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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
*
His self-containment had always been extraordinary – except for a few missteps. He’d been skilled at it since his earliest childhood, when he sometimes saw worry and alarm in his mother’s face; she would laugh without humour and call him changeling, wee changeling and he would laugh in return, but he perceived the distress beneath her skin, her frightened eyes and crawling flesh when she beheld the child she’d borne and raised. She lied to him, kissed and embraced him though he felt her horror and disgust and couldn’t quite determine what it was that he’d done to repel her.
It taught him to dissemble early. He looked in the mirror and rehearsed the lies he told, making his face soft, open, and innocent. When he went to the pet shop, he told the proprietor the mice were for his big brother. As he took them home, soft and scrabbling in their little cardboard box, he congratulated himself on the transaction, concluded so easily and without alarm. And when he took them apart, he was very careful: he did it in the shed. Not as much mess, little noise, and it was a relief to strip away the mask of a child and wear his own face.
It had only been the one time, anyway. Animals were boring, predictable. People were more interesting. He was careful, but sometimes he made mistakes. Maureen McKechnie had tattled on him because of the string and the needles, and they’d had to move, and his mother wouldn’t let him play outside for a long time. He learned more. Sweet smiles and soft voices gained more than screams and blows. Logic and mathematics presented themselves to him in the form of punishment and reward, depending upon his actions. He learned to be crafty, aided by his own smallness, his ordinary features, the modest demeanour he cultivated early on. By the time Carl Powers took notice of him, he was almost ready. It took six months and multiple thrashings before he found the nerve to go through with things.
That night he had tossed and turned, hot and cold and trembling with excitement, Carl’s shoes under his bed. It had been so easy, and no-one had seen him. He asked himself, in a moment of stillness, why the world wasn’t awash in blood, and the answer followed fast on the heels of the question: people were stupid, that was why. Boring and dull and too stupid to do what most people wanted to do at one time or another. It was just a matter of time and care, and…isolating variables, really.
Then it occurred to him (it was like a revelation, like St. Paul on the road to Damascus) that if he was cautious, and clever, that he could have whatever he wanted. He wasn’t locked into a miserable little flat with its piss and fish-smelling corridors – for a while, yes, but not forever. He could have nice clothes, a car maybe. He could go to smart restaurants, have the sort of life he saw on telly.
Mam wanted him to go to university, to be a professor – he was more than sharp enough, he knew, and there were scholarships and all sorts of ways to manage, she said. It would be an uphill struggle, but persistence would pay off in the end. He would be respected, a man to be reckoned with. But to go through all that and ending up having to cope with eejits and arseholes like Carl Powers every single day? Oh, God. No. It was bad enough being crammed into classes with people who made him want to set the building on fire (and maybe, just maybe, someday he would), but having to look at their stupid sheep faces for the rest of his life? He wouldn’t be able to choose his own students, and that was what he wanted. Not students, but to be able to pick and choose his….
Clients. That had a nice ring to it.
He could manage things for people who had money, but who weren’t bright enough to manage things themselves. All sorts of things. He’d have to tighten the mask he wore, he knew, but it would be worth it. He’d have so much. And if he was clever enough, nobody would ever, ever catch him.
“Oh, that’s so great, Seb. You’re a champ. Don’t stop.”
Jim reached down and brushed a hand over Sebastian’s short, sweat-soaked hair as Seb’s mouth, hot and wet and so very mobile, worked over and around his cock. It always took him forever to get hard, but once he was there, oh. And he could keep it up for a really long time – a little gift from the gods of screwing, bluing, and tattooing, compensation for slow arousal. In fact, give it another minute and a half or so, and Seb would start getting tired. That was fine – better than fine, in fact. He loved when Sebastian had to work for it. Besides, he was still thinking.
If he were entirely honest with himself [and he was – no point in lying to oneself. One always got caught at it, one way or t’other] he had to admit that he’d slipped up just a teeny bit. Really, who’d have thought it, though – the brother of one of Sherlock’s school chums running the very place Jim had his sights set on at the moment? And too stupid to realise he was sitting on a perfect little goldmine.
Well. Not a goldmine, exactly. Close.
Thing was, he hadn’t factored Sherlock into this particular equation at all. It was just dumb luck that Sherlock had found out about it. Jim had so many interests, spread all over the globe; even Sherlock couldn’t muddle his way through all of them. It would take years. But did he really want to play the game that long? Sherlock couldn’t keep up with Jim unless Jim provided clues, and that got boring eventually. Maybe…maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would connect the dots on his own this time.
Wouldn’t that be exciting?
Seb was making sounds now, muted, pathetic little grunts that were a sign that he wanted to stop. Jim loved those little noises. He looked down and met Sebastian’s pleading eyes. “Not yet, lover-boy. You can just take it until I’m fucking finished.” He touched Seb’s cheek. “Where’s your stamina?”
Seb’s eyes flashed, a look that promised death to lesser mortals. He cupped Jim’s balls in one hand, fondling gently, and bent forward to take Jim’s entire cock into his mouth. He gagged.
“Oh, come on,” Jim sighed.
Sebastian grunted and bent lower. Jim felt the constriction of Seb’s throat around his cock and kept perfectly still, resisting the urge to thrust. Good boy, Seb. He stared at the Giotto Ognissanti Madonna on the wall [the real one – the one in the Uffizi was, ha-ha, as ersatz as ersatz could be] and marshaled his thoughts once more.
If Sherlock knew that Oscar was involved with things, then some of the element of surprise would dissolve. And with his usual dogged persistence and without Jim’s help, Sherlock would get to the heart of the matter in a few days. He wasn’t completely stupid. Wouldn’t it be intriguing to see the expression on Sherlock’s face when he learned Jim was in the centre of the web again? Oh, God, his face - to lead Sherlock a merry chase, throw out a few threads, ensnare him, and watch his face –
Jim pulled out abruptly and grasped Seb’s hair, holding him still. He gave himself three hard, merciless strokes, and came, spurting over Seb’s mouth and chin. “Clean it up, sweetheart,” he whispered, shuddering. “Clean it all up.” Sebastian’s tongue crept out and licked. Jim rubbed a thumb over the stubble on Seb’s chin, sliding the stickiness around, making his beard gleam, then bent and kissed him. “Mm. Sweets for the sweet.” He rearranged his clothing and then glanced down at Seb’s open trousers, his wilted cock. “Aw, no joy, Seb?”
“I might have, if you didn’t take an hour to come.” Seb got to his feet with a groan and buttoned up.
“I’ll make it up to you. Anyway, never mind that now. I just had a thought.”
“Oh?” Sebastian disappeared into the bathroom. Jim heard the sounds of running water and Seb gargling. Honestly!
“How do you fancy a little trip to Italy?” Jim called.
“Didn’t I hear you telling Adler you didn’t want to have to show up there?”
“Oh, that was just to keep him on his toesies. What do you think?”
Sebastian re-entered the bedroom, flung himself into a chair, and crossed one leg over the other. He picked up the Paris Match lying on the edge of the bed and opened it. The inset picture on the cover was Sherlock in a ridiculous hat, with the caption Le célèbre détective Sherlock Holmes. Jim employed a clipping service (well, media monitoring, really, but clipping service sounded so much nicer) to keep him abreast of Sherlock news. It was a bit of a quirk, but fun nevertheless. “I knew that once Holmes was involved you couldn’t resist staying away.”
“Do I detect a note of jealousy?”
“You detect bafflement, if anything. You don’t want him, not really – you’d rather fuck his brain than his body.”
“Who says?”
Sebastian smiled at him over the pages of the magazine, and Jim’s heart fluttered the tiniest bit. Seb had a killer smile to go along with the rest of him. “I say. If you do want to fuck him, that’s just an aside. But it’s daft as all hell, Jim. He’s got the law on his side – you know who his friends are, not to mention his brother – and it just doesn’t make the slightest sense to me, the way you keep goading him. Christ, it’s like you want to get caught.”
Jim laughed and sank to the bed. “I’d rather watch you fuck him.”
Seb smiled and turned a page. “Not my type. It’d be like fucking an ice cube with a hole in the middle of it.”
“You never know. Anyway, there’s a lid for every pot – look at that sad little puppy John Watson. Trails him everywhere.”
“Ah.” Sebastian’s eyes gleamed. “Now there’s someone I wouldn’t mind bending over a barrel. Compact, wiry, knows his way around hardware. Admit it, Jim, he barely broke a sweat when I strapped him into all that Semtex. That man’s no puppy. He’s got balls of steel.”
“Maybe I should test them,” Jim mused.
