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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.
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.
Plot happily magpied from everywhere, with especial apologies to Umberto Eco.
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.
This fic is a gift for sithdragn, with affection.
Can also be read on AO3
*
John brushed past Sherlock and stopped, an odd choked noise emerging from his throat. He stepped back, leaning against the wall, and rubbed his eyes. "Christ."
Brother Marcelo's naked body leant haphazardly against the door of Ian's adjoining bath, his legs sprawled widely, his hands lying on either side of his thighs. A rope, wound several times about his throat, ran taut to the doorknob, where it was tied off in a simple clove hitch. Sherlock moved closer and crouched to examine the body. Bruises on his face, yes – Dzundza had attacked him earlier in the evening –
"I told him to go to Simon's office straightaway," John said hollowly.
"Looks as if it's meant to be autoerotic asphyxiation, but I doubt it." Sherlock whipped out his glass and held it close to the dead man's throat. "The rope's wound too high to see any significant bruising. Still, I don't think there's any doubt that he was murdered."
"You don't think he was playing kinky sex games with Ian Adler?"
The startling harshness in John's voice gave Sherlock pause. He turned and regarded John with mild curiosity. "What's wrong?" John's mouth was drawn tightly, and his hands were clenched into fists.
"What's wrong? Take a good fucking look, Sherlock. He's dead. I was with him not half an hour ago and I fucking told him to go to Simon and not to try to find Ian and he's dead. Is that enough, or do you want more?"
"All right…." Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and turned back to the body. He'd consciously tried to cater to what he considered John's excessively soft sensibilities regarding victims, but every once in a while, he misread signals and blurted out something that set John off. Apparently this was one of those times. "If Ian was responsible, you'd think he'd be smart enough not to wander off and leave a dead body in an exceedingly compromising position. No, I think this is our friend the Golem."
"We left him tied up and bleeding in the crypt."
"Presumably he escaped," Sherlock murmured. He was about to add a remark addressing John's ineptitude at knot-tying, but refrained, instead moving the glass over the rope. "Faint tracery of blood on the rope. Not, I suspect, Brother Marcelo's – I don't see any open cuts on the body. Besides…come and take a look at this."
Heaving an impatient-sounding sigh, John stepped closer. "Well?"
"Look at his hands."
John crouched beside Sherlock. "Clenched, and…what's that in his fist? Looks like plant roots. Dirt."
"Which indicates that….?"
"His last conscious action was to grab at something to get away from the Golem, the closest thing at hand. Under extreme duress, the muscles in his hands rigidified at once." John met Sherlock's gaze. "He was outside when he died."
"Very good, John," Sherlock replied with a nod.
John rose to his feet. "I'd better fetch Simon. And the police." He went to the door, then paused and turned. "Did Ian say where he was headed after he trussed you up?"
"He said he had to take some precautionary measures, but he didn't specify what that might mean," Sherlock said. "Shall I go with you to see Simon?"
For a brief instant, John hesitated, then shook his head. "No. I'm pretty sure Dzundza's fled the premises. It's safe enough. Just stay here and wait 'til I get back."
"I assure you that I'm perfectly capable of taking care of m –" The sharp bang as John slammed the door behind him cut off the end of Sherlock's sentence. "Myself!" he called, amplifying his voice with a cupped hand, but there was no indication that John had heard him. What, Sherlock wondered, was he so angry about? Even given past reactions to Sherlock's casual treatment of victims, this mood was a bit extreme.
Sherlock knelt closer to the corpse and began to examine it minutely, but his concentration was marred by John's abrupt departure and cold manner. Frustrated, he stopped for a moment and leant back on his heels. John couldn't possibly know the circumstances of what had transpired between him and Ian, but it was impossible to miss the snide little digs he'd sent Ian's way. And his manner…when John was angry he came out and said why. Just as he had about Brother Marcelo's body. Still, hadn't there been a note of…what was it? Mere exasperation, or irritation…certainly it wasn't possessiveness? Jealousy?
The faintest tinge of bitterness twisted Sherlock's smile into a sneer. That he'd come to a few vague conclusions about John that afternoon didn't mean that John reciprocated in any way. Sherlock might well have misinterpreted the signals he'd thought John had sent; emotions weren't and never had been in his purview. Unanchored, ephemeral. Ridiculous, really. He bent back to his work.
And what if John had known about Sherlock and Ian? How might he feel? And how might Sherlock feel if John had caught the pair of them in flagrante delicto?
"God!" Sherlock dashed the magnifying glass to the floor, where it bounced harmlessly off the rug upon which Brother Marcelo's corpse lay. "It's a distraction, every little bit of it," he muttered to the unresponsive body. "Might as well leave you alone and go and compose a few love sonnets. Maybe that would bring some focus back. Right – enough. Time to concentrate." With a sigh, he picked up the glass again and began to examine the body once more.
*
Half an hour later, Ian's room was jammed with police officers, forensics specialists, detectives, and a few monks – Simon, Brother Peter, who was there in his capacity as a doctor, and the young monk who had tidied up the church with Brother Marcelo at the end of the evening service. John was in the corridor, talking to the only detective who spoke fluent English. All significant parties were present except for Ian Adler, in fact, who caused a tremendous hue and cry when he arrived about twenty minutes after the police crowded into his room.
"What in God's name is going on?" If Ian was dissembling, he was a marvellous actor. His expression as he looked around was one of utter astonishment. He made brief eye contact with Sherlock, then looked at a young police officer, his eyes wide.
The detective inspector, whatever one was called in Italy, strode toward Ian and asked him if he spoke Italian. Ian answered in the affirmative, and they began a rapid conversation.
Simon made his way to Sherlock's side and swiftly ushered him into the corridor. John was still talking to the detective, who was earnestly scribbling in a notebook. John gave Sherlock a cool glance but said nothing. "Did you manage to get the phone?" Simon hissed, forcing Sherlock to wrench his gaze from John's face.
Sherlock met Simon's furious expression with equanimity. "No. I didn't. He surprised me."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I wasn't able to obtain the mobile, Simon. Aren't you following?"
In a gesture Sherlock found a trifle melodramatic, Simon placed his fingertips on either side of his head and massaged his temples. "You realise that means I'm – this abbey is still in his power? If he had anything to do with this, I can't say a word against him. I had to instruct Doctor Watson to say nothing about the blackmail. I'm breaking I don't know how many laws. God help me."
"You don't know that he had anything to do with this, Simon, so why would you say a word against him?" Sherlock folded his arms. "Besides, it wasn't Ian. It was Oscar Dzundza."
"Oscar Dzundza. The 'assassin.'" Simon made annoying air quotes with his fingers. "The police are searching the premises, Sherlock, and if they find him – let's just say I'd be quite surprised."
"You think I'm fabricating him? Even the local police, incompetent as they seem to be, know who he is. How do you manage to get through the day without tripping over your own stupidity?"
"That's rich coming from someone who can't even get his hands on a mobile phone. You get that mobile, Sherlock, or get out. I'm sorry Vicki sent you at all."
Sherlock offered Simon a thin, pointed smile. "Pity, especially as I'm so close to finding the codex and the real reason behind these murders. If you paid the slightest bit of attention to your surroundings you'd know it as well. Three days is too long to break this case open, Simon?"
Inside Ian's room, the forensic specialists were cutting the bathroom door handle away. Simon propelled Sherlock down the hall to escape the noise. "So help me, if you're pulling my leg –" He sighed. "All right. Fine. Stay. I only hope you're as good as your word." The outer door opened, and two paramedics bearing a wheeled stretcher entered the corridor, moving past Simon and Sherlock with polite murmurs. Simon stared at them, and his shoulders sagged. "Whatever Marcelo did, he didn't deserve to die, Sherlock. I don't want anyone else to die."
Sherlock scrutinised Simon's face. "I'll do my best to ensure that no-one else in the community dies as a result of this case."
Simon gazed bleakly at Sherlock, then nodded. He withdrew a metal ring laden with keys from beneath the scapular of his habit and handed it to Sherlock. "You have carte blanche, Sherlock. There's a key for every door in this abbey, above and underground. I only ask that you respect whatever property you deem necessary to visit." He sighed, then turned and walked back toward Ian's room.
The ring bore keys both modern and old-fashioned, and weighed about three kilos. Sherlock slipped it into his pocket, where it hung heavily against the lining. With a satisfied little smile, he rejoined the others in Simon's room, feeling John watching him and choosing not to respond.
Two could play at that game.
*
It was two o'clock in the morning before the police had departed, taking Brother Marcelo's body with them. Simon's assistant, Brother Wilhelm, had led a few officers on a search of the grounds and crypt, but no trace of the Golem's presence remained except for John and Brother Marcelo's bloodstained belts. Both were retained as evidence. Ian's room had been dusted and picked over; the police left with dozens of utterly pointless bits of evidence in little plastic bags, and Brother Marcelo in a much larger bag.
