerge from the shadows.
“You had it under control – in what way? You knew they’d entered the library, that’s all. And what do you care if I kill them?”
“Moriarty might care. I don’t need you throwing spanners into the works. Why are you even here? You’ve finished your assignment, haven’t you?”
“Mr. Moriarty requested that I remain on hand in case I’m needed. If Holmes and Watson can’t survive, then they’re not worth his time.”
“You do realise that’s not exactly a compliment to you. And they’ve escaped you once already.”
“It pays the same.” Dzundza’s voice was soft and implacable and vaguely frightening.
“It’s in my best interests to keep Sherlock alive at the moment. And by extension, Dr. Watson. Sherlock would be…upset if something happened to him.”
“Would he?”
“Don’t touch him. Don’t touch either of them. I’ll call Moriarty myself if I have to.” Ian took a deep breath. “You need to leave, Dzundza. Let me handle this on my own.”
“Why? Afraid you’ll lose your bet?”
Ian’s breath caught in his throat. “What --” He stiffened as he felt powerful arms wrap round his body. Before he could pull away, he was pulled against a broad chest and a hand clamped over his mouth. He hadn’t heard Dzundza moving toward him, hadn’t seen a shift in the shadows. A scarlet blossom of terror unfolded in his vision and he longed to fight, but held himself perfectly still. Dzundza wouldn’t dare to kill him. He wouldn’t dare.
“Yes. I know about your little bet with him, Ian.” Dzundza pulled him closer. “You’re trembling, Ian.”
Ian forced himself not to claw at the hand over his mouth. He closed his eyes and waited.
“It’s always said, isn’t it, that one should do what one loves. You’ve found your calling, Ian, and so have I. This is not my only means of disposal – far from it. It is, however, my favorite.” Dzundza’s breath was hot against Ian’s ear, and two hard fingers pinched Ian’s nose shut.
Oh, God. No, no -- Ian writhed in Dzundza’s grasp, unable to suppress a protest that was swiftly smothered by Dzundza’s huge hand.
“Did you know I live for this moment – the fear, the small, strangled noises of panic, that inexorable knowledge of approaching finality? The little death for me, Ian, in one way or another. Every time.” The hand not clamped over Ian’s mouth and nose drifted downward until it rested on Ian’s belly. “And the great abyss for you, after I’ve had my way with you. Who would miss you, after all? So win your bet, and good luck. We’ll see who reaches Mr. Holmes first, no?” He released Ian abruptly and shoved him forward.
Ian stumbled and fell to the ground, breaking his fall with his hands and knees. Terrified and enraged, he curled up on the cold stone, gasping for breath. “Keep away from me, you bastard. You --”
But there was only silence in response. Dzundza had gone.
Ian placed trembling hands on a nearby stone sarcophagus and climbed to his feet. He sat on the casket, afraid his legs would give out, and ruefully picked tiny pebbles from the heels of his palms as he waited for his breathing and heartbeat to resume its normal rhythm.
He wouldn’t be rushed or pushed out of the picture. His was a delicate craft, and he executed it with skill and surety. Why had Moriarty allowed Dzundza to remain? The man was a brute, a mindless killing machine, fit only for sweeping up –
Ian froze. Sweeping up leavings.
He glanced round the crypt, but it was empty. The only illumination came from a red glass lamp with a guttering candle inside, presumably left over from the morning’s funeral. Poor Brother Adelmo, another one of Dzundza’s casualties.
Cautiously, he exited the crypt through the church and slipped into the daylight. Immediately, his mobile rang. “Ian Adler,” he said, his voice a trifle shaky. God damn it.
“Hi, honey! Been trying to call you.”
A shudder of loathing travelled up Ian’s spine. “Really? I did get your message.”
“Oh, good! The thing is, we’re going to have to step it up a little. You have enough evidence by now, with Simon and that pretty piece you were fucking.”
“I wasn’t fucking him,” Ian hissed.
“Oh, right – you’re saving that for Sherlock. I forgot. You’d better get on that, as well, hm? Don’t get too sidetracked, though – I want you to talk to Simon tomorrow at the latest.”
Ian rubbed his eyes. “All right.”
“Good boy! By the way, I do hope Oscar wasn’t too forceful. He has a way of letting things get out of hand sometimes.”
“I have to go,” Ian said.
“Tomorrow, Ian.” Moriarty’s voice had lost its singsong jollity. “I don’t want to have to come up there.”
“You can rely on me.”
“That’s my boy.” Moriarty rang off, leaving dead air behind.
Ian put his phone in his pocket and turned round to examine the church, pristine and beautiful in the crisp spring air. Crushing cold shuddered through his body as he realised that Oscar Dzundza was right – nobody would miss him if he disappeared. Ian had to depend on the quicksilver swiftness of his own wits to protect himself. He’d got in too deep, and there was no escaping now.