Seb shrugged. “When are you planning to leave?”
Jim leant back on the bed and propped himself up on his elbows. “Let’s see what the next day or two brings.” He drew his tongue across his upper lip. “For now, let’s pick up where we left off. Speaking of balls, can’t have yours turning blue, can we?”
Sebastian gazed coolly at Jim for a moment, then dropped Paris Match to the floor.
*
John stopped dead beside the hearth. “Sherlock.”
“Hm?” Sherlock looked up from his examination of the bathtub where Brother Adelmo had been submerged.
“Someone’s cleaned up the footprints.” John examined the hearth in dismay. All the distinct footprints had disappeared, swept up hastily but not scrubbed. The stone was still grey with soot.
“I thought someone might. Not important. You did get snaps, after all, and I think we may know who our assassin is. We need to find the whereabouts of the codex, and why Brother Adelmo and Brother Matthias died because of it.” He bent close to the floor, then dropped to all fours. “The tub’s heavy, but it’s been shifted just a bit – back and forth, judging by the scrapes against the stone.”
“How the hell do you drain a tub like this?” John asked, peering into the shining copper-lined bathtub.
“Open that wardrobe,” Sherlock pointed to a heavy dark cabinet in the corner.
Obediently, John opened it and laughed, pulling out a siphon and hose. “How’d you know?”
“There.” Sherlock nodded toward a capped copper pipe protruding from the wall. “My guess is that it leads to a gutter of some kind – maybe they water plants with the used bathwater.”
“Ugh.”
“Can’t be all that bad. The plant life here seems healthy. Brother Edward would know, I’m sure. Anyhow, they don’t eschew every mod con here – it’s not quite as rustic as it appears to be on the surface. Ah! John, come here. Have a look at this.” Sherlock knelt on the floor and pointed at a tiny scrap of what appeared to be paper wedged between the outer wooden shell of the tub and the interior copper lining. He slipped off his gloves and tried to ease it out with a fingernail, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Credit card.”
Sherlock frowned. “What? Oh. Quite right.” He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced his debit card with a flourish. Carefully, he slid it into the narrow space and urged it out with gentle pressure.
“That’s how Sarah clears paper jams in our printer.”
Sherlock gave him a look of exaggerated and long-suffering patience and grasped the paper between two fingernails. He pulled it out and unfolded it. “What…?” He held the paper close to his face, then heaved an impatient sigh.
“What is it?”
“Latin.” Sherlock thrust the paper under John’s nose, too close to read.
“All right, all right, hang on.” John took the torn bit of paper and examined it. The handwriting was beautifully formed, but the words were oddly small and cramped.
Sederunt principes, et adversum me loquebantur: et iniqui persecuti sunt me: adjuva me, Domine Deus meus, quia servus tuus exercebatur in tuis justificationibus. Beati immaculati in via, qui ambulant in lege Domini.
“God, I’ve no idea. If it’s not in Gray’s Anatomy I’m sunk.” He handed the paper back to Sherlock.
“’Princes sat, and spoke against me, and the evil persecuted me.’ Something…. ‘Lord my God….’” Sherlock sighed again and got to his feet. “I’ll work it out later.”
“Mr. Holmes?”
John turned to see the monk Sherlock had spoken to at the previous evening’s supper standing in the doorway. He was in his early or middle fifties, with longish salt-and-pepper hair and a short beard, and he wore Birkenstocks with rag-wool socks, sort of like an aging hippie Jesus. John chided himself for the vaguely disrespectful thought.
“Ah. Brother Peter.”
“Brother Wilfred said you wanted to speak with me.”
“Yes. I understand you’re in possession of the stone that was attached to Brother Adelmo’s neck. I wonder if we might examine it.” Sherlock tucked the folded bit of paper into his pocket.
“No problem. Come along with me, please.”
“Dr. John Watson, Brother Peter,” Sherlock said by way of introduction as they left the balneary.
The monk shook John’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Watson. We did meet briefly this morning, but you were a little out of it. Glad to see you’re both okay. I told Father Simon and Edward to get you to the hospital right away – looks like it went well.”
“Yeah, we’re fine, thanks. American?” John asked.
“That’s right. I’ve lived here for about fifteen years now. Came backpacking and never left.” Brother Peter clasped his hands behind his back as he walked. “Suits me. The mountains, the air, the sense of peace and communion with God and nature…it’s amazing.”
“Fascinating,” Sherlock said. “Brother Peter, can you tell me about the condition of Brother Matthias’ body following his fall down the library stairs?”
“It was pretty much what you’d expect,” Brother Peter said, businesslike now. “Standard injuries of a fall like that. Due to repeated impact, his entire body sustained trauma – broken bones, lacerations, bruises. Cranial and cerebral trauma, of course – we didn’t have him autopsied, but the cranial trauma was evident, so it follows that there were grave cerebral injuries.”
“A great deal of bruising on his face?” Sherlock wanted to know.
“Yes. Mostly on the left side, which was funny – not funny, but odd, I mean. His right supraorbital ridge and his --” Brother Peter glanced at John. “his cheekbone --”
“Zygomatic arch,” Sherlock said wearily.
“Right. Both sustained severe damage, but it was the left side of his face that was terribly bruised.”
John and Sherlock exchanged a glance. “Could the bruising have resembled finger marks, Brother Peter?” John asked quietly.
Brother Peter stopped in his tracks and peered warily from Sherlock to John. “You think he was murdered.”
“I think the cerebral trauma might have occurred first, precipitated not by a fall but by suffocation,” Sherlock said. “Why, with two suspicious deaths in a short amount of time, is anyone surprised by this?”
“Sherlock,” John began, with an apologetic look at Brother Peter.
“Hello there!”
Ian Adler was walking – no, sauntering was what he was doing, a cool gliding strut that he must have practiced because, John admitted grudgingly to himself, he was bloody good at it. He didn’t like Ian one little bit and wasn’t particularly inclined to sit down and work out exactly why that was so, but he had to concede that Ian was a really handsome sod. Hideously overconfident, of course – nobody who smiled that much, exposing that many teeth, could be anything but a smug bastard – but wasn’t he half good-looking? God, it was annoying.
“You’re a resilient pair,” Ian said. “I was frightened half to death this morning.”
John snorted. “Not as much as we were.”
“I’m sure. You’re both all right?” Ian looked from John to Sherlock. “I was particularly concerned for you, Mr. Holmes. You were out cold. You’re very fortunate to have such a devoted friend in Dr. Watson.”
“He’s handy in a crisis,” Sherlock replied shortly, and John winced inside. From Sherlock, that was a compliment, but the odd look Ian gave him made John want to hit him on the nose. “Pity you didn’t see anybody leaving the library this morning.”
“I’m fairly certain the library has more than one point of egress,” Ian said. “I think you probably know that better than I do.”
Sherlock sniffed, then stuck his hand in his pocket and withdrew the folded scrap of paper he’d prised from the bathtub. “Perhaps you can make amends by translating this for me.”
“Make amends?” Ian smiled without showing his teeth this time. “I wasn’t aware I owed you a debt, but….” He shrugged and took the scrap of paper, unfolding it. He scanned the paper, frowning and biting his lower lip, then translated. “Princes sat, and spoke against me, and the wicked persecuted me. Help me, O Lord my God, for Thy servant was employed in Thy justifications. Blessed are the undefiled in the way, who walk in the law of the Lord.” He handed the paper back to Sherlock.
“Sounds familiar,” Sherlock said.
“It is if you know your Psalms,” Ian said, “and I expect the friars here would know that particular Psalm quite well. It’s from an Introit.”
“What’s that?” John asked.
“It’s a processional psalm – well, a fragment of one, really, sung prior to a mass as the celebrant enters the church and approaches the altar. There are many, but this one commemorates the martyrdom of St. Stephen – San Stefano.”
“You seem quite versed in church tradition,” Sherlock said.
“My field at university was early Christian texts.” Ian lowered his eyes modestly. “You can imagine what a treasure trove all this is.”
Sherlock slid the paper back into his pocket. “Oh, I’m sure. Difficult to imagine a scholar like you can exercise any restraint at all in a place like this.”
Ian dialed his smile to full brilliance. “Yes, you’re absolutely right, but I’ve always prided myself on my restraint, so much so that I consider myself rather an expert. Should you need any help in that regard, do pay me a visit.”
John scowled. The bastard was flirting again, but flirtation always seemed to bounce off Sherlock’s impassive surface as easily as soap bubbles. “We’d better get going, Sherlock. Brother Peter’s time is being wasted.”