Whatever Ian had told the police must have been convincing, because they didn't take him into custody. The young monk who'd assisted Brother Marcelo in cleaning the church moved Ian's luggage into a room a few doors down the corridor. The police taped the door over and left, reassuring Simon that they would be back at the earliest possible convenience. Simon absorbed the move and the assurances grimly, then beckoned to Sherlock, leading him to Ian's new room and waiting outside until the young monk exited. Simon grasped the door handle and stepped inside, Sherlock on his heels.
Ian was sitting on a narrow wooden chair, smoking a cigarette. He looked at them without much surprise, but there were dark circles beneath his eyes, and he seemed fatigued. He exhaled a tidy ribbon of smoke and nodded pleasantly enough. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he inquired in a raspy and uneven voice.
Simon folded his arms. "I don't suppose it's worth asking you whether you had a hand in all this."
Ian shook his head wearily. "The last thing I wanted was for Marcelo to die."
"You fancy ambiguity, don't you?" Sherlock asked. "So much cleverer than a straightforward answer."
"Well, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Mr. Holmes?" Ian squinted through the smoke and gave Sherlock a little smile. "What about this: I didn't kill him and I didn't want him dead. Is that straightforward enough for you?"
"Why couldn't you prevent Dzundza from killing him?" Sherlock demanded.
"I haven't the vaguest idea of what you're going on about," Ian said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go to sleep. It's been a stressful evening."
"You told the police that you and Brother Marcelo had been embroiled in an affair," Simon said. "I heard you."
"That's right. I also informed them that we engaged in acts that may have been perceived by some as beyond the pale of ordinary sexual encounters. And that Marcelo was desperately eager to indulge in certain behaviours. I even corroborated it with video evidence."
"Why bother?" Sherlock snorted. "When they conduct their autopsy, they're going to discover finger-shaped bruises beneath the ligature marks on the throat, as well as compressions of the carotid artery that are distinctly different from the sort of compressions that arise from autoerotic asphyxiation."
"But they won't be my fingers," Ian replied calmly.
"Give me the mobile," Simon said, holding his hand out, like a schoolteacher absolutely certain of his authority. "Now."
Ian shook his head and took a drag from his cigarette. "No."
"We could force you," Simon growled.
Ian reached into his pocket, withdrew his phone, and pressed a few buttons. He showed the mobile to Simon. "I've already emailed the video of Marcelo to the police. But more importantly, I've emailed the videos of you and Signora Lorenzetti to a secure address. If the recipient doesn't hear from me in three days, that video will go viral. True, it won't be verifiable, but that doesn't matter much. Your faces are quite evident. You'll never live the scandal down." Ian thumbed the screen and tucked the mobile back inside his pocket. "You have those three days to decide whether or not you want to sell. After that…." Ian shrugged eloquently and extinguished his cigarette between two fingers. "It's up to you."
"I must go to Milan tomorrow for two days," Simon said. His face had become quite pale. "It can't be avoided. I need more time."
"Three days," Ian replied with implacable finality. "That's all."
"Go on, Simon," Sherlock said. "Go to bed. I'll handle this."
Simon took a few shallow breaths, nodded stiffly, wheeled, and left the room.
Ian crossed one leg over the other and folded his arms, peering at Sherlock. "How are you feeling?"
"I can still feel traces of the chemical you drugged me with in my bloodstream, and my arm is sore. Thanks for asking."
"I'm amazed that you threw away such a tantalizing opportunity, Sherlock."
"Must sting to be turned down."
"Well, my door is always open." Ian leant back in the chair. "Do consider it, at least. I'd make you beg for more."
"I don't beg. Never have."
"You would, with me," Ian said softly. "Think about it."
Sherlock turned on his heel and left the room. Had Ian told Simon the truth about the secure address? The email looked legitimate, but still….
He had three days to solve this case. Plenty of time. It was just a matter of bringing the principals together. First things first: exhumation. Simon would scream and rage, but it was necessary, and always easier to ask forgiveness rather than permission. Then, Ian and Moriarty's plan for the monastery exposed, to which Simon had given him the literal key. Pleased, Sherlock touched the ring in his pocket. He didn't need three days.
The air was damp and misty with shower-steam when Sherlock returned to his room. He shrugged out of his coat, tossed it over the chair, and went into the bathroom. "It's only me," he said, loud enough for John to hear even behind his closed door, but there was no reply.
Fine. Sherlock went to the sink and turned on the hot-water tap to wash his face and clean his teeth. When he finished, he knocked on John's door and opened it without waiting for a reply.
John was stripped down to a t-shirt and plaid boxers, and reading something on his phone. He didn't glance up as Sherlock entered the room. "Most people wait to be invited in."
"I'm not most people. Listen, John, we've got the opportunity to wrap this whole case up tonight. Get dressed and come along with me. We're going to start in the church, that's the most obvious place to look, but it's also the easiest as you've already gained that point of ingress to the tunnel system. I'm looking for one place in particular, and I've got a feeling –" Sherlock broke off and glared down at John. "Are you attending, John, or is that Mills & Boon you're reading more interesting than anything I've got to say?"
An eternity seemed to pass before John looked up at him. Sherlock's mouth tightened in annoyance as he recognised John's expression: I'm About To Tell You Some Hard Truths. He said nothing, though, waiting John out.
"Ian Adler, Sherlock? Really?"
Startled, Sherlock opened his mouth and shut it abruptly. Sudden and unwelcome guilt flooded him like adrenalin, and warmth crept up his chest and neck. "Sorry?"
"I guess I'm not surprised. Disappointed, maybe."
Ah, this was familiar ground at last. He'd Disappointed John. "John, I haven't got the least idea what you're going on about. Just get dressed and –"
"Please, Sherlock." John was eerily calm, not pacing the room as was his wont when he was angry at Sherlock, not using profanity, not throwing his hands around like the world's most flamboyant orchestra conductor. "I don't give a toss about your sex life. If you want to play kinky sex games, that's your own affair."
Sherlock couldn't quite get enough air to take the quick breath necessary before a really scorching riposte. "Kinky sex games," he repeated, sounding vaguely half-witted.
"Yeah. You didn't catch your wrist in the door. That's not even a good excuse." John directed his attention to his phone again and thumbed up another page of densely packed text. "Like I said, I don't give a toss. You don't have to lie to me, you…." John's mouth pulled downward. "Ian, though…even for you, that's playing both ends against the middle." He shrugged. "But if you want to complicate things, that's – like I said, that's your own affair."
Sherlock held perfectly still, watching John, being ignored by John, hot and cold shocks passing through his system with unnerving force. He could deliver the withering reply John deserved, something cold and cutting and sure to piss him off more, maybe infuriate him into yelling and pacing, which was familiar and even comfortable. Or he could tell John the truth, that he'd been manipulated – no, coerced into both situations. John hadn't been there and hadn't seen how close Sherlock had come to breaking. So it might take some persuading, but John would believe him, eventually. And maybe…just maybe, he'd close the rapprochement by putting his hand on John's naked thigh, taut and muscular even in the low light of these monk's cells. And maybe…
Sherlock shook himself furiously. Stop dreaming, for God's sake.
On the other hand, the state of his wrists wasn't a particle of John's business, and who the hell was he to tell Sherlock what to do, with whom he should or shouldn't engage in some of the more shadowy aspects of sexuality? Who the hell did John think he was to lecture Sherlock on anything?
"Are you coming with me, or not?" Sherlock finally asked.
"Nope," John replied. "I'm exhausted. I'm going to finish this article, then I'm going to shut the light out and get at least seven hours of sleep. If you're so close to cracking this open, it can probably wait until morning. I'll be happy to help you then. If not, please yourself. Like I said before, I'm pretty sure Dzundza isn't on the premises, so you're safe. Be careful, though."
Dismissed. Captain Watson hadn't said it aloud, but he'd certainly implied it. He was refusing to help. Flat-out refusing, and even when he'd been angry with Sherlock, Sherlock had always managed to persuade him into action, sometimes using a fairly heavy dose of charm and logic on him. But this – he hadn't any intention of assisting Sherlock, and really Sherlock hadn't a leg to stand on, because hadn't there been at least a part of him that had welcomed Ian's touch, no matter how much he'd protested? And so –
"Fine." Sherlock wheeled and strode through the bathroom to his own cell. He scooped up his coat and shrugged it on, drew on his gloves, smoothing the fingers, and left, slamming the door as he went. Childish, John would have said, but John wasn't there to say it, so who, in John's words, gave a toss?
He'll be sorry if I get killed tonight.
"Oh, shut up," Sherlock muttered, and went down the corridor until he came to Ian's room. He knocked twice and waited.
Ian opened the door and peered out warily. "Insomnia?"
"You might say that."
