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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.
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
*
*
He'd accused Sherlock, once, of having a heart, a distinct liability for any thinking person. It was so much easier, so much more pleasant, to do without. No heart, no sense of propriety, no social conscience…all that was for the sheep-like billions who took up breathing space on the planet. They didn't deserve the privileges in life that resulted from doing without. How many people right now, for example, were sitting in positively ducal luxury thirty thousand feet above sea level, eating delicately shaved asparagus spears dipped in butter and watching Seb Moran bum-fucking a flight attendant? Jim nibbled at the tip of one green stem and regarded the flight attendant's creamy-white arse, cupped between Seb's hands, such a startling contrast to his flushed face.
Wonder what the poor people are doing.
The flight attendant's nails dug into the soft leather of the sofa, and he let out a cry as Seb suddenly clutched his narrow hips and thrust once, twice, and a third time that paid for all. Sweat lent his face a liquid glittering sheen and cords stood out on his neck. Finally Seb collapsed against him and buried his nose in the young man's neck, like a horse searching for an elusive lump of sugar.
"All done?" Jim inquired softly.
"Yeah." Sebastian pulled out of the flight attendant and patted his arse. "Nice. Thank you, honey."
The flight attendant glanced over his shoulder, his face inscrutable. Nice. "Pleasure's mine," he said, not sounding as if he meant it. He rose to his feet, gathered up and zipped his trousers, and moved toward the galley.
"I don't think he was smitten by your charms, Seb."
"Who cares? He was nice and tight." Seb dragged himself up to one of the sofas and sprawled on it, re-ordering his clothes.
"You have such a wonderful lack of discernment," Jim replied in a low purr. "It's breathtaking, honestly."
"Oh, fuck you, Jim."
"Not tonight, you won't. And not until you get tested. Can you imagine how many cocks that dumb piece has had up his hole? Loaded dice, darling." Idly, he thought about cutting Seb loose. It wasn't just that the man's sexual tastes were louche…actually, scratch that. Seb courted danger with every anonymous fuck, and it was a pleasure to watch, if not to participate. Seb was a live wire, thrumming with tension, and if that made him occasionally delicate to handle, human nitroglycerine, it was worth it. You couldn't have everything predictable all the time, which was why he was thirty thousand feet above sea level. His little wild card had thrown a spanner into the works.
Fun.
"You worry too much." Seb leant over and plucked an asparagus spear from Jim's plate. "How long 'til we get there?"
Jim shrugged. "Are you in a hurry?"
Seb returned the shrug. "Don't know why you needed me to come along if you've got other help already there."
"Let's not be bitchy. I might just need your skill set, darling." Jim's phone hummed – F minor seventh, B flat – and he glanced at the readout before answering. "Hi, sweetie. How's it going? You did? Oh, very nice. Looking forward to it. You did? No. You have proof, I assume. Well, I'm delighted for you, but Oscar's going to be awfully disappointed. You can break the news to him yourself. Of course! I'm dying to see his expression. No. No, I've got a car waiting. If you haven't got the stomach for it, Oscar can do it. Not really your line of expertise anyway, is it? You just sit tight and I'll see you shortly. 'Bye, now." He hung up and smiled at Seb. "We have a treat in store for us, Seb."
"Hurrah."
"You'll see. This is going to be fun."
A little unexpected bloodshed in an otherwise ordinary business transaction was always fun.
*
John's alarm beeped quietly at nine o'clock, and he fumbled for his phone and shut it off, simultaneously sitting up and rubbing sleep from his eyes. He blinked, yawned, stretched, and got up to use the toilet. The bathroom was empty and tidy, no residue of shower steam in the air, and John concluded that Sherlock had possibly 1) gone out very early, 2) not come back to the room at all, or 3) had decided to shower in Ian Adler's room. All three scenarios were totally acceptable. Sherlock could fuck off in each of them, in fact.