“And I have a meeting in just a few moments with Father Simon,” Ian said, glancing at his wristwatch – a very expensive Tag Heuer, John noticed. “But I’d love to chat later. Perhaps if you’re both free after supper. Well – goodbye for now.” He nodded and went on his way. John watched his long legs with a prickle of unease.
“Come along, John.” Sherlock and Brother Peter were already striding away.
“Right,” John muttered, and the three moved toward the infirmary again. “So do you think there’s a possibility that the cause of death might have been murder, Brother Peter?”
“We didn’t have Brother Matthias autopsied, as I said.” Brother Peter was pale under his outdoor tan. “But the placement of the bruises and the skin under his nails…I don’t know. I didn’t think of it at the time because his was the first death, and when I examined him in the library, it looked like an ordinary fall. But --” He stopped, as if trying to recall some particular and upsetting detail.
“Yes?” Sherlock prompted.
“His habit was torn. Not abraded, as if he’d torn it in the fall, but actually ripped at the hem and sleeve. That’s a tough thing to do – this is pretty sturdy stuff,” Brother Peter tugged at the sleeve of his own white garment. “Which brings us to what you’ve come to see, as it happens.” They stopped at the door of the infirmary, and he produced a key from his pocket and fitted it into the lock.
John watched the key turn effortfully in the lock, and glanced at Sherlock, remembering Sherlock’s difficulty breaking in the night before. Sherlock winked at him, and John stared at the ground, stifling a grin.
Daft bugger.
Brother Peter led them into the now-familiar infirmary and ducked into a tiny storage closet just off the examination room. “The police photographed it, but didn’t take it to examine because Father Simon was so insistent on it being suicide.” His voice was muffled. “It’s here….” He emerged with a large cardboard box in his arms and thumped it on an examining table with a groan. “Weighs a ton. Brother Adelmo had similar bruising,” he said in a low voice. “I should have…I didn’t make the connection when I saw his face. Who could have done a thing like that? Brother Adelmo was…a bit on the frail side, but Brother Matthias was a fairly large and very strong man.”
“There are people trained to kill, Brother Peter,” John said. “And the man who killed them both is --” He folded his lips together as Sherlock shot him a warning glance.
“You know who it might have been?”
“Possibly,” Sherlock said, apparently resigned to John’s gaffe. “There’s an assassin by the name of Oscar Dzundza whose trademark is suffocating his victims to death. If what you say is true, then the markings fit the general pattern of his contract killings.” He didn’t compound John’s error by mentioning the little nighttime foray they’d made into the infirmary to see Brother Adelmo’s body. “Let’s have a look at this rock, then.” He opened the lid and pursed his lips. “Interesting.”
“What’s that?” John asked.
Sherlock withdrew a torn piece of white wool twisted into a rope and tossed it on the table.
“From the…his robe,” John said.
“Yes, but that’s not the interesting bit. Hold the flaps down.” As John obeyed, Sherlock lifted the rock out with a grunt and set it on the table with a resounding thud.
“I can see how it could have held his body underwater,” John said, marveling at the size and apparent weight of the rock, large and irregularly shaped, pale brown in colour with thick nodules of dark grey. A cord of the same wool was fastened around the rock at intervals, knotted off and frayed where it had apparently been torn or cut from Brother Adelmo’s corpse. “It’s huge.” He hoped that the poor young guy had been unconscious or dead when Dzundza had submerged him. He couldn’t imagine how horrible it would be to drown. Smothering would have been much quicker and probably less painful. He glanced at Sherlock, who had taken off his gloves and was running a finger thoughtfully over the stone. “What?”
“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured again.
“Huh?”
“Pitchblende.”
“Speak English,” John said.
Sherlock’s mouth turned up at the corners. He went to the sink and washed his hands. “Brother Peter, if I were you I’d keep that stone away from your medical supplies. It’s not a problem at the moment, but I wouldn’t hang on to it as a souvenir.”
“Why not?”
“It’s radioactive.” Sherlock wiped his hands on a paper towel and tossed the towel into a waste can. “Uraninite. Uranium ore. The stuff they use to make yellowcake which is then processed into uranium fuel for nuclear power plants and sometimes high-grade U-235 for nuclear weapons. This is a nice rich specimen, too. You wouldn’t happen to have a lot of this lying about the abbey, would you?”
Brother Peter was looking at the stone as if it might bite him. John couldn’t quite blame him for that. “No, I don’t think so.”
“The uraninite is actually these dark pieces,” Sherlock said, pointing. “They’ve got a bit of a dull sheen to them, if you can see…and it looks like this rock was cut by machine. Do you see the clean edge on the bottom here? Brother Peter, are there uranium mines in the vicinity?”
“There are some near Lake Como, so far as I know, but none very close. There’s always been a great deal of opposition to it, thank God.” Brother Peter went back into the closet and emerged with a monk’s white wool habit. He threw it over the stone and made to pick it up.
“Hang on.” Sherlock took the habit and picked it up. It was shredded on one side, with a large section torn out. “This is the source of the rope.”
“It was Brother Adelmo’s.”
Sherlock frowned as he held it up. “I thought you said Brother Adelmo was slight.” He didn’t mention that he’d seen the young man’s body himself.
“He is – oh, I see what you mean. That’s…well, yes, that’s a bit long for him, isn’t it? But then why would he be wearing someone else’s habit? There wasn’t another one found in the balneary, and this one has blood on it consistent with wounds found on Adelmo’s body.”
“I think we’re finished here,” Sherlock said, drawing on his gloves. “Thank you for your time, Brother Peter. Good afternoon.” He turned abruptly and marched from the infirmary, leaving John to follow.
“Um – thank you,” John said, shaking a bewildered Brother Peter’s hand. “I’m sure we’ll let you know if we have more questions, but for now I think you can probably tidy things up. So long.” John rushed out of the infirmary and ran to catch up with Sherlock. “What the hell, Sherlock?”
“This case has finally become interesting.”
“Didn’t realise you were bored before.” John panted a little as he trotted beside Sherlock. His lungs were starting to ache a bit. “Where are we headed now?”
“To the library, to get a sample of Brother Adelmo’s handwriting.”
“What about the rock? Why did you want to see it in the first place?”
“I didn’t especially. I really wanted to draw Brother Peter out about the matching markings on the monks’ bodies, but this…this is quite something, John. Uraninite. Out of nowhere, it seems, and Dzundza uses it to submerge Brother Adelmo’s body. Where did it come from?”
“Can’t imagine,” John wheezed. “But it’s a rock, Sherlock. Even if it is radioactive…who cares? What makes that more interesting than the codex and the monks?”
“I don’t know. Not yet. Come on, it’s getting late.” Sherlock picked up his pace, and John followed obligingly. They went into the library and immediately made their way to a large desk where Brother Marcelo sat with a mound of paperwork. “Good afternoon, Brother Marcelo.”
The young monk nodded and said something in Italian.
“Oh, come on, I know you understand more than you pretend to,” Sherlock said loudly. “I watched you react to my questions earlier, especially when I asked you why you left early with Mr. Adler.”
“Sherlock, keep it down,” John pleaded.
“Actually, I think it’s rather good that everyone can see and hear us.” Sherlock pointed at a stack of ledgers on a shelf behind Brother Adelmo. “Registri,” Sherlock said. “Più recenti.”
Hesitantly, Brother Marcelo got up and took the newest-looking ledger from the shelf. He brought it to the desk, but clung to it tightly, his eyes betraying unease.
Sherlock held out a hand. “Now, if you please.” Slowly, the monk handed over the book. “Thank you.” He opened the book and began to page through it.
John became aware of a buzz of whispered conversation behind him. He turned around and threw the monks a feeble glare, then looked away, embarrassed. The monks went on whispering with no apparent problem. Presumably the story of the morning’s attack had made the rounds, and like as not with varying degrees of accuracy. Sherlock ignored the whispering and Brother Marcelo’s nervous fidgeting and flipped through the book quickly, then made a small noise of triumph.
“Got something?” John asked.
Sherlock took the folded scrap of paper from his pocket and unfolded it, spreading it out against an entry in the ledger signed by Brother Adelmo. The two handwriting samples were precisely the same. Sherlock straightened, put the scrap in his pocket again, and smiled at Brother Marcelo. “Grazie.” He wheeled and made for the door. “Come along, John. Time for a rest.”
John did a double-take as he followed Sherlock. “Rest?”
“Yes, you’re exhausted. It’s showing in your eyes, your tread, and your respiration. We have some time until supper, and I have some research to do.”
“So Brother Adelmo was the one who slipped that note into the tub. Why?”