"Come in." Ian opened the door and stepped aside so that Sherlock could enter. He closed the door quietly and leant against it, staring at Sherlock without speaking. He looked tired; his hair was awry, and he'd unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a smooth expanse of chest and lean abdomen. Even tired, even standing still, he managed to convey a sort of quick and effortless grace and confidence. "I don't sleep much myself."
"I want answers."
Ian's mouth turned upward at the corners, but it wasn't his usual mischief-laden grin. "Do tell. This is getting to be a familiar tune."
"Why did Marcelo have to die? What did he know?"
"Too much, I think. He was beginning to fall apart."
Not waiting for an invitation, Sherlock sat on Ian's bed. "Go on."
"Ahh." Ian strolled to the bed and sat beside Sherlock. "It's not going to be that easy, Sherlock. Or rather, I've absolutely no intention of making it easy for you. Good information will cost you."
"You don't mind giving out information for a price?"
Ian shrugged. "Nothing that you can do will prevent my employer from getting his hands on this place. I intend to leave in a few days and I won't suffer personally, so…." He folded back one lapel of Sherlock's coat and let his fingers trail down its tightly seamed edge until they reached Sherlock's thighs. Ian rested his hand and stroked gently. "I want to play with you."
Sherlock's prick responded with astounding swiftness. "Play," he managed. God, he was on fire with the repartee this evening.
"And you want it too," Ian said, plucking at Sherlock's coat and gazing down at a fair-sized disruption of Hardy Amies merino. His eyebrows lifted for a fraction of a second, then he gazed at Sherlock, his eyes clear and direct, utterly without guile. "Don't you?"
Don't you? Sherlock's mouth was desert-dry, his cheeks were afire, and his cock ached. Scorning to wet his lips, he suppressed a shiver and returned Ian's stare insolently. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a bit curious."
"Curious enough to let yourself go?"
John. Hadn't Sherlock reached some definitive conclusions about John just this afternoon? Some rubbish about intimate relationships? But then, John didn't give a toss. He'd said so, and he'd been calm and collected as he'd said it.
To hell with him, then. He nodded once.
Ian bit his lower lip. "All right. Ask."
"Why did Dzundza kill Brother Marcelo?"
"My employer –"
"Jim Moriarty."
A genuinely amused smile spread over Ian's face. "You are persistent. Well, yes. Jim was prepared to reward Marcelo for facilitating access to the monastery. The previous offers of purchase had been turned down flat, and my - Jim was eager to acquire this parcel."
"Because of the uraninite."
"Yes. We're sitting on potentially billions of pounds. I didn't read science at university, but evidently the yield of uranium ore is crucial in creating U-235, which as you probably know can be used in fission reactors –"
"But I doubt Jim Moriarty is looking at fissile uranium to fuel reactors, is he? Even twenty percent of highly enriched uranium – weapons-grade uranium, if you didn't read science at university – is enough to make crudely effective nuclear arms. A lot of uranium to sell to the highest bidder, or a large number of low bidders."
Ian shrugged. "That," he said, "is not my concern. My task was simply to obtain the parcel."
"By fair means or foul," Sherlock said. He felt easier, more confident. His erection was subsiding. "Even if Brother Marcelo was among your victims. And now he's dead."
"He was the wrong man to help us, unfortunately," Ian said. "He was too young for the responsibility, nervous from the very first, and when his friend – Adelmo, that is, his particular friend – when Adelmo found out, he threatened to expose everything."
"So Adelmo died," Sherlock said. "He knew it was coming, though. He left that note slipped in between the copper and wood of one of the tubs."
"Yes, sharp of him to do that," Ian conceded. "The reference to San Stefano."
"So the codex is still in the abbey?"
Ian nodded. "But you'll never find it, Sherlock. Don't bother trying."
"I already know where it is."
An expression of surprise crossed Ian's face for a moment, then vanished. "Do you? Where?"
"Ask Father Bernard."
"We can't –" Ian shook his head. "He's dead. He died weeks ago."
"Yes, of kidney failure, or so they say. A lingering illness. And the codex was stolen during his funeral." Sherlock rose to his feet and went to the tiny desk against one wall. He took a pamphlet on the abbey and turned the pages until he found the photo he wanted, then sat beside Ian again. He showed him the photo and translated the Italian. "'The handsome and gracious –' Gracious? I don't think that's what they really meant – 'and famous Well of San Stefano. Located in the depths of the abbey, it is unfortunately not open to the public but remains a memento of the holy monks who were and sometimes still are nourished by its healthful waters.' A memento, certainly, but healthful? I think if we were to examine Father Bernard's remains we would discover that the kidney failure which killed him was only one symptom, if the strongest, of radiation poisoning, caused by drinking well water heavily tainted with uraninite."
Ian gaped. "How could you possibly know that? And what's that got to do with where the codex is hidden?"
"Radiation poisoning can be slow, and it gives one time to realise what's happening. When I looked at the library's registry earlier, I was looking for a match to Brother Adelmo's handwriting, but I found something much more interesting. Shortly before his death, Father Bernard had borrowed a fascinating and eclectic number of books: texts on human anatomy, medicine – makes sense, as he was ill – but then, as his illness progressed, and as his penmanship started to deteriorate, incidentally – books on cosmic radiation, mineralogy, nuclear science, and finally, books on the legacy of radium and radiation poisoning. The library here really is quite extensive; pity to break it up."
"So Father Bernard suspected that he was dying of radiation poisoning. Very clever, Sherlock. But that still doesn't explain –"
"When the codex was hidden, it was hidden in the very place where the discovery of the uraninite took place – a place where the monks seldom visit, and where Oscar Dzundza obtained the rock he used to weigh down the body of Brother Adelmo in the balneary. Adelmo knew – Marcelo must have told him in order to reassure his librarian's soul that the codex hadn't come to harm. Unfortunately, Brother Adelmo did, hence the note, written as cryptically as possible so that its meaning wouldn't be immediately obvious if Dzundza discovered it. The centre of Jim Moriarty's operations in this abbey – the chamber where the well of San Stefano is located."
"Jim's not here," Ian said patiently.
"Even so – and even if he hasn't set foot in the abbey – his compulsions, or his wit or his overweening hubris or God knows what else dictate that he needs must keep things tidy. Therefore the book is where it can be stored conveniently, and easily returned if need be, to mock Simon when it's all over. Sloppiness isn't his style, you see."
Ian simply stared at Sherlock for a long moment. "Very good."
"I hope you didn't linger overlong in that outdoor hot tub," Sherlock said, full of triumph. The location of the codex had been a guess, but a good one. "The water source isn't…healthful."
"Why haven't more monks died, then?" Ian demanded. "Surely there would be a rash of deaths, and San Stefano hasn't got a reputation for any sort of unusual deaths."
"'The holy monks who were and sometimes still are nourished by its healthful waters,'" Sherlock said. "It's not in frequent use now, and before medical science realised the myriad ways to die via radiation poisoning, those deaths were attributed to other illnesses. The bathwater won't kill you if you soak in it – clearly you don't understand facetiousness when you hear it – but ingesting large amounts of water steeped in uranium ore will, in time."
Ian seemed delighted. "You didn't come to ask questions. You already had the answers. You came here to show off."
Sherlock smirked a little. "Possibly. Still, I don't know how Dzundza was able to obtain such a precise sample. It was edged quite neatly. And I don't know how Jim found out about the uraninite in the first place. But I'll work it out."
"Some things will never be told," Ian said. "Or more precisely, I don't have all the answers. But I do have a few." He stood and pushed Sherlock's coat from his shoulders, trapping Sherlock's arms in the sleeves. He went to the corner of the room and retrieved the soft leather satchel that likely still held his…accoutrements. "I'm going to make you beg."
"I very much doubt it."
"Stand up." Ian gently hauled Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock's coat clung to him for a few precarious seconds, then slid resignedly down to the bed. Ian plucked the glove from Sherlock's left hand, then his right, and let both drop to the floor. Ian grasped the front of Sherlock's black shirt and unbuttoned it, taking his time. "You've seen me naked, but you've failed to return the favour. Naughty of you, Sherlock Holmes."
"I don't return favours. Too much like bribery for my taste." Sherlock's voice had become a rasping croak. He felt the distention of his trousers was once more imminent.
"But bribery can be very rewarding." Ian urged the shirt down until it fluttered to the bed, joining Sherlock's discarded coat. He traced one finger down the centre of Sherlock's chest, then scraped his nails upward and circled one nipple. He allowed his wandering fingers free rein over Sherlock's skin, from the cup of his navel to the hollow of his throat. At last he trailed his hand to Sherlock's nipple, and circled it over and over.
Sherlock sucked in a shallow breath and stood perfectly still. If he didn't move, if he failed to participate in any meaningful way…then what might that mean? Would it absolve him of all responsibility?
Ian rubbed the flat of his hand against the stiff bulge in Sherlock's trousers, eliciting an indrawn hiss of breath. "You owe me some penance, you know."