Let it go, he counselled himself as he took a quick shower. Sherlock had feigned ignorance last night, but for all his acting talent he was a piss-poor liar when one came right down to it. He'd blushed and hadn't come up with a quick and glibly scornful denial; he'd practically stammered. And so what? You've never promised each other anything. Maybe John had been the dry run, the practise alert; Ian Adler was tall, good-looking, a scholar, the obscure sort towards which Sherlock might naturally gravitate, and had the advantage of novelty and apparently a quick come-on. Sherlock's indignation when John had untied him had seemed very real, but knowing Sherlock, he'd probably just been pissed off that Ian had left him tied up. Could have been part of a game.
John realised he was clenching his fists hard enough to drive his nails into his palms, and his body was aching with rage. Something savage and violent inside him was howling for vengeance. Jesus. He uncurled his hands and stepped beneath the hot spray. He wanted to punch Sherlock in the nose. And beat the living shit out of Ian Adler while he was at it.
Sherlock could have said something. Anything. And with Ian Adler, for fuck's sake, a blackmailer and party to murder, if not a murderer himself.
Sherlock's private life is his own business. And he does more than flirt with danger; he opens his arms and beckons to it.
True, but still. "John, I'm spending the night with Ian. See you in the morning." How fucking difficult would that have been?
Oh, really? You would have been all right with hearing that?
Why not? He was in love with Sherlock. He admitted that now. But that didn't mean Sherlock was compelled to love him back. Wasn't it enough that they lived together, that Sherlock respected him more than any other person – more than his own brother, for God's sake? He didn't owe John love.
Christ, get over it! If you wanted him so badly you should have said something, done something instead of just mooning over him and doing fuck-all about it.
"I only just worked it out," John muttered, and leant his head against the wall, letting the spray wash down his back. "Oh, fuck."
He had to pull himself together. With luck, Sherlock would regard his outburst with his usual lack of emotional comprehension, and things would go on as normal. John would get through the day, this case, next month, the rest of his life as usual, and he'd never give Sherlock so much as a glimpse of the icy blade in his heart, and as time passed, his feelings would soften into friendship again, and everything would be the way it was before John had decided he was in love with his fucking flatmate.
John finished his shower, towelled off, and dressed. He checked his phone for messages and found a text from Harry: Where are you?! Stopped by & nobody home. Have news. Call me!! God, she was probably back with Clara. Again. Another text, from Sarah: Are you & S having fun in Italy? See you soon. Loads of fun, Sarah, thanks. A text from the Medical Society of London: Mem: meeting April 24 8:15 PM. Topic: TREATMENT OF HEAD WOUNDS – A NEW FRONTIER. He'd missed the last two meetings because he'd been busy with Sherlock's cases; he'd make a point of going to this one.
Nothing from Sherlock. What did you expect?
Impulsively, he texted Alice. I'll be home in a few days. Can we chat?
Two seconds after he sent it, he remembered that Alice was in Cornwall, likely with another man. Oh, you fuckwit. Well, it was worth a shot, anyhow. He was fairly good at persuading her out of bad moods.
He threw on his jacket and strolled toward the refectory. The path climbed imperceptibly but steadily, and John felt the welcome stretching of his calf muscles. It was cool, and a ragged grey fringe of fog clung to the ground. A soft drizzle of rain misted his cheeks. The drifting tendrils lent an otherworldly look to the surrounding stone buildings, and John shivered involuntarily. He'd never seen anything remotely supernatural nor had ever felt the passage of a soul at a death, though he'd witnessed his fair share, and he was inclined to skepticism in general, but something about this place, like the weight of time and faith in the church last night, felt peculiar to him, haunted and keeping secrets.
The refectory was nearly empty, as breakfast had been a few hours ago, but John heard activity in the kitchen and went in, hoping to beg a bowl of porridge or some toast and tea. He stopped just inside the threshold, unpleasantly surprised to see Ian Adler chatting with two monks. No Sherlock, though.
Conversation ceased as John entered, and the monks gave him friendly, questioning looks. Ian turned. "Dr. Watson. Good morning." He looked tired, drawn and pale.