“A message,” Sherlock said. “And reluctant as I am to admit it, one I wouldn’t have discovered - immediately, anyway – without the help of Ian Adler.”
Great. “What message is that?”
“I think the codex is still somewhere in the Abbey.”
John frowned, then a light clicked on. “Because…that proverb --”
“Psalm.”
“Whatever – it’s about St. Stephen. San Stefano. So you think Adelmo knew that?”
“Yes. It doesn’t explain why he died, but it gets us a bit closer to the truth. As does a recently let down hem and a spot on a sleeve.” Sherlock slid his key into the lock and turned it, then stepped aside for John. “After you. Have a lie-in.”
“I’m all right,” John protested, but he was feeling a bit tired and grateful for a respite. He went into the bathroom, used it, then went into his bedroom and flopped on the bed, fully dressed. It was still unmade, and he smiled a little. No chambermaids in an abbey. With a sigh, he pulled out his phone and looked at his list of texts. He considered texting Alice to apologise, then decided not to. He’d try to talk to her when they got back.
Sherlock opened John’s bathroom door. “Have you got service on your phone?”
John glanced at it. “Ah…yeah. You need it?”
“Please.” Sherlock took John’s phone and went to the chair beside the window, folding himself into it and tapping away.
John watched Sherlock for a moment. “I think Ian Adler has a bit of a crush on you.”
“Yes, possibly.” Sherlock didn’t look up from the phone.
John’s mouth dropped open. What the hell? He’d expected a sour look, or an indignant snort, or even silence, but that…ready acquiescence…that was the last thing he’d expected. “Didn’t think you were bothered about that sort of thing.”
“Really, John.” Sherlock’s voice was dry and lecturing. “Regardless of what my proclivities may or may not be, that does not mean I’m utterly oblivious.”
The hell you’re not, John thought, then bit his lip, as embarrassed at his bitterness as if he’d said the words aloud. He hadn’t been obvious – that is, it was a good thing he hadn’t been obvious. The last thing he wanted was Sherlock giving him some harangue about the pointlessness of John harboring feelings for his flatmate, when he’d categorically stated, and hadn’t John heard him the first time, that –
Hang on. ‘What my proclivities may or may not be?’ What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
“So you noticed,” John said tightly.
“Rather difficult not to. Mr. Adler’s a shameless flirt. He flirted with you, too, or hadn’t you noticed?”
John frowned. He’d noticed, but mostly he’d noticed Ian all but draping himself over Sherlock. He laced his hands together behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.
You don't have a girlfriend then?
Girlfriend? No, not really my area.
All right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.
I know it's fine.
So you’ve got a boyfriend?
No.
Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.
John, erm... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any...
No. I'm... not asking. No. I'm just saying, it's all fine.
Good. Thank you.
Oh, shit. Shit.
He’d never said boyfriends weren’t his area.
John turned over on his side, away from Sherlock, so Sherlock couldn’t see the sudden contraction of his brow and what was probably a very red face. He lay awake for a long while, listening to the tapping of Sherlock’s fingertips against the buttons of his phone and tried not to feel jealous.
It wasn’t fucking working.
*
Ian felt almost sorry for Simon. He sat rigidly upright behind his desk, all the colour slowly draining from his face, looking as if someone had pulled out his batteries. His fingertips moved ceaselessly over the handsome pen on his blotter in a rhythmic caressing motion, and his eyes darted occasionally to Ian’s phone, now black and silent, as if it were a poisonous snake. There were moments when Ian took absolute joy in this aspect of his work, but this time, he felt a faint twinge of regret.
Still, he had to keep things moving along. “Do you need any particulars repeated, Father?”
Simon took a ragged breath. “I thought you were a Latin scholar.”
“I am. I’m very proud of my accomplishments in the field. And my work for the Dublin diocese is perfectly legitimate. But Latin translation doesn’t pay all the bills – in fact, it really pays for very little. So I’m forced to find other employment, and in this case, both vocations happened to line up nicely.”
“As a prostitute,” Simon said quietly. “And a blackmailer.”
“Well, let’s not split hairs over titles,” Ian said, rising to his feet. He leant over Simon’s desk, picked up his phone, and slipped it in his pocket. “My employer --”
“Yes, let’s discuss your employer,” Simon said, picking up a sheet of A4 with densely packed, tiny type covering one side. “HRH Industries. Why do they want to acquire this parcel badly enough to blackmail both me and some of the brothers who live here?”
Ian shrugged and resumed his seat. “I don’t know, and in utter honesty, I don’t really care.”
“This abbey has been in the possession of the Church for nearly a thousand years, Mr. Adler. If you think I have the authority to simply give it away --”
“Sell.”
“At the price listed here, I might as well give it away. And as I was saying, I haven’t the authority.”
Ian shook his head. “Father, please. Let’s not waste time dissembling. My employer has been investigating your financial situation for some time now. He knows that your superiors have been urging you to turn a greater profit on the little cottage industries you’ve got going here, and you’ve been ignoring them quite blithely.”
The colour was returning to Simon’s face. Twin spots of pink bloomed in his cheeks. “This is a monastery, Mr. Adler. It is a place of spiritual retreat, worship, and devout contemplation. It is not now and never should be a tourist destination.”
“Some spiritual director you turned out to be, too – banging the mayor’s wife.” Ian smiled. “Imagine the scandal that would arise from that revelation. Can you? I can. I’ve seen it happen so many times. Disgrace, ruin – for both parties. Forget sweet little Marcelo for a moment. Imagine the agonies that Signora Lorenzetti would suffer if this little tidbit of film came to life. Do you really want that to happen?”
“You’re a monster,” Simon breathed.
Ian let out a soft sigh and shook his head. “As I was about to say, your superiors are almost ready to sell this place from under you. It loses more money every year, and without a new and steady infusion of capital, it’s nothing but a drain on Church coffers. And we all know how reluctant the Church is to part with even a single penny. One recommendation from you and they’ll be happier and richer, Signora Lorenzetti will be safe, and Brother Marcelo can resume his ordinary life as if nothing had ever happened to disrupt it.”
Simon stared down at his pen and his restless fingers. All at once he stiffened and looked up at Ian. “Please tell me that the missing codex and the deaths of Matthias and Adelmo have nothing to do with this.”
Ian schooled his face into a bland, pleasant mask. “Why would they?”
“Blackmail is one thing, Mr. Adler. Murder….” Simon placed both hands flat on his blotter. “You really don’t know what your employer intends for the abbey once he purchases it?”
“No, I don’t.”
“May I speak with him?”
“I’ll phone him this evening and let him know the conversation took place. Whether or not he decides to contact you is up to him.”
“I would be disappointed if I were to research HRH Industries, wouldn’t I?” Simon’s hands resumed their caressing of the pen. “It’s a pretty façade for something vile, I’m sure. I want you out of here, Mr. Adler. Tonight. Now, in fact.”
Ian rose to his feet. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. You’ll just have to suffer my presence until you come to a decision and it’s finalised in ink. It’s a bit old-fashioned, but sometimes the old-fashioned and direct ways are the best. I trust that your hospitality won’t change, Father. I’ll still need access to the library. I haven’t finished the job for the Dublin diocese yet. And please don’t alert the authorities. The moment I sense the slightest hint of trouble, all I have to do is press a few buttons and these films go out to every scandal-rag in the UK and Europe, and you’ll be drummed out of here and the place will be sold whether or not you want it. Trust me – you can’t afford that, Father. So do think very carefully before you try to do me harm in any way.”
“You won’t get away with this, Mr. Adler. I promise,” Simon said in a hoarse voice.
“Sorry. I like you, and I’m sorry you have to sell. This is a truly beautiful place, even for a lapsed soul like myself. But we must all bow to the inevitable, mustn’t we? Good afternoon, Father.” Ian left Simon’s office, nodded to Brother Wilfred in the anteroom, and stepped into the fresh spring air.
He stuck his hands in his pockets and felt the comforting weight of his phone. He’d phone Jim, and then go to dinner, and then…then he was inclined to a bit of mischief. And possibly Sherlock Holmes was inclined the same way. He didn’t have much time to make good on his bet – an extra quarter million and not being fucked and strangled by Oscar Dzundza were excellent incentives.
For a moment he felt a pang of remorse and wished he’d answered Simon honestly about the murders. He didn’t see the point of them, not really – Oscar having fun? Something else? Maybe it was best that he didn’t know after all.
It wasn’t his concern. Not his game.
Ian strode toward his lodgings to get ready. He and Sherlock had a date, and though he’d said Sherlock would come to him, sometimes people needed a little nudge. A little extra stimulation.
It promised to be an interesting evening.