Stunned into immobility, Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, finding some refuge in the plain white plaster. "I don't owe you a – a thing." Ian was unfastening his trousers and sliding them and the blue silk boxers he'd so admired down Sherlock's hips. His erection sprang free, needy and aching. He allowed Ian to remove his shoes and socks, and then stepped out of his trousers. Now he stood naked, cool air moving over his skin. He wouldn't move. Not so much as a hair.
Ian delved into his bag and came up with the braided leather thong he hadn't been able to escape. "Turn." Sherlock turned obediently, and Ian bound his hands once more. "Did Dr. Watson have anything to say about the condition of your wrists?"
The mention of John's name was like a slap. Instantly Sherlock snapped to attention and glared at Ian over his shoulder. "All right – that's enough."
"Shh." Ian kissed Sherlock's shoulder. "I won't mention it again. Sore spot, I reckon." He turned Sherlock's head with his hand, urging him to stand straight. "I'm going to gag you again, so if something goes amiss –" He pressed something small, spherical, and metallic into Sherlock's hand. "Drop this."
"I don't need it."
"You might."
Sherlock let it go, and the metal ball struck the stone floor with a loud, musical clatter. "I won't. Stupid, artificial construct."
"The very real illusion of powerlessness," Ian whispered. "Very well. It's your decision." He reached into his bag again and produced a familiar-looking white silk scarf. "Open your mouth." He insinuated the silk between Sherlock's teeth and pulled tightly, knotting it in the back. "Pretty," Ian murmured, and kissed the nape of Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock suppressed a groan as Ian turned him round and urged him down to the bed. Instinctively, he pulled against his bonds and pushed at the silk in his mouth with his tongue, but Ian knew his work; both restraints were secure. Sherlock clenched his fists in a strange admixture of relief and frustration and growled as Ian bound his ankles to the narrow iron bed frame, spreading his legs apart. His hard cock jutted upward, glistening at the tip. Sherlock focussed on it, thrust his hips forward, and couldn't prevent a stifled moan.
"Not yet." Ian – who hadn't removed so much as a stitch of clothing – took a little rectangular leather case from his bag and opened it. Slowly and with great deliberation, he removed small sections of taut, gleaming black leather adorned with brass ferrules and fitted it together until the whole came clear – it was a collapsible crop, quite unlike the utilitarian crop Sherlock's childhood riding instructor had used. He stroked it over Sherlock's thighs and hard cock, then brought it down with teasing force against Sherlock's inner thigh.
Sherlock jumped and glared at Ian. Did he want all this elaborate ritual? No – he only wanted – what had Ian called it? The very real illusion of helplessness. He wanted to fuck, or to be fucked, without having to – oh, God. Ian was striking the crop against Sherlock's prick – soft blows, but swift and skillful enough to wring a cry from Sherlock's gagged mouth. Sherlock arched up, his agonised and tortured cock seeking relief.
Ian smiled sweetly. "Like it?"
Sherlock moaned. Sweat blurred his vision as Ian brought the crop down on his inner thigh again. It hurt, not much but enough to startle his pain receptors, and he moaned again as Ian set the crop down, letting it rest on his belly.
"Be patient." Ian went into the satchel again – the thing was roomier than Mary Poppins' carpetbag – and this time extracted a tin of lubricant and a slim silver plastic dildo.
Voluptuous panic filled Sherlock's chest, and he struggled against the cord round his wrists. Ian only laughed and opened the tin, slicking the greasy stuff against the dildo's surface. He reached between Sherlock's legs and caressed his cock with a frustrating want of force.
"Such a show-off," Ian chided him. "Always so eager to display your prowess. All that pride." Ian slipped a hand beneath Sherlock's arse, raising him slightly.
Sherlock struggled and moaned, but quietly. If John should hear – but he wouldn't investigate again, would he? With leisurely care, Ian slipped the dildo inside Sherlock's body. Sherlock tensed, trying to refuse the object, but Ian pressed it in, and Sherlock finally allowed it with a gasp as his body enclosed it almost completely. He heard a click, and the dildo began to vibrate.
A whimper escaped Sherlock's mouth. He squirmed, but there was no expelling the thing. His prick was harder than ever, an aching column that he couldn't touch and quickly relieve under any circumstances, free only to use his pelvic muscles to clench and unclench his body. His hips twisted from side to side of their own volition as shudders travelled through him. He was entirely at Ian's mercy, and Ian didn't seem inclined to be generous.
Ian struck Sherlock lightly with the crop, against the thighs, his straining calves, the soles of his feet. His own erection bulged beneath his jeans, but he stayed fully dressed, concentrating wholly on Sherlock's torment. He reached between Sherlock's legs, pressing against the vibrator, moving it back and forth, smiling when Sherlock let out a whine. "I'm dying to fuck you."
Sherlock nodded his head frantically. Yes, oh God yes, just fuck me, do it, hard, you bastard….
But Ian took his time, teasing Sherlock with the vibrator, with the crop, sometimes causing him pain with a scratch or the sting of leather, now and then pressing his index finger into Sherlock's navel and making him moan loudly at the bizarre sensation that seemed to shoot from his spinal column to his cock. At last, at long last, Ian climbed onto the bed and unbuttoned his jeans. Unencumbered by undergarments, his cock sprang free, as hard, and bigger than Sherlock's.
Sherlock struggled in mingled apprehension and desperation as Ian withdrew the vibrator. He watched, his body trembling with impending exhaustion and cruel need, as Ian slid on a condom and then tilted forward as Ian dragged him closer, spreading his legs, bent at the knees, to each side, and lifted him slightly. Sharp pain flashed against Sherlock's skin as the leather cord abraded his ankles.
No, don't – He'd thrown the metallic ball away. And he wanted this; the rational, cognitive part of his mind knew that his rebellious body had wanted a good, hard fucking for the longest time.
Ian Adler, Sherlock? Really?
Yes. Really.
He bit down on the silk as Ian penetrated him in one slow, thorough stroke, burying himself as deep as his prick would go. Fucking him. Fucking him. He writhed as Ian pulled out nearly all the way, then pushed back in. His legs ached, his nipples were fine points of pain, his cock twitched in agony. Ian slid in, pulled out. In, out. In, out.
A keening cry, unhampered by wet silk, wrenched itself from Sherlock's mouth as he came, his back drawn into a taut bow, semen splattering on his stomach and chest. Ian never stopped his steady plowing and retreating; aftershocks passed through Sherlock's body as Ian suddenly stilled and gasped.
Sherlock lay passively, savouring the quivering of his sated body. He closed his eyes and let himself drift, feeling, but ignoring, Ian climbing off the bed, disposing of the condom, straightening his clothes. He drowsed a bit, and only opened his eyes when he felt a soft touch on his cheek. Snapping awake, he saw Ian sitting beside him, an expression that seemed…rueful, or unhappy, on his face.
"In time, we might have conquered the world together, you and I," Ian said softly.
With impatient expectation, Sherlock turned his head to one side so Ian could unknot the gag.
"Wait."
Sherlock turned back to Ian, knitting his brow in exaggerated annoyance.
"You are clever, Sherlock. Very clever indeed. I'm sorry I can't –" Ian shook his head. "Moriarty told you what would happen if you continued to interfere in his affairs." He bent over, fumbling in his bag for an irritatingly long time, and came up with a syringe filled with a cloudy pink liquid, a single fat drop at the tip of its needle.
Sherlock gaped at it for one uncomprehending second, then surged upward. But Ian was faster; he leapt up and then shoved Sherlock back against the bed, one long hand plastered against Sherlock's mouth.
"Shut up! Hold still, for Christ's sake!"
Screaming against the double restraint of silk and Ian's hand wouldn't help, but Sherlock tried nonetheless. He shouted for John, still twisting frenziedly, but Ian kept his hand on Sherlock's mouth, even when Sherlock tried to bite him. Sherlock cried out again. If John had heard Sherlock calling his name – assuming the muffled cries escaped the confines of this room – would he come?
John help I made a mistake so god-damned stupid please help I swear I won't –
"Shh. Got to get the air out –" Ian, still pinning Sherlock's face with one hand, ejected a small stream of fluid from the syringe with the other. "Shh." Swiftly, but still exercising some care, he plunged the needle into Sherlock's arm.
The drug worked fast. Sherlock's limbs became heavy and uncooperative. He still thrashed, but weakly, and the violent back and forth of his head-shaking had grown sluggish.
"I like you," Ian said quietly. "Maybe Jim and I can work something out. Sleep for now, Sherlock. I wish you weren't so bloody clever."
John!
"Shh. Sleep."
Sherlock's vision began to blur. His struggles got weaker and weaker. He couldn't breathe beneath the stifling weight of Ian's hand. Finally, unwillingly, he lost consciousness altogether, but not before he heard one last ominous sentence.
"Sorry about John."
No….
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.
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.