Well, small wonder. He probably hadn't got much sleep last night. John nodded stiffly and brushed past Ian. "I was wondering if you had anything left over from breakfast," he said to the monks apologetically. "I'm afraid I slept right through it."
Happily, there were leftovers: John received a tray laden with a monster bowl of porridge, accompanied by a ripe pear and a mug of tea with generous lashings of milk. He took his tray to the refectory table and began to eat.
As he was finishing the pear, he saw Brother Wilhelm enter the refectory. He greeted the monk, who looked as tired as Ian. "Terribly sorry about Brother Marcelo."
Brother Wilhelm slumped into the chair next to John's. "There have been far too many deaths. I hope you and your friend can bring this terrible rash of killings to a stop. The community is devastated, and frightened, quite rightly."
"Sherlock's close to solving this," John assured him.
"So Mr. Holmes told Father Simon last night," Brother Wilhelm replied. "Father Simon has gone to Milan with Father Umberto, but he left a set of keys with Mr. Holmes and gave him free rein to do what was needed. I hope Mr. Holmes can come to a conclusion quickly."
Ah, that was it. Sherlock was likely opening every door on the premises. Of course he hadn't bothered to inform John as to his whereabouts, or his actions. Maybe he didn't need John at all. "I think he left quite early this morning," John explained, cloaking his irritation and disappointment. It was stupid, fucking petty revenge because John had dared to lecture Sherlock. Because God forbid that Sherlock Holmes would even entertain the notion that fucking a criminal was a little beyond moral ambiguity. Well, fuck him – John could do a little investigating of his own. "Brother Wilhelm, you haven't got a map of the abbey, have you? One showing the underground passages? It would be easier to navigate with a map."
"I don't know of one," Brother Wilhelm said, shaking his head. "And the librarians…."
"Yeah, I know," John murmured. "Do you think Simon would know of one?"
"He might," Brother Wilhelm admitted, "but he's in Milan, as I said."
"Hasn't he got a mobile?"
"I cannot recall the number."
"You must have it somewhere," John said. "For emergencies."
Brother Wilhelm nodded. "I must speak to the kitchen staff for a moment, but afterward I will look for it. Come to the offices when you've finished your breakfast and I will try to find it for you."
"Okay." He waved a glum good-bye to Brother Wilhelm and bit fiercely into the last of the pear. Might as well do something. Anything's better than just sitting around and brooding.
As John gathered his soiled breakfast dishes together, he saw Ian come out of the kitchen. He met Ian's gaze for an instant and quickly looked away, but it was too late. Ian moved toward him and without an invitation dropped into the chair Brother Wilhelm had vacated. "John," he said quietly. "A word."
What could Ian possibly want with him? "What?"
Ian glanced about. "You need to leave," he said. "Today. Now, if possible."
John frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Look, I'm not going to…you're in danger if you stay here."
"Right," John replied automatically. "From you?" He met Ian's gaze squarely now. "Are you warning Sherlock off too, or is he under your protection?"
Ian's mouth tightened. "He – I can't explain it, and I don't really expect you to believe me, but if you care at all about your own life, you need to leave immediately. And if you care about Sherlock –"
"You'll what?" John snapped. "Kill me? Listen to me, Adler. You don't frighten me one little bit. And as for Sherlock – if you hurt him, try to blackmail him the way you did Simon or Brother Marcelo, you'll have me to deal with. I don't care if you're a fucking legend in the kip – you fuck with him, you fuck with me. Do you understand me?"
Ian regarded John with surprise and said nothing for a long, silent moment. "I believe you, Dr. Watson. You're in love with him, aren't you?"
"He's my best friend, and he doesn't know fuck-all about –" John closed his mouth abruptly. Sherlock wasn't an innocent, he wasn't some shrinking virgin. He didn't need John to defend him, and he'd had more than his fair share of opportunities; John wasn't the only person to realise that Sherlock had some undefinable allure that went beyond his good looks. But Sherlock had never taken advantage of those opportunities, as far as John knew. Until Ian. Searing anger as raw and painful as an unhealed wound blazed in John's chest. What the fuck did Ian Adler have that nobody else did?