*
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
*
His self-containment had always been extraordinary – except for a few missteps. He’d been skilled at it since his earliest childhood, when he sometimes saw worry and alarm in his mother’s face; she would laugh without humour and call him changeling, wee changeling and he would laugh in return, but he perceived the distress beneath her skin, her frightened eyes and crawling flesh when she beheld the child she’d borne and raised. She lied to him, kissed and embraced him though he felt her horror and disgust and couldn’t quite determine what it was that he’d done to repel her.
It taught him to dissemble early. He looked in the mirror and rehearsed the lies he told, making his face soft, open, and innocent. When he went to the pet shop, he told the proprietor the mice were for his big brother. As he took them home, soft and scrabbling in their little cardboard box, he congratulated himself on the transaction, concluded so easily and without alarm. And when he took them apart, he was very careful: he did it in the shed. Not as much mess, little noise, and it was a relief to strip away the mask of a child and wear his own face.
It had only been the one time, anyway. Animals were boring, predictable. People were more interesting. He was careful, but sometimes he made mistakes. Maureen McKechnie had tattled on him because of the string and the needles, and they’d had to move, and his mother wouldn’t let him play outside for a long time. He learned more. Sweet smiles and soft voices gained more than screams and blows. Logic and mathematics presented themselves to him in the form of punishment and reward, depending upon his actions. He learned to be crafty, aided by his own smallness, his ordinary features, the modest demeanour he cultivated early on. By the time Carl Powers took notice of him, he was almost ready. It took six months and multiple thrashings before he found the nerve to go through with things.
That night he had tossed and turned, hot and cold and trembling with excitement, Carl’s shoes under his bed. It had been so easy, and no-one had seen him. He asked himself, in a moment of stillness, why the world wasn’t awash in blood, and the answer followed fast on the heels of the question: people were stupid, that was why. Boring and dull and too stupid to do what most people wanted to do at one time or another. It was just a matter of time and care, and…isolating variables, really.
Then it occurred to him (it was like a revelation, like St. Paul on the road to Damascus) that if he was cautious, and clever, that he could have whatever he wanted. He wasn’t locked into a miserable little flat with its piss and fish-smelling corridors – for a while, yes, but not forever. He could have nice clothes, a car maybe. He could go to smart restaurants, have the sort of life he saw on telly.
Mam wanted him to go to university, to be a professor – he was more than sharp enough, he knew, and there were scholarships and all sorts of ways to manage, she said. It would be an uphill struggle, but persistence would pay off in the end. He would be respected, a man to be reckoned with. But to go through all that and ending up having to cope with eejits and arseholes like Carl Powers every single day? Oh, God. No. It was bad enough being crammed into classes with people who made him want to set the building on fire (and maybe, just maybe, someday he would), but having to look at their stupid sheep faces for the rest of his life? He wouldn’t be able to choose his own students, and that was what he wanted. Not students, but to be able to pick and choose his….
Clients. That had a nice ring to it.
He could manage things for people who had money, but who weren’t bright enough to manage things themselves. All sorts of things. He’d have to tighten the mask he wore, he knew, but it would be worth it. He’d have so much. And if he was clever enough, nobody would ever, ever catch him.
“Oh, that’s so great, Seb. You’re a champ. Don’t stop.”
Jim reached down and brushed a hand over Sebastian’s short, sweat-soaked hair as Seb’s mouth, hot and wet and so very mobile, worked over and around his cock. It always took him forever to get hard, but once he was there, oh. And he could keep it up for a really long time – a little gift from the gods of screwing, bluing, and tattooing, compensation for slow arousal. In fact, give it another minute and a half or so, and Seb would start getting tired. That was fine – better than fine, in fact. He loved when Sebastian had to work for it. Besides, he was still thinking.
If he were entirely honest with himself [and he was – no point in lying to oneself. One always got caught at it, one way or t’other] he had to admit that he’d slipped up just a teeny bit. Really, who’d have thought it, though – the brother of one of Sherlock’s school chums running the very place Jim had his sights set on at the moment? And too stupid to realise he was sitting on a perfect little goldmine.
Well. Not a goldmine, exactly. Close.
Thing was, he hadn’t factored Sherlock into this particular equation at all. It was just dumb luck that Sherlock had found out about it. Jim had so many interests, spread all over the globe; even Sherlock couldn’t muddle his way through all of them. It would take years. But did he really want to play the game that long? Sherlock couldn’t keep up with Jim unless Jim provided clues, and that got boring eventually. Maybe…maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would connect the dots on his own this time.
Wouldn’t that be exciting?
Seb was making sounds now, muted, pathetic little grunts that were a sign that he wanted to stop. Jim loved those little noises. He looked down and met Sebastian’s pleading eyes. “Not yet, lover-boy. You can just take it until I’m fucking finished.” He touched Seb’s cheek. “Where’s your stamina?”
Seb’s eyes flashed, a look that promised death to lesser mortals. He cupped Jim’s balls in one hand, fondling gently, and bent forward to take Jim’s entire cock into his mouth. He gagged.
“Oh, come on,” Jim sighed.
Sebastian grunted and bent lower. Jim felt the constriction of Seb’s throat around his cock and kept perfectly still, resisting the urge to thrust. Good boy, Seb. He stared at the Giotto Ognissanti Madonna on the wall [the real one – the one in the Uffizi was, ha-ha, as ersatz as ersatz could be] and marshaled his thoughts once more.
If Sherlock knew that Oscar was involved with things, then some of the element of surprise would dissolve. And with his usual dogged persistence and without Jim’s help, Sherlock would get to the heart of the matter in a few days. He wasn’t completely stupid. Wouldn’t it be intriguing to see the expression on Sherlock’s face when he learned Jim was in the centre of the web again? Oh, God, his face - to lead Sherlock a merry chase, throw out a few threads, ensnare him, and watch his face –
Jim pulled out abruptly and grasped Seb’s hair, holding him still. He gave himself three hard, merciless strokes, and came, spurting over Seb’s mouth and chin. “Clean it up, sweetheart,” he whispered, shuddering. “Clean it all up.” Sebastian’s tongue crept out and licked. Jim rubbed a thumb over the stubble on Seb’s chin, sliding the stickiness around, making his beard gleam, then bent and kissed him. “Mm. Sweets for the sweet.” He rearranged his clothing and then glanced down at Seb’s open trousers, his wilted cock. “Aw, no joy, Seb?”
“I might have, if you didn’t take an hour to come.” Seb got to his feet with a groan and buttoned up.
“I’ll make it up to you. Anyway, never mind that now. I just had a thought.”
“Oh?” Sebastian disappeared into the bathroom. Jim heard the sounds of running water and Seb gargling. Honestly!
“How do you fancy a little trip to Italy?” Jim called.
“Didn’t I hear you telling Adler you didn’t want to have to show up there?”
“Oh, that was just to keep him on his toesies. What do you think?”
Sebastian re-entered the bedroom, flung himself into a chair, and crossed one leg over the other. He picked up the Paris Match lying on the edge of the bed and opened it. The inset picture on the cover was Sherlock in a ridiculous hat, with the caption Le célèbre détective Sherlock Holmes. Jim employed a clipping service (well, media monitoring, really, but clipping service sounded so much nicer) to keep him abreast of Sherlock news. It was a bit of a quirk, but fun nevertheless. “I knew that once Holmes was involved you couldn’t resist staying away.”
“Do I detect a note of jealousy?”
“You detect bafflement, if anything. You don’t want him, not really – you’d rather fuck his brain than his body.”
“Who says?”
Sebastian smiled at him over the pages of the magazine, and Jim’s heart fluttered the tiniest bit. Seb had a killer smile to go along with the rest of him. “I say. If you do want to fuck him, that’s just an aside. But it’s daft as all hell, Jim. He’s got the law on his side – you know who his friends are, not to mention his brother – and it just doesn’t make the slightest sense to me, the way you keep goading him. Christ, it’s like you want to get caught.”
Jim laughed and sank to the bed. “I’d rather watch you fuck him.”
Seb smiled and turned a page. “Not my type. It’d be like fucking an ice cube with a hole in the middle of it.”
“You never know. Anyway, there’s a lid for every pot – look at that sad little puppy John Watson. Trails him everywhere.”
“Ah.” Sebastian’s eyes gleamed. “Now there’s someone I wouldn’t mind bending over a barrel. Compact, wiry, knows his way around hardware. Admit it, Jim, he barely broke a sweat when I strapped him into all that Semtex. That man’s no puppy. He’s got balls of steel.”
“Maybe I should test them,” Jim mused.