Plot happily magpied from everywhere, with especial apologies to Umberto Eco.
Thanks to
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.This fic is a gift for sithdragn, with affection.
Can also be read on AO3
*
John brushed past Sherlock and stopped, an odd choked noise emerging from his throat. He stepped back, leaning against the wall, and rubbed his eyes. "Christ."
Brother Marcelo's naked body leant haphazardly against the door of Ian's adjoining bath, his legs sprawled widely, his hands lying on either side of his thighs. A rope, wound several times about his throat, ran taut to the doorknob, where it was tied off in a simple clove hitch. Sherlock moved closer and crouched to examine the body. Bruises on his face, yes – Dzundza had attacked him earlier in the evening –
"I told him to go to Simon's office straightaway," John said hollowly.
"Looks as if it's meant to be autoerotic asphyxiation, but I doubt it." Sherlock whipped out his glass and held it close to the dead man's throat. "The rope's wound too high to see any significant bruising. Still, I don't think there's any doubt that he was murdered."
"You don't think he was playing kinky sex games with Ian Adler?"
The startling harshness in John's voice gave Sherlock pause. He turned and regarded John with mild curiosity. "What's wrong?" John's mouth was drawn tightly, and his hands were clenched into fists.
"What's wrong? Take a good fucking look, Sherlock. He's dead. I was with him not half an hour ago and I fucking told him to go to Simon and not to try to find Ian and he's dead. Is that enough, or do you want more?"
"All right…." Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and turned back to the body. He'd consciously tried to cater to what he considered John's excessively soft sensibilities regarding victims, but every once in a while, he misread signals and blurted out something that set John off. Apparently this was one of those times. "If Ian was responsible, you'd think he'd be smart enough not to wander off and leave a dead body in an exceedingly compromising position. No, I think this is our friend the Golem."
"We left him tied up and bleeding in the crypt."
"Presumably he escaped," Sherlock murmured. He was about to add a remark addressing John's ineptitude at knot-tying, but refrained, instead moving the glass over the rope. "Faint tracery of blood on the rope. Not, I suspect, Brother Marcelo's – I don't see any open cuts on the body. Besides…come and take a look at this."
Heaving an impatient-sounding sigh, John stepped closer. "Well?"
"Look at his hands."
John crouched beside Sherlock. "Clenched, and…what's that in his fist? Looks like plant roots. Dirt."
"Which indicates that….?"
"His last conscious action was to grab at something to get away from the Golem, the closest thing at hand. Under extreme duress, the muscles in his hands rigidified at once." John met Sherlock's gaze. "He was outside when he died."
"Very good, John," Sherlock replied with a nod.
John rose to his feet. "I'd better fetch Simon. And the police." He went to the door, then paused and turned. "Did Ian say where he was headed after he trussed you up?"
"He said he had to take some precautionary measures, but he didn't specify what that might mean," Sherlock said. "Shall I go with you to see Simon?"
For a brief instant, John hesitated, then shook his head. "No. I'm pretty sure Dzundza's fled the premises. It's safe enough. Just stay here and wait 'til I get back."
"I assure you that I'm perfectly capable of taking care of m –" The sharp bang as John slammed the door behind him cut off the end of Sherlock's sentence. "Myself!" he called, amplifying his voice with a cupped hand, but there was no indication that John had heard him. What, Sherlock wondered, was he so angry about? Even given past reactions to Sherlock's casual treatment of victims, this mood was a bit extreme.
Sherlock knelt closer to the corpse and began to examine it minutely, but his concentration was marred by John's abrupt departure and cold manner. Frustrated, he stopped for a moment and leant back on his heels. John couldn't possibly know the circumstances of what had transpired between him and Ian, but it was impossible to miss the snide little digs he'd sent Ian's way. And his manner…when John was angry he came out and said why. Just as he had about Brother Marcelo's body. Still, hadn't there been a note of…what was it? Mere exasperation, or irritation…certainly it wasn't possessiveness? Jealousy?
The faintest tinge of bitterness twisted Sherlock's smile into a sneer. That he'd come to a few vague conclusions about John that afternoon didn't mean that John reciprocated in any way. Sherlock might well have misinterpreted the signals he'd thought John had sent; emotions weren't and never had been in his purview. Unanchored, ephemeral. Ridiculous, really. He bent back to his work.
And what if John had known about Sherlock and Ian? How might he feel? And how might Sherlock feel if John had caught the pair of them in flagrante delicto?
"God!" Sherlock dashed the magnifying glass to the floor, where it bounced harmlessly off the rug upon which Brother Marcelo's corpse lay. "It's a distraction, every little bit of it," he muttered to the unresponsive body. "Might as well leave you alone and go and compose a few love sonnets. Maybe that would bring some focus back. Right – enough. Time to concentrate." With a sigh, he picked up the glass again and began to examine the body once more.
*
Half an hour later, Ian's room was jammed with police officers, forensics specialists, detectives, and a few monks – Simon, Brother Peter, who was there in his capacity as a doctor, and the young monk who had tidied up the church with Brother Marcelo at the end of the evening service. John was in the corridor, talking to the only detective who spoke fluent English. All significant parties were present except for Ian Adler, in fact, who caused a tremendous hue and cry when he arrived about twenty minutes after the police crowded into his room.
"What in God's name is going on?" If Ian was dissembling, he was a marvellous actor. His expression as he looked around was one of utter astonishment. He made brief eye contact with Sherlock, then looked at a young police officer, his eyes wide.
The detective inspector, whatever one was called in Italy, strode toward Ian and asked him if he spoke Italian. Ian answered in the affirmative, and they began a rapid conversation.
Simon made his way to Sherlock's side and swiftly ushered him into the corridor. John was still talking to the detective, who was earnestly scribbling in a notebook. John gave Sherlock a cool glance but said nothing. "Did you manage to get the phone?" Simon hissed, forcing Sherlock to wrench his gaze from John's face.
Sherlock met Simon's furious expression with equanimity. "No. I didn't. He surprised me."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I wasn't able to obtain the mobile, Simon. Aren't you following?"
In a gesture Sherlock found a trifle melodramatic, Simon placed his fingertips on either side of his head and massaged his temples. "You realise that means I'm – this abbey is still in his power? If he had anything to do with this, I can't say a word against him. I had to instruct Doctor Watson to say nothing about the blackmail. I'm breaking I don't know how many laws. God help me."
"You don't know that he had anything to do with this, Simon, so why would you say a word against him?" Sherlock folded his arms. "Besides, it wasn't Ian. It was Oscar Dzundza."
"Oscar Dzundza. The 'assassin.'" Simon made annoying air quotes with his fingers. "The police are searching the premises, Sherlock, and if they find him – let's just say I'd be quite surprised."
"You think I'm fabricating him? Even the local police, incompetent as they seem to be, know who he is. How do you manage to get through the day without tripping over your own stupidity?"
"That's rich coming from someone who can't even get his hands on a mobile phone. You get that mobile, Sherlock, or get out. I'm sorry Vicki sent you at all."
Sherlock offered Simon a thin, pointed smile. "Pity, especially as I'm so close to finding the codex and the real reason behind these murders. If you paid the slightest bit of attention to your surroundings you'd know it as well. Three days is too long to break this case open, Simon?"
Inside Ian's room, the forensic specialists were cutting the bathroom door handle away. Simon propelled Sherlock down the hall to escape the noise. "So help me, if you're pulling my leg –" He sighed. "All right. Fine. Stay. I only hope you're as good as your word." The outer door opened, and two paramedics bearing a wheeled stretcher entered the corridor, moving past Simon and Sherlock with polite murmurs. Simon stared at them, and his shoulders sagged. "Whatever Marcelo did, he didn't deserve to die, Sherlock. I don't want anyone else to die."
Sherlock scrutinised Simon's face. "I'll do my best to ensure that no-one else in the community dies as a result of this case."
Simon gazed bleakly at Sherlock, then nodded. He withdrew a metal ring laden with keys from beneath the scapular of his habit and handed it to Sherlock. "You have carte blanche, Sherlock. There's a key for every door in this abbey, above and underground. I only ask that you respect whatever property you deem necessary to visit." He sighed, then turned and walked back toward Ian's room.
The ring bore keys both modern and old-fashioned, and weighed about three kilos. Sherlock slipped it into his pocket, where it hung heavily against the lining. With a satisfied little smile, he rejoined the others in Simon's room, feeling John watching him and choosing not to respond.
Two could play at that game.
*
It was two o'clock in the morning before the police had departed, taking Brother Marcelo's body with them. Simon's assistant, Brother Wilhelm, had led a few officers on a search of the grounds and crypt, but no trace of the Golem's presence remained except for John and Brother Marcelo's bloodstained belts. Both were retained as evidence. Ian's room had been dusted and picked over; the police left with dozens of utterly pointless bits of evidence in little plastic bags, and Brother Marcelo in a much larger bag.