"You were saying?"
Ian was inspecting John's face, his eyes wide and speculating. John dug in and used the anger. It was better than the sick, lost feeling threatening to overwhelm it. "Get the hell away from me, and don't threaten me unless you're prepared to make good on it." Ian wasn't a fighter, that much was certain. He was just a cock that lacked remorse, the proverbial good time that was had by all.
Ian rose to his feet. "I'm not joking, Dr. Watson. The danger isn't from me."
"Who, then? Dzundza?"
Ian started. "I can't –"
"No, I'm sure you can't," John retorted, getting to his feet as well. He picked up his tray and walked off, ignoring Ian still standing at the table, looking a bit lost himself.
*
The abbey offices were locked. John peered in the single narrow window, but the place appeared to be deserted. Annoyed, he went to the library, but that door was locked as well. Creepy – had everyone just vanished? John went back toward his room and saw an older man in a ragged sweater and a rain hat outside the guest quarters. He recognised the man as being the other guest in the abbey, the one who was travelling from one monastery to the other. He raised a hand in greeting. "Hi. You're staying here too, aren't you?"
The man doffed his hat briefly and adjusted a knapsack on his shoulder. "Yes. I'm leaving today, though. I've had quite enough." The man's accent was Irish, western if John wasn't mistaken.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"I'm not. I might be next on the murder list. The police had me up until two o'clock this morning, asking me questions, as if I knew a thing." The man's seamed face contracted as he scrutinised John. "You'd better be careful, young fella. Even if you're not a monk, this place is a deathtrap."
"Well, that's a bit…have you seen Brother Wilhelm? I went by the office and it was dark and locked."
The man shook his head. "Not since breakfast. Everything's quiet now – the library is locked, the brewery, the balneary's closed up, everything. There's a mass at ten for the repose of Brother Marcelo's soul. I'm sure he'll be at that." He squinted out at the foggy pathway. "The rest are hiding. Can't blame them. Anyone could be next. Even the dead disappear here. Well – take care now." He nodded and trudged off into the mist.
John stared after the man until he vanished into the fog. His quota for adventure was filling up fast. Sighing, he went back to his room. He tossed his jacket on the bed, then went through the bathroom and knocked on Sherlock's door. "Sherlock? You back?"
Nothing. Maybe he was sleeping off his tryst with Ian. Carefully, John opened the door, half-expecting to see Sherlock sprawled out on his bed, but it was empty, and neatly made, and there was no evidence that Sherlock had been back at all. "Fine – fuck it," John muttered, and went back to his room.
His phone pinged with a text message. He picked it up and found a text from Alice: No, and don't call me or text me again.
Well, that was that. John sighed and erased the text, then paused, his finger hovering over the buttons. He scowled ferociously and then, against his better judgment, texted Sherlock. All right. Where the hell are you?
He waited a few minutes, but no reply came. Sherlock had his moods, but he usually replied promptly, especially when he had the opportunity to say something snippy and superior, and John had given him a wide in.
Fine. He doesn't want to answer? Fine, fuck you, Sherlock.
John sat on his bed, uncertain what to do next. He checked his watch: ten minutes to ten. He could go to the church and examine the passageways, but there probably wouldn't be time with the monks gathering for mass. He couldn't get into the library if it was locked, and that was the only other point of ingress to the tunnels that he knew of. He wasn't keen on going to the mass. There was nothing to do but wait.
Suddenly, he thought of Victoria Trevor. She'd given John and Sherlock her mobile number before they'd left for Italy; surely she'd have her brother's number. He paged through his contact list, found the number, and hit CALL.
She picked up on the second ring and greeted John with what sounded like genuine pleasure. "Dr. Watson, how are you?"
"I'm great, thanks." John put warmth in his tone; hers was the friendliest voice he'd heard in days. "Sherlock – we're very close to solving this case. There's been another murder, unfortunately."