Seb shrugged. “When are you planning to leave?”
Jim leant back on the bed and propped himself up on his elbows. “Let’s see what the next day or two brings.” He drew his tongue across his upper lip. “For now, let’s pick up where we left off. Speaking of balls, can’t have yours turning blue, can we?”
Sebastian gazed coolly at Jim for a moment, then dropped Paris Match to the floor.
*
John stopped dead beside the hearth. “Sherlock.”
“Hm?” Sherlock looked up from his examination of the bathtub where Brother Adelmo had been submerged.
“Someone’s cleaned up the footprints.” John examined the hearth in dismay. All the distinct footprints had disappeared, swept up hastily but not scrubbed. The stone was still grey with soot.
“I thought someone might. Not important. You did get snaps, after all, and I think we may know who our assassin is. We need to find the whereabouts of the codex, and why Brother Adelmo and Brother Matthias died because of it.” He bent close to the floor, then dropped to all fours. “The tub’s heavy, but it’s been shifted just a bit – back and forth, judging by the scrapes against the stone.”
“How the hell do you drain a tub like this?” John asked, peering into the shining copper-lined bathtub.
“Open that wardrobe,” Sherlock pointed to a heavy dark cabinet in the corner.
Obediently, John opened it and laughed, pulling out a siphon and hose. “How’d you know?”
“There.” Sherlock nodded toward a capped copper pipe protruding from the wall. “My guess is that it leads to a gutter of some kind – maybe they water plants with the used bathwater.”
“Ugh.”
“Can’t be all that bad. The plant life here seems healthy. Brother Edward would know, I’m sure. Anyhow, they don’t eschew every mod con here – it’s not quite as rustic as it appears to be on the surface. Ah! John, come here. Have a look at this.” Sherlock knelt on the floor and pointed at a tiny scrap of what appeared to be paper wedged between the outer wooden shell of the tub and the interior copper lining. He slipped off his gloves and tried to ease it out with a fingernail, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Credit card.”
Sherlock frowned. “What? Oh. Quite right.” He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced his debit card with a flourish. Carefully, he slid it into the narrow space and urged it out with gentle pressure.
“That’s how Sarah clears paper jams in our printer.”
Sherlock gave him a look of exaggerated and long-suffering patience and grasped the paper between two fingernails. He pulled it out and unfolded it. “What…?” He held the paper close to his face, then heaved an impatient sigh.
“What is it?”
“Latin.” Sherlock thrust the paper under John’s nose, too close to read.
“All right, all right, hang on.” John took the torn bit of paper and examined it. The handwriting was beautifully formed, but the words were oddly small and cramped.
Sederunt principes, et adversum me loquebantur: et iniqui persecuti sunt me: adjuva me, Domine Deus meus, quia servus tuus exercebatur in tuis justificationibus. Beati immaculati in via, qui ambulant in lege Domini.
“God, I’ve no idea. If it’s not in Gray’s Anatomy I’m sunk.” He handed the paper back to Sherlock.
“’Princes sat, and spoke against me, and the evil persecuted me.’ Something…. ‘Lord my God….’” Sherlock sighed again and got to his feet. “I’ll work it out later.”
“Mr. Holmes?”
John turned to see the monk Sherlock had spoken to at the previous evening’s supper standing in the doorway. He was in his early or middle fifties, with longish salt-and-pepper hair and a short beard, and he wore Birkenstocks with rag-wool socks, sort of like an aging hippie Jesus. John chided himself for the vaguely disrespectful thought.
“Ah. Brother Peter.”
“Brother Wilfred said you wanted to speak with me.”
“Yes. I understand you’re in possession of the stone that was attached to Brother Adelmo’s neck. I wonder if we might examine it.” Sherlock tucked the folded bit of paper into his pocket.
“No problem. Come along with me, please.”
“Dr. John Watson, Brother Peter,” Sherlock said by way of introduction as they left the balneary.
The monk shook John’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Watson. We did meet briefly this morning, but you were a little out of it. Glad to see you’re both okay. I told Father Simon and Edward to get you to the hospital right away – looks like it went well.”
“Yeah, we’re fine, thanks. American?” John asked.
“That’s right. I’ve lived here for about fifteen years now. Came backpacking and never left.” Brother Peter clasped his hands behind his back as he walked. “Suits me. The mountains, the air, the sense of peace and communion with God and nature…it’s amazing.”
“Fascinating,” Sherlock said. “Brother Peter, can you tell me about the condition of Brother Matthias’ body following his fall down the library stairs?”
“It was pretty much what you’d expect,” Brother Peter said, businesslike now. “Standard injuries of a fall like that. Due to repeated impact, his entire body sustained trauma – broken bones, lacerations, bruises. Cranial and cerebral trauma, of course – we didn’t have him autopsied, but the cranial trauma was evident, so it follows that there were grave cerebral injuries.”
“A great deal of bruising on his face?” Sherlock wanted to know.
“Yes. Mostly on the left side, which was funny – not funny, but odd, I mean. His right supraorbital ridge and his --” Brother Peter glanced at John. “his cheekbone --”
“Zygomatic arch,” Sherlock said wearily.
“Right. Both sustained severe damage, but it was the left side of his face that was terribly bruised.”
John and Sherlock exchanged a glance. “Could the bruising have resembled finger marks, Brother Peter?” John asked quietly.
Brother Peter stopped in his tracks and peered warily from Sherlock to John. “You think he was murdered.”
“I think the cerebral trauma might have occurred first, precipitated not by a fall but by suffocation,” Sherlock said. “Why, with two suspicious deaths in a short amount of time, is anyone surprised by this?”
“Sherlock,” John began, with an apologetic look at Brother Peter.
“Hello there!”
Ian Adler was walking – no, sauntering was what he was doing, a cool gliding strut that he must have practiced because, John admitted grudgingly to himself, he was bloody good at it. He didn’t like Ian one little bit and wasn’t particularly inclined to sit down and work out exactly why that was so, but he had to concede that Ian was a really handsome sod. Hideously overconfident, of course – nobody who smiled that much, exposing that many teeth, could be anything but a smug bastard – but wasn’t he half good-looking? God, it was annoying.
“You’re a resilient pair,” Ian said. “I was frightened half to death this morning.”
John snorted. “Not as much as we were.”
“I’m sure. You’re both all right?” Ian looked from John to Sherlock. “I was particularly concerned for you, Mr. Holmes. You were out cold. You’re very fortunate to have such a devoted friend in Dr. Watson.”
“He’s handy in a crisis,” Sherlock replied shortly, and John winced inside. From Sherlock, that was a compliment, but the odd look Ian gave him made John want to hit him on the nose. “Pity you didn’t see anybody leaving the library this morning.”
“I’m fairly certain the library has more than one point of egress,” Ian said. “I think you probably know that better than I do.”
Sherlock sniffed, then stuck his hand in his pocket and withdrew the folded scrap of paper he’d prised from the bathtub. “Perhaps you can make amends by translating this for me.”
“Make amends?” Ian smiled without showing his teeth this time. “I wasn’t aware I owed you a debt, but….” He shrugged and took the scrap of paper, unfolding it. He scanned the paper, frowning and biting his lower lip, then translated. “Princes sat, and spoke against me, and the wicked persecuted me. Help me, O Lord my God, for Thy servant was employed in Thy justifications. Blessed are the undefiled in the way, who walk in the law of the Lord.” He handed the paper back to Sherlock.
“Sounds familiar,” Sherlock said.
“It is if you know your Psalms,” Ian said, “and I expect the friars here would know that particular Psalm quite well. It’s from an Introit.”
“What’s that?” John asked.
“It’s a processional psalm – well, a fragment of one, really, sung prior to a mass as the celebrant enters the church and approaches the altar. There are many, but this one commemorates the martyrdom of St. Stephen – San Stefano.”
“You seem quite versed in church tradition,” Sherlock said.
“My field at university was early Christian texts.” Ian lowered his eyes modestly. “You can imagine what a treasure trove all this is.”
Sherlock slid the paper back into his pocket. “Oh, I’m sure. Difficult to imagine a scholar like you can exercise any restraint at all in a place like this.”
Ian dialed his smile to full brilliance. “Yes, you’re absolutely right, but I’ve always prided myself on my restraint, so much so that I consider myself rather an expert. Should you need any help in that regard, do pay me a visit.”
John scowled. The bastard was flirting again, but flirtation always seemed to bounce off Sherlock’s impassive surface as easily as soap bubbles. “We’d better get going, Sherlock. Brother Peter’s time is being wasted.”