Whatever Ian had told the police must have been convincing, because they didn't take him into custody. The young monk who'd assisted Brother Marcelo in cleaning the church moved Ian's luggage into a room a few doors down the corridor. The police taped the door over and left, reassuring Simon that they would be back at the earliest possible convenience. Simon absorbed the move and the assurances grimly, then beckoned to Sherlock, leading him to Ian's new room and waiting outside until the young monk exited. Simon grasped the door handle and stepped inside, Sherlock on his heels.
Ian was sitting on a narrow wooden chair, smoking a cigarette. He looked at them without much surprise, but there were dark circles beneath his eyes, and he seemed fatigued. He exhaled a tidy ribbon of smoke and nodded pleasantly enough. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he inquired in a raspy and uneven voice.
Simon folded his arms. "I don't suppose it's worth asking you whether you had a hand in all this."
Ian shook his head wearily. "The last thing I wanted was for Marcelo to die."
"You fancy ambiguity, don't you?" Sherlock asked. "So much cleverer than a straightforward answer."
"Well, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Mr. Holmes?" Ian squinted through the smoke and gave Sherlock a little smile. "What about this: I didn't kill him and I didn't want him dead. Is that straightforward enough for you?"
"Why couldn't you prevent Dzundza from killing him?" Sherlock demanded.
"I haven't the vaguest idea of what you're going on about," Ian said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go to sleep. It's been a stressful evening."
"You told the police that you and Brother Marcelo had been embroiled in an affair," Simon said. "I heard you."
"That's right. I also informed them that we engaged in acts that may have been perceived by some as beyond the pale of ordinary sexual encounters. And that Marcelo was desperately eager to indulge in certain behaviours. I even corroborated it with video evidence."
"Why bother?" Sherlock snorted. "When they conduct their autopsy, they're going to discover finger-shaped bruises beneath the ligature marks on the throat, as well as compressions of the carotid artery that are distinctly different from the sort of compressions that arise from autoerotic asphyxiation."
"But they won't be my fingers," Ian replied calmly.
"Give me the mobile," Simon said, holding his hand out, like a schoolteacher absolutely certain of his authority. "Now."
Ian shook his head and took a drag from his cigarette. "No."
"We could force you," Simon growled.
Ian reached into his pocket, withdrew his phone, and pressed a few buttons. He showed the mobile to Simon. "I've already emailed the video of Marcelo to the police. But more importantly, I've emailed the videos of you and Signora Lorenzetti to a secure address. If the recipient doesn't hear from me in three days, that video will go viral. True, it won't be verifiable, but that doesn't matter much. Your faces are quite evident. You'll never live the scandal down." Ian thumbed the screen and tucked the mobile back inside his pocket. "You have those three days to decide whether or not you want to sell. After that…." Ian shrugged eloquently and extinguished his cigarette between two fingers. "It's up to you."
"I must go to Milan tomorrow for two days," Simon said. His face had become quite pale. "It can't be avoided. I need more time."
"Three days," Ian replied with implacable finality. "That's all."
"Go on, Simon," Sherlock said. "Go to bed. I'll handle this."
Simon took a few shallow breaths, nodded stiffly, wheeled, and left the room.
Ian crossed one leg over the other and folded his arms, peering at Sherlock. "How are you feeling?"
"I can still feel traces of the chemical you drugged me with in my bloodstream, and my arm is sore. Thanks for asking."
"I'm amazed that you threw away such a tantalizing opportunity, Sherlock."
"Must sting to be turned down."
"Well, my door is always open." Ian leant back in the chair. "Do consider it, at least. I'd make you beg for more."
"I don't beg. Never have."
"You would, with me," Ian said softly. "Think about it."
Sherlock turned on his heel and left the room. Had Ian told Simon the truth about the secure address? The email looked legitimate, but still….
He had three days to solve this case. Plenty of time. It was just a matter of bringing the principals together. First things first: exhumation. Simon would scream and rage, but it was necessary, and always easier to ask forgiveness rather than permission. Then, Ian and Moriarty's plan for the monastery exposed, to which Simon had given him the literal key. Pleased, Sherlock touched the ring in his pocket. He didn't need three days.
The air was damp and misty with shower-steam when Sherlock returned to his room. He shrugged out of his coat, tossed it over the chair, and went into the bathroom. "It's only me," he said, loud enough for John to hear even behind his closed door, but there was no reply.
Fine. Sherlock went to the sink and turned on the hot-water tap to wash his face and clean his teeth. When he finished, he knocked on John's door and opened it without waiting for a reply.
John was stripped down to a t-shirt and plaid boxers, and reading something on his phone. He didn't glance up as Sherlock entered the room. "Most people wait to be invited in."
"I'm not most people. Listen, John, we've got the opportunity to wrap this whole case up tonight. Get dressed and come along with me. We're going to start in the church, that's the most obvious place to look, but it's also the easiest as you've already gained that point of ingress to the tunnel system. I'm looking for one place in particular, and I've got a feeling –" Sherlock broke off and glared down at John. "Are you attending, John, or is that Mills & Boon you're reading more interesting than anything I've got to say?"
An eternity seemed to pass before John looked up at him. Sherlock's mouth tightened in annoyance as he recognised John's expression: I'm About To Tell You Some Hard Truths. He said nothing, though, waiting John out.
"Ian Adler, Sherlock? Really?"
Startled, Sherlock opened his mouth and shut it abruptly. Sudden and unwelcome guilt flooded him like adrenalin, and warmth crept up his chest and neck. "Sorry?"
"I guess I'm not surprised. Disappointed, maybe."
Ah, this was familiar ground at last. He'd Disappointed John. "John, I haven't got the least idea what you're going on about. Just get dressed and –"
"Please, Sherlock." John was eerily calm, not pacing the room as was his wont when he was angry at Sherlock, not using profanity, not throwing his hands around like the world's most flamboyant orchestra conductor. "I don't give a toss about your sex life. If you want to play kinky sex games, that's your own affair."
Sherlock couldn't quite get enough air to take the quick breath necessary before a really scorching riposte. "Kinky sex games," he repeated, sounding vaguely half-witted.
"Yeah. You didn't catch your wrist in the door. That's not even a good excuse." John directed his attention to his phone again and thumbed up another page of densely packed text. "Like I said, I don't give a toss. You don't have to lie to me, you…." John's mouth pulled downward. "Ian, though…even for you, that's playing both ends against the middle." He shrugged. "But if you want to complicate things, that's – like I said, that's your own affair."
Sherlock held perfectly still, watching John, being ignored by John, hot and cold shocks passing through his system with unnerving force. He could deliver the withering reply John deserved, something cold and cutting and sure to piss him off more, maybe infuriate him into yelling and pacing, which was familiar and even comfortable. Or he could tell John the truth, that he'd been manipulated – no, coerced into both situations. John hadn't been there and hadn't seen how close Sherlock had come to breaking. So it might take some persuading, but John would believe him, eventually. And maybe…just maybe, he'd close the rapprochement by putting his hand on John's naked thigh, taut and muscular even in the low light of these monk's cells. And maybe…
Sherlock shook himself furiously. Stop dreaming, for God's sake.
On the other hand, the state of his wrists wasn't a particle of John's business, and who the hell was he to tell Sherlock what to do, with whom he should or shouldn't engage in some of the more shadowy aspects of sexuality? Who the hell did John think he was to lecture Sherlock on anything?
"Are you coming with me, or not?" Sherlock finally asked.
"Nope," John replied. "I'm exhausted. I'm going to finish this article, then I'm going to shut the light out and get at least seven hours of sleep. If you're so close to cracking this open, it can probably wait until morning. I'll be happy to help you then. If not, please yourself. Like I said before, I'm pretty sure Dzundza isn't on the premises, so you're safe. Be careful, though."
Dismissed. Captain Watson hadn't said it aloud, but he'd certainly implied it. He was refusing to help. Flat-out refusing, and even when he'd been angry with Sherlock, Sherlock had always managed to persuade him into action, sometimes using a fairly heavy dose of charm and logic on him. But this – he hadn't any intention of assisting Sherlock, and really Sherlock hadn't a leg to stand on, because hadn't there been at least a part of him that had welcomed Ian's touch, no matter how much he'd protested? And so –
"Fine." Sherlock wheeled and strode through the bathroom to his own cell. He scooped up his coat and shrugged it on, drew on his gloves, smoothing the fingers, and left, slamming the door as he went. Childish, John would have said, but John wasn't there to say it, so who, in John's words, gave a toss?
He'll be sorry if I get killed tonight.
"Oh, shut up," Sherlock muttered, and went down the corridor until he came to Ian's room. He knocked twice and waited.
Ian opened the door and peered out warily. "Insomnia?"
"You might say that."