"Simon told me. I spoke to him earlier this morning. Terribly sad. But I knew it wouldn't take long."
"Well, you know Sherlock." You might, Ms. Trevor. I certainly fucking don't.
"Yes. I expect he's been creating merry hell for Simon in the meantime."
"No more than usual. I don't know where the hell he is now, to be quite honest. I think he's wandering the tunnels. That was why I was calling, actually. I was hoping that Simon knew of a map or blueprints or something so we could find our way about more easily, but I don't have his mobile number. Could you give it to me?"
"Oh, of course. Have you got a pen?" Victoria Trevor gave him the number. "Pity Horst is in Cologne at the moment. He knows the layout of those tunnels like the back of his hand. I've only been in them two or three times, but Horst is fascinated with them."
"Horst?"
"Oh, sorry – my husband." She gave a little laugh. "He doesn't see eye-to-eye with me about preserving the monastery, but he'd be devastated if it actually had to be sold. He loves the tunnels. Must be the small boy in him."
"Could be," John said politely. "Thanks very much for the number. I'll give Simon a call. You don't think I'll be disturbing him in the midst of something important?"
"He's taking Father Umberto to one of the hospitals, I believe. I doubt you'll bother him, Dr. Watson. You're very pleasant. I know Sherlock must think so too – I've never seen him as close to anyone. It's quite extraordinary, I can tell you."
Right. "Thanks, that's lovely. It was good to speak with you."
"Good luck, Dr. Watson."
"Thanks very much."
John rang off and phoned Simon, who answered in a tone of immense irritation. "I'm afraid I can't help you, Dr. Watson. I don't know of any map. The tunnels are extensive, but you won't get lost. I gave Sherlock keys and carte blanche to search as he saw fit." A doubtful note crept into his voice. "You're not lost, are you? I find it hard to believe that Sherlock actually needs help with anything – he seems so certain of himself."
"No, we're not lost. In fact, I'm certain Sherlock's searching the passageways now." Not that he'd tell me if he were.
"May I ask how you got this number?"
"From your sister, actually. I thought it would save time if we had a map, that's all." John paused. "She's lovely."
"Yes," Simon sighed. "I'm immensely relieved that she split up with Sherlock, quite frankly. He'd have sucked all the joie de vivre out of her."
"Split up?" John frowned. "You mean they were…an item?"
"So I gather. She wasn't keen to divulge intimate details of her relationship with him, not that I begged for any," Simon said. "At any rate, she found Horst and married him, thank God."
"Yeah," John said, a bit numb. Sherlock, you dark fucking horse. "She said he knew the tunnels quite well."
"Yes, he does. It's a busman's holiday sort of thing, though. He's the CTO of Deutsche Bergleute – it's simply what he does. Purely geological interest. Look here, Dr. Watson, I have to be going. If there's nothing else –"
"No," John said. "Sorry to have bothered you."
"I'm sorry I can't help you, but I'm sure that Sherlock will manage. He claims to be close to solving the whole thing. And if there's any way to stop Mr. Adler –" Simon sighed again. "It's all too much."
"We'll do our very best," John assured him. They traded farewells, and John sat staring at his phone.
He'd learned more about Sherlock's sex life in the last twelve hours than he had in the year that they'd lived together. Funny – he didn't begrudge Victoria Trevor a thing. It had been years ago, and she'd got married in the meantime. Ian Adler, though….
He wished he had Sherlock's gift for deletion. He'd delete the memory of Ian, his own stupid longing, the mental pictures he'd had just lately of Sherlock in his bed, and any hint of extraordinary emotion he'd misinterpreted. He'd chuck it into his mental recycle bin and empty it.
All right? Are you all right?
Sherlock's face as he'd torn the Semtex parka from John's body. That near-frantic questioning, as close as Sherlock had ever come to genuine panic. And afterward, his distracted pacing.
That thing that you, ah, did, that…you offered to do. That was…good. From Sherlock, that was a cornucopia of accolades.
You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.
People do little else.