“And I have a meeting in just a few moments with Father Simon,” Ian said, glancing at his wristwatch – a very expensive Tag Heuer, John noticed. “But I’d love to chat later. Perhaps if you’re both free after supper. Well – goodbye for now.” He nodded and went on his way. John watched his long legs with a prickle of unease.
“Come along, John.” Sherlock and Brother Peter were already striding away.
“Right,” John muttered, and the three moved toward the infirmary again. “So do you think there’s a possibility that the cause of death might have been murder, Brother Peter?”
“We didn’t have Brother Matthias autopsied, as I said.” Brother Peter was pale under his outdoor tan. “But the placement of the bruises and the skin under his nails…I don’t know. I didn’t think of it at the time because his was the first death, and when I examined him in the library, it looked like an ordinary fall. But --” He stopped, as if trying to recall some particular and upsetting detail.
“Yes?” Sherlock prompted.
“His habit was torn. Not abraded, as if he’d torn it in the fall, but actually ripped at the hem and sleeve. That’s a tough thing to do – this is pretty sturdy stuff,” Brother Peter tugged at the sleeve of his own white garment. “Which brings us to what you’ve come to see, as it happens.” They stopped at the door of the infirmary, and he produced a key from his pocket and fitted it into the lock.
John watched the key turn effortfully in the lock, and glanced at Sherlock, remembering Sherlock’s difficulty breaking in the night before. Sherlock winked at him, and John stared at the ground, stifling a grin.
Daft bugger.
Brother Peter led them into the now-familiar infirmary and ducked into a tiny storage closet just off the examination room. “The police photographed it, but didn’t take it to examine because Father Simon was so insistent on it being suicide.” His voice was muffled. “It’s here….” He emerged with a large cardboard box in his arms and thumped it on an examining table with a groan. “Weighs a ton. Brother Adelmo had similar bruising,” he said in a low voice. “I should have…I didn’t make the connection when I saw his face. Who could have done a thing like that? Brother Adelmo was…a bit on the frail side, but Brother Matthias was a fairly large and very strong man.”
“There are people trained to kill, Brother Peter,” John said. “And the man who killed them both is --” He folded his lips together as Sherlock shot him a warning glance.
“You know who it might have been?”
“Possibly,” Sherlock said, apparently resigned to John’s gaffe. “There’s an assassin by the name of Oscar Dzundza whose trademark is suffocating his victims to death. If what you say is true, then the markings fit the general pattern of his contract killings.” He didn’t compound John’s error by mentioning the little nighttime foray they’d made into the infirmary to see Brother Adelmo’s body. “Let’s have a look at this rock, then.” He opened the lid and pursed his lips. “Interesting.”
“What’s that?” John asked.
Sherlock withdrew a torn piece of white wool twisted into a rope and tossed it on the table.
“From the…his robe,” John said.
“Yes, but that’s not the interesting bit. Hold the flaps down.” As John obeyed, Sherlock lifted the rock out with a grunt and set it on the table with a resounding thud.
“I can see how it could have held his body underwater,” John said, marveling at the size and apparent weight of the rock, large and irregularly shaped, pale brown in colour with thick nodules of dark grey. A cord of the same wool was fastened around the rock at intervals, knotted off and frayed where it had apparently been torn or cut from Brother Adelmo’s corpse. “It’s huge.” He hoped that the poor young guy had been unconscious or dead when Dzundza had submerged him. He couldn’t imagine how horrible it would be to drown. Smothering would have been much quicker and probably less painful. He glanced at Sherlock, who had taken off his gloves and was running a finger thoughtfully over the stone. “What?”
“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured again.
“Huh?”
“Pitchblende.”
“Speak English,” John said.
Sherlock’s mouth turned up at the corners. He went to the sink and washed his hands. “Brother Peter, if I were you I’d keep that stone away from your medical supplies. It’s not a problem at the moment, but I wouldn’t hang on to it as a souvenir.”
“Why not?”
“It’s radioactive.” Sherlock wiped his hands on a paper towel and tossed the towel into a waste can. “Uraninite. Uranium ore. The stuff they use to make yellowcake which is then processed into uranium fuel for nuclear power plants and sometimes high-grade U-235 for nuclear weapons. This is a nice rich specimen, too. You wouldn’t happen to have a lot of this lying about the abbey, would you?”
Brother Peter was looking at the stone as if it might bite him. John couldn’t quite blame him for that. “No, I don’t think so.”
“The uraninite is actually these dark pieces,” Sherlock said, pointing. “They’ve got a bit of a dull sheen to them, if you can see…and it looks like this rock was cut by machine. Do you see the clean edge on the bottom here? Brother Peter, are there uranium mines in the vicinity?”
“There are some near Lake Como, so far as I know, but none very close. There’s always been a great deal of opposition to it, thank God.” Brother Peter went back into the closet and emerged with a monk’s white wool habit. He threw it over the stone and made to pick it up.
“Hang on.” Sherlock took the habit and picked it up. It was shredded on one side, with a large section torn out. “This is the source of the rope.”
“It was Brother Adelmo’s.”
Sherlock frowned as he held it up. “I thought you said Brother Adelmo was slight.” He didn’t mention that he’d seen the young man’s body himself.
“He is – oh, I see what you mean. That’s…well, yes, that’s a bit long for him, isn’t it? But then why would he be wearing someone else’s habit? There wasn’t another one found in the balneary, and this one has blood on it consistent with wounds found on Adelmo’s body.”
“I think we’re finished here,” Sherlock said, drawing on his gloves. “Thank you for your time, Brother Peter. Good afternoon.” He turned abruptly and marched from the infirmary, leaving John to follow.
“Um – thank you,” John said, shaking a bewildered Brother Peter’s hand. “I’m sure we’ll let you know if we have more questions, but for now I think you can probably tidy things up. So long.” John rushed out of the infirmary and ran to catch up with Sherlock. “What the hell, Sherlock?”
“This case has finally become interesting.”
“Didn’t realise you were bored before.” John panted a little as he trotted beside Sherlock. His lungs were starting to ache a bit. “Where are we headed now?”
“To the library, to get a sample of Brother Adelmo’s handwriting.”
“What about the rock? Why did you want to see it in the first place?”
“I didn’t especially. I really wanted to draw Brother Peter out about the matching markings on the monks’ bodies, but this…this is quite something, John. Uraninite. Out of nowhere, it seems, and Dzundza uses it to submerge Brother Adelmo’s body. Where did it come from?”
“Can’t imagine,” John wheezed. “But it’s a rock, Sherlock. Even if it is radioactive…who cares? What makes that more interesting than the codex and the monks?”
“I don’t know. Not yet. Come on, it’s getting late.” Sherlock picked up his pace, and John followed obligingly. They went into the library and immediately made their way to a large desk where Brother Marcelo sat with a mound of paperwork. “Good afternoon, Brother Marcelo.”
The young monk nodded and said something in Italian.
“Oh, come on, I know you understand more than you pretend to,” Sherlock said loudly. “I watched you react to my questions earlier, especially when I asked you why you left early with Mr. Adler.”
“Sherlock, keep it down,” John pleaded.
“Actually, I think it’s rather good that everyone can see and hear us.” Sherlock pointed at a stack of ledgers on a shelf behind Brother Adelmo. “Registri,” Sherlock said. “Più recenti.”
Hesitantly, Brother Marcelo got up and took the newest-looking ledger from the shelf. He brought it to the desk, but clung to it tightly, his eyes betraying unease.
Sherlock held out a hand. “Now, if you please.” Slowly, the monk handed over the book. “Thank you.” He opened the book and began to page through it.
John became aware of a buzz of whispered conversation behind him. He turned around and threw the monks a feeble glare, then looked away, embarrassed. The monks went on whispering with no apparent problem. Presumably the story of the morning’s attack had made the rounds, and like as not with varying degrees of accuracy. Sherlock ignored the whispering and Brother Marcelo’s nervous fidgeting and flipped through the book quickly, then made a small noise of triumph.
“Got something?” John asked.
Sherlock took the folded scrap of paper from his pocket and unfolded it, spreading it out against an entry in the ledger signed by Brother Adelmo. The two handwriting samples were precisely the same. Sherlock straightened, put the scrap in his pocket again, and smiled at Brother Marcelo. “Grazie.” He wheeled and made for the door. “Come along, John. Time for a rest.”
John did a double-take as he followed Sherlock. “Rest?”
“Yes, you’re exhausted. It’s showing in your eyes, your tread, and your respiration. We have some time until supper, and I have some research to do.”
“So Brother Adelmo was the one who slipped that note into the tub. Why?”