"Come in." Ian opened the door and stepped aside so that Sherlock could enter. He closed the door quietly and leant against it, staring at Sherlock without speaking. He looked tired; his hair was awry, and he'd unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a smooth expanse of chest and lean abdomen. Even tired, even standing still, he managed to convey a sort of quick and effortless grace and confidence. "I don't sleep much myself."
"I want answers."
Ian's mouth turned upward at the corners, but it wasn't his usual mischief-laden grin. "Do tell. This is getting to be a familiar tune."
"Why did Marcelo have to die? What did he know?"
"Too much, I think. He was beginning to fall apart."
Not waiting for an invitation, Sherlock sat on Ian's bed. "Go on."
"Ahh." Ian strolled to the bed and sat beside Sherlock. "It's not going to be that easy, Sherlock. Or rather, I've absolutely no intention of making it easy for you. Good information will cost you."
"You don't mind giving out information for a price?"
Ian shrugged. "Nothing that you can do will prevent my employer from getting his hands on this place. I intend to leave in a few days and I won't suffer personally, so…." He folded back one lapel of Sherlock's coat and let his fingers trail down its tightly seamed edge until they reached Sherlock's thighs. Ian rested his hand and stroked gently. "I want to play with you."
Sherlock's prick responded with astounding swiftness. "Play," he managed. God, he was on fire with the repartee this evening.
"And you want it too," Ian said, plucking at Sherlock's coat and gazing down at a fair-sized disruption of Hardy Amies merino. His eyebrows lifted for a fraction of a second, then he gazed at Sherlock, his eyes clear and direct, utterly without guile. "Don't you?"
Don't you? Sherlock's mouth was desert-dry, his cheeks were afire, and his cock ached. Scorning to wet his lips, he suppressed a shiver and returned Ian's stare insolently. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a bit curious."
"Curious enough to let yourself go?"
John. Hadn't Sherlock reached some definitive conclusions about John just this afternoon? Some rubbish about intimate relationships? But then, John didn't give a toss. He'd said so, and he'd been calm and collected as he'd said it.
To hell with him, then. He nodded once.
Ian bit his lower lip. "All right. Ask."
"Why did Dzundza kill Brother Marcelo?"
"My employer –"
"Jim Moriarty."
A genuinely amused smile spread over Ian's face. "You are persistent. Well, yes. Jim was prepared to reward Marcelo for facilitating access to the monastery. The previous offers of purchase had been turned down flat, and my - Jim was eager to acquire this parcel."
"Because of the uraninite."
"Yes. We're sitting on potentially billions of pounds. I didn't read science at university, but evidently the yield of uranium ore is crucial in creating U-235, which as you probably know can be used in fission reactors –"
"But I doubt Jim Moriarty is looking at fissile uranium to fuel reactors, is he? Even twenty percent of highly enriched uranium – weapons-grade uranium, if you didn't read science at university – is enough to make crudely effective nuclear arms. A lot of uranium to sell to the highest bidder, or a large number of low bidders."
Ian shrugged. "That," he said, "is not my concern. My task was simply to obtain the parcel."
"By fair means or foul," Sherlock said. He felt easier, more confident. His erection was subsiding. "Even if Brother Marcelo was among your victims. And now he's dead."
"He was the wrong man to help us, unfortunately," Ian said. "He was too young for the responsibility, nervous from the very first, and when his friend – Adelmo, that is, his particular friend – when Adelmo found out, he threatened to expose everything."
"So Adelmo died," Sherlock said. "He knew it was coming, though. He left that note slipped in between the copper and wood of one of the tubs."
"Yes, sharp of him to do that," Ian conceded. "The reference to San Stefano."
"So the codex is still in the abbey?"
Ian nodded. "But you'll never find it, Sherlock. Don't bother trying."
"I already know where it is."
An expression of surprise crossed Ian's face for a moment, then vanished. "Do you? Where?"
"Ask Father Bernard."
"We can't –" Ian shook his head. "He's dead. He died weeks ago."
"Yes, of kidney failure, or so they say. A lingering illness. And the codex was stolen during his funeral." Sherlock rose to his feet and went to the tiny desk against one wall. He took a pamphlet on the abbey and turned the pages until he found the photo he wanted, then sat beside Ian again. He showed him the photo and translated the Italian. "'The handsome and gracious –' Gracious? I don't think that's what they really meant – 'and famous Well of San Stefano. Located in the depths of the abbey, it is unfortunately not open to the public but remains a memento of the holy monks who were and sometimes still are nourished by its healthful waters.' A memento, certainly, but healthful? I think if we were to examine Father Bernard's remains we would discover that the kidney failure which killed him was only one symptom, if the strongest, of radiation poisoning, caused by drinking well water heavily tainted with uraninite."
Ian gaped. "How could you possibly know that? And what's that got to do with where the codex is hidden?"
"Radiation poisoning can be slow, and it gives one time to realise what's happening. When I looked at the library's registry earlier, I was looking for a match to Brother Adelmo's handwriting, but I found something much more interesting. Shortly before his death, Father Bernard had borrowed a fascinating and eclectic number of books: texts on human anatomy, medicine – makes sense, as he was ill – but then, as his illness progressed, and as his penmanship started to deteriorate, incidentally – books on cosmic radiation, mineralogy, nuclear science, and finally, books on the legacy of radium and radiation poisoning. The library here really is quite extensive; pity to break it up."
"So Father Bernard suspected that he was dying of radiation poisoning. Very clever, Sherlock. But that still doesn't explain –"
"When the codex was hidden, it was hidden in the very place where the discovery of the uraninite took place – a place where the monks seldom visit, and where Oscar Dzundza obtained the rock he used to weigh down the body of Brother Adelmo in the balneary. Adelmo knew – Marcelo must have told him in order to reassure his librarian's soul that the codex hadn't come to harm. Unfortunately, Brother Adelmo did, hence the note, written as cryptically as possible so that its meaning wouldn't be immediately obvious if Dzundza discovered it. The centre of Jim Moriarty's operations in this abbey – the chamber where the well of San Stefano is located."
"Jim's not here," Ian said patiently.
"Even so – and even if he hasn't set foot in the abbey – his compulsions, or his wit or his overweening hubris or God knows what else dictate that he needs must keep things tidy. Therefore the book is where it can be stored conveniently, and easily returned if need be, to mock Simon when it's all over. Sloppiness isn't his style, you see."
Ian simply stared at Sherlock for a long moment. "Very good."
"I hope you didn't linger overlong in that outdoor hot tub," Sherlock said, full of triumph. The location of the codex had been a guess, but a good one. "The water source isn't…healthful."
"Why haven't more monks died, then?" Ian demanded. "Surely there would be a rash of deaths, and San Stefano hasn't got a reputation for any sort of unusual deaths."
"'The holy monks who were and sometimes still are nourished by its healthful waters,'" Sherlock said. "It's not in frequent use now, and before medical science realised the myriad ways to die via radiation poisoning, those deaths were attributed to other illnesses. The bathwater won't kill you if you soak in it – clearly you don't understand facetiousness when you hear it – but ingesting large amounts of water steeped in uranium ore will, in time."
Ian seemed delighted. "You didn't come to ask questions. You already had the answers. You came here to show off."
Sherlock smirked a little. "Possibly. Still, I don't know how Dzundza was able to obtain such a precise sample. It was edged quite neatly. And I don't know how Jim found out about the uraninite in the first place. But I'll work it out."
"Some things will never be told," Ian said. "Or more precisely, I don't have all the answers. But I do have a few." He stood and pushed Sherlock's coat from his shoulders, trapping Sherlock's arms in the sleeves. He went to the corner of the room and retrieved the soft leather satchel that likely still held his…accoutrements. "I'm going to make you beg."
"I very much doubt it."
"Stand up." Ian gently hauled Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock's coat clung to him for a few precarious seconds, then slid resignedly down to the bed. Ian plucked the glove from Sherlock's left hand, then his right, and let both drop to the floor. Ian grasped the front of Sherlock's black shirt and unbuttoned it, taking his time. "You've seen me naked, but you've failed to return the favour. Naughty of you, Sherlock Holmes."
"I don't return favours. Too much like bribery for my taste." Sherlock's voice had become a rasping croak. He felt the distention of his trousers was once more imminent.
"But bribery can be very rewarding." Ian urged the shirt down until it fluttered to the bed, joining Sherlock's discarded coat. He traced one finger down the centre of Sherlock's chest, then scraped his nails upward and circled one nipple. He allowed his wandering fingers free rein over Sherlock's skin, from the cup of his navel to the hollow of his throat. At last he trailed his hand to Sherlock's nipple, and circled it over and over.
Sherlock sucked in a shallow breath and stood perfectly still. If he didn't move, if he failed to participate in any meaningful way…then what might that mean? Would it absolve him of all responsibility?
Ian rubbed the flat of his hand against the stiff bulge in Sherlock's trousers, eliciting an indrawn hiss of breath. "You owe me some penance, you know."