Gingerly, he touched his jaw, sore from Dzundza’s hand, and impotent anger coursed ice through his veins. He’d come out of this elegantly, and most importantly, on top.
He always did, after all.
*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-10-08 05:33 pm (UTC)Why is Simon a Father and the rest are Brothers? (Sorry, not all that up on the hierarchy of monks. All can say with any certainty is that Thelonious outranks Detective Adrian.)
Ian Adler looks like he's in over his head and really doesn't know it. Brother Marcelo is probably a much weaker link than Adler thinks he is.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-08 07:07 pm (UTC)Oh, I'd love to see that show up in a fic one day.
Simon is a Father because he's a priest as well as a friar. Not all friars are priests.
All can say with any certainty is that Thelonious outranks Detective Adrian.
Ha! Oh, definitely and for sure. I used to listen to Monk [thelonious, not adrian] when I was wee. My parents had a record of his. :D
Ian is definitely in deep, and we'll see about Brother Marcelo. Thanks so much! Looking forward to reading your latest piece soon.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-08 07:31 pm (UTC)Cool! I didn't know that. So the monk-monks are just like regular track, but the priest-monks went to seminary and then the monastery? Kind of like officer school in the Army? Non-commissioned monks and officer monks?
no subject
Date: 2012-10-08 07:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-08 08:05 pm (UTC)Also, I am amused by your icon. I don't speak Latin, but I can sing in Latin, and I'm having a fun time thinking of nifty little Baroque tunes that I could set that text to. I could sing it real pretty, and not have the faintest idea what it was about. (Some day, I'll tell you about the story I made up as a mnemonic for the second verse of "Personent Hodie.")
no subject
Date: 2012-10-09 02:39 am (UTC)Good gravy, I don't know anyone who speaks Latin. I studied it in high school and college, but I never even came close to speaking it - I mean, I *have*, but it was awful. I like hearing it sung, however. :D
no subject
Date: 2012-10-08 10:35 pm (UTC)So Sherlock is out of his depth in dealing with Ian
And Ian is out of his depth in dealing with Moriarty.
And John is getting curioser and curioser about what's really going on here.
MMMMMMM, I love it when a plot thickens.
And I've got a feeling that riding crop is going to appear soon. Yes? Please?
no subject
Date: 2012-10-09 02:43 am (UTC)Yes, yes, that's exactly how I visualize it! With that little puzzled frowny face that Sherlock gets.
The plot is indeed thickening! :D The riding crop will make its presence known in due course, I promise you. I hope it will be worth the wait. Thank you so much for your lovely comments - they really made me smile. :D
no subject
Date: 2012-10-08 11:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-09 02:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-10 06:27 am (UTC)Loved this line :
“I’m all right. Choky, that’s all.” John’s hand brushed the hair from Sherlock’s forehead, touched his cheek. Tears occluded Sherlock’s vision.
Of course, Sherlock. It was just the smoke, we know.*g*
Also loved Ian out of his depth and at a disadvantage.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-10 06:32 pm (UTC)Of course, Sherlock. It was just the smoke, we know.*g*
Ehe! Of course, of course.
I'm glad you liked Ian out of his depth - he flounders nicely. :D Thanks so much for reading, sweets!
no subject
Date: 2012-10-10 09:35 am (UTC)I love Sherlock's almost indignant analysis of his felings toward John, lovely.
I still have that thing about Brother Edward, don't know why :D He just seems to be my type of bloke, although I am not too fond of religion.
The Jedi mad me grin; poor Sherlock. It must be really hard for him to discover there are things he doesn't know. *g* John putting on Sherlock's shoes is a very nice touch, too.
I really do love this fic; it's the kind that makes you want to last forever. You don't really want the mystery to be solved, because thay means the story is over. And here I am, greedy for more, still. Love it, Alex and sorry I am late with commenting.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-10 07:53 pm (UTC)I love Sherlock's almost indignant analysis of his felings toward John, lovely.
Yes, he's flaily and confused. :D
I still have that thing about Brother Edward, don't know why
I don't either! :D Seriously, I dunno if it's weird, but I just love the fun I'm having with it - nobody knows about it but you and me, pretty much, and so it's kind of a treat. :D
I'm so glad you're enjoying it, dear, and god, don't apologize, I'm really grateful that you're reading it! *big hugs*
no subject
Date: 2012-10-11 03:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-11 05:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-11 05:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-14 06:39 pm (UTC)I don't have an icon with monks on it, so nuns will have to do. :-)
no subject
Date: 2012-10-15 02:02 am (UTC)