“A message,” Sherlock said. “And reluctant as I am to admit it, one I wouldn’t have discovered - immediately, anyway – without the help of Ian Adler.”
Great. “What message is that?”
“I think the codex is still somewhere in the Abbey.”
John frowned, then a light clicked on. “Because…that proverb --”
“Psalm.”
“Whatever – it’s about St. Stephen. San Stefano. So you think Adelmo knew that?”
“Yes. It doesn’t explain why he died, but it gets us a bit closer to the truth. As does a recently let down hem and a spot on a sleeve.” Sherlock slid his key into the lock and turned it, then stepped aside for John. “After you. Have a lie-in.”
“I’m all right,” John protested, but he was feeling a bit tired and grateful for a respite. He went into the bathroom, used it, then went into his bedroom and flopped on the bed, fully dressed. It was still unmade, and he smiled a little. No chambermaids in an abbey. With a sigh, he pulled out his phone and looked at his list of texts. He considered texting Alice to apologise, then decided not to. He’d try to talk to her when they got back.
Sherlock opened John’s bathroom door. “Have you got service on your phone?”
John glanced at it. “Ah…yeah. You need it?”
“Please.” Sherlock took John’s phone and went to the chair beside the window, folding himself into it and tapping away.
John watched Sherlock for a moment. “I think Ian Adler has a bit of a crush on you.”
“Yes, possibly.” Sherlock didn’t look up from the phone.
John’s mouth dropped open. What the hell? He’d expected a sour look, or an indignant snort, or even silence, but that…ready acquiescence…that was the last thing he’d expected. “Didn’t think you were bothered about that sort of thing.”
“Really, John.” Sherlock’s voice was dry and lecturing. “Regardless of what my proclivities may or may not be, that does not mean I’m utterly oblivious.”
The hell you’re not, John thought, then bit his lip, as embarrassed at his bitterness as if he’d said the words aloud. He hadn’t been obvious – that is, it was a good thing he hadn’t been obvious. The last thing he wanted was Sherlock giving him some harangue about the pointlessness of John harboring feelings for his flatmate, when he’d categorically stated, and hadn’t John heard him the first time, that –
Hang on. ‘What my proclivities may or may not be?’ What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
“So you noticed,” John said tightly.
“Rather difficult not to. Mr. Adler’s a shameless flirt. He flirted with you, too, or hadn’t you noticed?”
John frowned. He’d noticed, but mostly he’d noticed Ian all but draping himself over Sherlock. He laced his hands together behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.
You don't have a girlfriend then?
Girlfriend? No, not really my area.
All right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.
I know it's fine.
So you’ve got a boyfriend?
No.
Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.
John, erm... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any...
No. I'm... not asking. No. I'm just saying, it's all fine.
Good. Thank you.
Oh, shit. Shit.
He’d never said boyfriends weren’t his area.
John turned over on his side, away from Sherlock, so Sherlock couldn’t see the sudden contraction of his brow and what was probably a very red face. He lay awake for a long while, listening to the tapping of Sherlock’s fingertips against the buttons of his phone and tried not to feel jealous.
It wasn’t fucking working.
*
Ian felt almost sorry for Simon. He sat rigidly upright behind his desk, all the colour slowly draining from his face, looking as if someone had pulled out his batteries. His fingertips moved ceaselessly over the handsome pen on his blotter in a rhythmic caressing motion, and his eyes darted occasionally to Ian’s phone, now black and silent, as if it were a poisonous snake. There were moments when Ian took absolute joy in this aspect of his work, but this time, he felt a faint twinge of regret.
Still, he had to keep things moving along. “Do you need any particulars repeated, Father?”
Simon took a ragged breath. “I thought you were a Latin scholar.”
“I am. I’m very proud of my accomplishments in the field. And my work for the Dublin diocese is perfectly legitimate. But Latin translation doesn’t pay all the bills – in fact, it really pays for very little. So I’m forced to find other employment, and in this case, both vocations happened to line up nicely.”
“As a prostitute,” Simon said quietly. “And a blackmailer.”
“Well, let’s not split hairs over titles,” Ian said, rising to his feet. He leant over Simon’s desk, picked up his phone, and slipped it in his pocket. “My employer --”
“Yes, let’s discuss your employer,” Simon said, picking up a sheet of A4 with densely packed, tiny type covering one side. “HRH Industries. Why do they want to acquire this parcel badly enough to blackmail both me and some of the brothers who live here?”
Ian shrugged and resumed his seat. “I don’t know, and in utter honesty, I don’t really care.”
“This abbey has been in the possession of the Church for nearly a thousand years, Mr. Adler. If you think I have the authority to simply give it away --”
“Sell.”
“At the price listed here, I might as well give it away. And as I was saying, I haven’t the authority.”
Ian shook his head. “Father, please. Let’s not waste time dissembling. My employer has been investigating your financial situation for some time now. He knows that your superiors have been urging you to turn a greater profit on the little cottage industries you’ve got going here, and you’ve been ignoring them quite blithely.”
The colour was returning to Simon’s face. Twin spots of pink bloomed in his cheeks. “This is a monastery, Mr. Adler. It is a place of spiritual retreat, worship, and devout contemplation. It is not now and never should be a tourist destination.”
“Some spiritual director you turned out to be, too – banging the mayor’s wife.” Ian smiled. “Imagine the scandal that would arise from that revelation. Can you? I can. I’ve seen it happen so many times. Disgrace, ruin – for both parties. Forget sweet little Marcelo for a moment. Imagine the agonies that Signora Lorenzetti would suffer if this little tidbit of film came to life. Do you really want that to happen?”
“You’re a monster,” Simon breathed.
Ian let out a soft sigh and shook his head. “As I was about to say, your superiors are almost ready to sell this place from under you. It loses more money every year, and without a new and steady infusion of capital, it’s nothing but a drain on Church coffers. And we all know how reluctant the Church is to part with even a single penny. One recommendation from you and they’ll be happier and richer, Signora Lorenzetti will be safe, and Brother Marcelo can resume his ordinary life as if nothing had ever happened to disrupt it.”
Simon stared down at his pen and his restless fingers. All at once he stiffened and looked up at Ian. “Please tell me that the missing codex and the deaths of Matthias and Adelmo have nothing to do with this.”
Ian schooled his face into a bland, pleasant mask. “Why would they?”
“Blackmail is one thing, Mr. Adler. Murder….” Simon placed both hands flat on his blotter. “You really don’t know what your employer intends for the abbey once he purchases it?”
“No, I don’t.”
“May I speak with him?”
“I’ll phone him this evening and let him know the conversation took place. Whether or not he decides to contact you is up to him.”
“I would be disappointed if I were to research HRH Industries, wouldn’t I?” Simon’s hands resumed their caressing of the pen. “It’s a pretty façade for something vile, I’m sure. I want you out of here, Mr. Adler. Tonight. Now, in fact.”
Ian rose to his feet. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. You’ll just have to suffer my presence until you come to a decision and it’s finalised in ink. It’s a bit old-fashioned, but sometimes the old-fashioned and direct ways are the best. I trust that your hospitality won’t change, Father. I’ll still need access to the library. I haven’t finished the job for the Dublin diocese yet. And please don’t alert the authorities. The moment I sense the slightest hint of trouble, all I have to do is press a few buttons and these films go out to every scandal-rag in the UK and Europe, and you’ll be drummed out of here and the place will be sold whether or not you want it. Trust me – you can’t afford that, Father. So do think very carefully before you try to do me harm in any way.”
“You won’t get away with this, Mr. Adler. I promise,” Simon said in a hoarse voice.
“Sorry. I like you, and I’m sorry you have to sell. This is a truly beautiful place, even for a lapsed soul like myself. But we must all bow to the inevitable, mustn’t we? Good afternoon, Father.” Ian left Simon’s office, nodded to Brother Wilfred in the anteroom, and stepped into the fresh spring air.
He stuck his hands in his pockets and felt the comforting weight of his phone. He’d phone Jim, and then go to dinner, and then…then he was inclined to a bit of mischief. And possibly Sherlock Holmes was inclined the same way. He didn’t have much time to make good on his bet – an extra quarter million and not being fucked and strangled by Oscar Dzundza were excellent incentives.
For a moment he felt a pang of remorse and wished he’d answered Simon honestly about the murders. He didn’t see the point of them, not really – Oscar having fun? Something else? Maybe it was best that he didn’t know after all.
It wasn’t his concern. Not his game.
Ian strode toward his lodgings to get ready. He and Sherlock had a date, and though he’d said Sherlock would come to him, sometimes people needed a little nudge. A little extra stimulation.
It promised to be an interesting evening.
*