Stunned into immobility, Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, finding some refuge in the plain white plaster. "I don't owe you a – a thing." Ian was unfastening his trousers and sliding them and the blue silk boxers he'd so admired down Sherlock's hips. His erection sprang free, needy and aching. He allowed Ian to remove his shoes and socks, and then stepped out of his trousers. Now he stood naked, cool air moving over his skin. He wouldn't move. Not so much as a hair.
Ian delved into his bag and came up with the braided leather thong he hadn't been able to escape. "Turn." Sherlock turned obediently, and Ian bound his hands once more. "Did Dr. Watson have anything to say about the condition of your wrists?"
The mention of John's name was like a slap. Instantly Sherlock snapped to attention and glared at Ian over his shoulder. "All right – that's enough."
"Shh." Ian kissed Sherlock's shoulder. "I won't mention it again. Sore spot, I reckon." He turned Sherlock's head with his hand, urging him to stand straight. "I'm going to gag you again, so if something goes amiss –" He pressed something small, spherical, and metallic into Sherlock's hand. "Drop this."
"I don't need it."
"You might."
Sherlock let it go, and the metal ball struck the stone floor with a loud, musical clatter. "I won't. Stupid, artificial construct."
"The very real illusion of powerlessness," Ian whispered. "Very well. It's your decision." He reached into his bag again and produced a familiar-looking white silk scarf. "Open your mouth." He insinuated the silk between Sherlock's teeth and pulled tightly, knotting it in the back. "Pretty," Ian murmured, and kissed the nape of Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock suppressed a groan as Ian turned him round and urged him down to the bed. Instinctively, he pulled against his bonds and pushed at the silk in his mouth with his tongue, but Ian knew his work; both restraints were secure. Sherlock clenched his fists in a strange admixture of relief and frustration and growled as Ian bound his ankles to the narrow iron bed frame, spreading his legs apart. His hard cock jutted upward, glistening at the tip. Sherlock focussed on it, thrust his hips forward, and couldn't prevent a stifled moan.
"Not yet." Ian – who hadn't removed so much as a stitch of clothing – took a little rectangular leather case from his bag and opened it. Slowly and with great deliberation, he removed small sections of taut, gleaming black leather adorned with brass ferrules and fitted it together until the whole came clear – it was a collapsible crop, quite unlike the utilitarian crop Sherlock's childhood riding instructor had used. He stroked it over Sherlock's thighs and hard cock, then brought it down with teasing force against Sherlock's inner thigh.
Sherlock jumped and glared at Ian. Did he want all this elaborate ritual? No – he only wanted – what had Ian called it? The very real illusion of helplessness. He wanted to fuck, or to be fucked, without having to – oh, God. Ian was striking the crop against Sherlock's prick – soft blows, but swift and skillful enough to wring a cry from Sherlock's gagged mouth. Sherlock arched up, his agonised and tortured cock seeking relief.
Ian smiled sweetly. "Like it?"
Sherlock moaned. Sweat blurred his vision as Ian brought the crop down on his inner thigh again. It hurt, not much but enough to startle his pain receptors, and he moaned again as Ian set the crop down, letting it rest on his belly.
"Be patient." Ian went into the satchel again – the thing was roomier than Mary Poppins' carpetbag – and this time extracted a tin of lubricant and a slim silver plastic dildo.
Voluptuous panic filled Sherlock's chest, and he struggled against the cord round his wrists. Ian only laughed and opened the tin, slicking the greasy stuff against the dildo's surface. He reached between Sherlock's legs and caressed his cock with a frustrating want of force.
"Such a show-off," Ian chided him. "Always so eager to display your prowess. All that pride." Ian slipped a hand beneath Sherlock's arse, raising him slightly.
Sherlock struggled and moaned, but quietly. If John should hear – but he wouldn't investigate again, would he? With leisurely care, Ian slipped the dildo inside Sherlock's body. Sherlock tensed, trying to refuse the object, but Ian pressed it in, and Sherlock finally allowed it with a gasp as his body enclosed it almost completely. He heard a click, and the dildo began to vibrate.
A whimper escaped Sherlock's mouth. He squirmed, but there was no expelling the thing. His prick was harder than ever, an aching column that he couldn't touch and quickly relieve under any circumstances, free only to use his pelvic muscles to clench and unclench his body. His hips twisted from side to side of their own volition as shudders travelled through him. He was entirely at Ian's mercy, and Ian didn't seem inclined to be generous.
Ian struck Sherlock lightly with the crop, against the thighs, his straining calves, the soles of his feet. His own erection bulged beneath his jeans, but he stayed fully dressed, concentrating wholly on Sherlock's torment. He reached between Sherlock's legs, pressing against the vibrator, moving it back and forth, smiling when Sherlock let out a whine. "I'm dying to fuck you."
Sherlock nodded his head frantically. Yes, oh God yes, just fuck me, do it, hard, you bastard….
But Ian took his time, teasing Sherlock with the vibrator, with the crop, sometimes causing him pain with a scratch or the sting of leather, now and then pressing his index finger into Sherlock's navel and making him moan loudly at the bizarre sensation that seemed to shoot from his spinal column to his cock. At last, at long last, Ian climbed onto the bed and unbuttoned his jeans. Unencumbered by undergarments, his cock sprang free, as hard, and bigger than Sherlock's.
Sherlock struggled in mingled apprehension and desperation as Ian withdrew the vibrator. He watched, his body trembling with impending exhaustion and cruel need, as Ian slid on a condom and then tilted forward as Ian dragged him closer, spreading his legs, bent at the knees, to each side, and lifted him slightly. Sharp pain flashed against Sherlock's skin as the leather cord abraded his ankles.
No, don't – He'd thrown the metallic ball away. And he wanted this; the rational, cognitive part of his mind knew that his rebellious body had wanted a good, hard fucking for the longest time.
Ian Adler, Sherlock? Really?
Yes. Really.
He bit down on the silk as Ian penetrated him in one slow, thorough stroke, burying himself as deep as his prick would go. Fucking him. Fucking him. He writhed as Ian pulled out nearly all the way, then pushed back in. His legs ached, his nipples were fine points of pain, his cock twitched in agony. Ian slid in, pulled out. In, out. In, out.
A keening cry, unhampered by wet silk, wrenched itself from Sherlock's mouth as he came, his back drawn into a taut bow, semen splattering on his stomach and chest. Ian never stopped his steady plowing and retreating; aftershocks passed through Sherlock's body as Ian suddenly stilled and gasped.
Sherlock lay passively, savouring the quivering of his sated body. He closed his eyes and let himself drift, feeling, but ignoring, Ian climbing off the bed, disposing of the condom, straightening his clothes. He drowsed a bit, and only opened his eyes when he felt a soft touch on his cheek. Snapping awake, he saw Ian sitting beside him, an expression that seemed…rueful, or unhappy, on his face.
"In time, we might have conquered the world together, you and I," Ian said softly.
With impatient expectation, Sherlock turned his head to one side so Ian could unknot the gag.
"Wait."
Sherlock turned back to Ian, knitting his brow in exaggerated annoyance.
"You are clever, Sherlock. Very clever indeed. I'm sorry I can't –" Ian shook his head. "Moriarty told you what would happen if you continued to interfere in his affairs." He bent over, fumbling in his bag for an irritatingly long time, and came up with a syringe filled with a cloudy pink liquid, a single fat drop at the tip of its needle.
Sherlock gaped at it for one uncomprehending second, then surged upward. But Ian was faster; he leapt up and then shoved Sherlock back against the bed, one long hand plastered against Sherlock's mouth.
"Shut up! Hold still, for Christ's sake!"
Screaming against the double restraint of silk and Ian's hand wouldn't help, but Sherlock tried nonetheless. He shouted for John, still twisting frenziedly, but Ian kept his hand on Sherlock's mouth, even when Sherlock tried to bite him. Sherlock cried out again. If John had heard Sherlock calling his name – assuming the muffled cries escaped the confines of this room – would he come?
John help I made a mistake so god-damned stupid please help I swear I won't –
"Shh. Got to get the air out –" Ian, still pinning Sherlock's face with one hand, ejected a small stream of fluid from the syringe with the other. "Shh." Swiftly, but still exercising some care, he plunged the needle into Sherlock's arm.
The drug worked fast. Sherlock's limbs became heavy and uncooperative. He still thrashed, but weakly, and the violent back and forth of his head-shaking had grown sluggish.
"I like you," Ian said quietly. "Maybe Jim and I can work something out. Sleep for now, Sherlock. I wish you weren't so bloody clever."
John!
"Shh. Sleep."
Sherlock's vision began to blur. His struggles got weaker and weaker. He couldn't breathe beneath the stifling weight of Ian's hand. Finally, unwillingly, he lost consciousness altogether, but not before he heard one last ominous sentence.
"Sorry about John."
No….
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Date: 2013-06-13 04:24 am (UTC)