He'd delete the whole fucking thing.
*
Lacking anything else to do, he went to the mass after all, and stayed behind after the monks – and Ian Adler, that hypocritical bastard – had left. He worked the mechanism that opened the altar passageway, and descended into the darkness once more.
Turning on his torch, he walked through the passage, pausing now and then to look at the tombs that lined the corridor. He came to the place where he'd tangled with the Golem, and left him tied up, but there was no sign of him now. He wondered if Dzundza had actually fled – or were there throughways and chambers enough to hide anyone who wanted to disappear? John wished he had the kitchen knife that he'd stolen. He played the beam of the torch around and saw the candlestick that Brother Marcelo had dropped in his struggles to be free of the Golem. It was better than nothing; he'd brain Dzundza with it if he had to.
Dr. Watson, in the secret passage, with the candlestick.
He kept moving until he found the fork in the passage where Brother Marcelo had led him – the one that went to the library. Where did the other one go? He took the right tunnel, which was as narrow and dark as the left one, and carefully made his way down the corridor.
The floor here seemed to slope, and the air became cooler. John buttoned up his jacket and stepped carefully, shining his torch on the floor now and then in case the floor were to drop away suddenly. All he needed was to break his neck on a flight of stairs or even a riser. He became aware that he was moving slower. The passage curved one way, then another, and then there was another fork. Arbitrarily, he chose the one on the right. Further down, another, fork, and he went right again. Here the corridor was rougher, and there was a smell of damp earth. There was no sound save John's breathing. He slowed to a near-crawl, then stopped as he saw a low door set into the rock. It had an iron lever handle; John tried it, but it was locked. Impatiently, he rattled it, but it didn't give. And of course Sherlock has the keys. He –
John sucked in a quick breath and held still. He'd heard a noise behind that door, a faint, quick scrape. And – a human voice? Just a brief, almost negligible sound? He put his ear to the door, but the noise wasn't repeated. Your imagination.
Still, he rattled the handle again. "Is anyone there?" He clamped his mouth shut. That's good. Great. Could be Dzundza. Fantastic way to draw attention to yourself, idiot. He stepped back and held the candlestick at the ready. He felt his chest expanding to compensate for the air he wasn't getting, and tried to steady his breathing. He waited, heart thundering.
Nothing happened. The door stayed closed, and there was no noise. He bent to look through the large keyhole, then tried to shine his torch through it, but it was impossible to see anything. Sighing in mingled exasperation and relief, John moved further down the corridor, alert now for any unfamiliar noise. He shone his beam against the wall, and saw that the stone was speckled with the dark nodules that Sherlock had handled gingerly.
Radioactive.
All at once the air felt too still, too damp – unhealthy, dangerous. He knew that one instance of casual contact wouldn't poison him, but he wanted to be away from this entombing stone just the same. What the hell are you doing down here anyhow? Just what do you think you'll find? More dead bodies of monks? The codex? Buried treasure?
He turned to go back, then decided to keep going ahead. The passage had to end somewhere. If it turned out to be a dead end, he'd go back the way he came. There had been…two forks? Three? Disorientation tugged at his limbs and made him dizzy. He'd kept right, he knew that much, but the passages had curved and twisted…. Christ, where the hell was he?
"Fucking hell," he muttered, and kept moving down the passageway. It sloped down once more, and he felt cobwebs brush against his face and hands. Once he trained his light on the wall and saw a spider half the size of his fist. "Jesus!" The still air and rock sucked his voice into nothingness. He moved faster now; he'd never been claustrophobic before, but there was a first time for everything, wasn't there? Faster and faster he walked until he was nearly running, colliding clumsily with the wall as the corridor twisted this way and that, and then nearly ran straight into a door.
"Oh, thank Christ," John whispered. If the fucking handle was locked, he'd break the damned door down. He yanked on the lever, and it refused to move.
"Come on, come on." John tugged on it again, and this time it moved a bit. Rusty, that's all. Get hold of yourself. He stopped, took a breath, and tried again. It yielded with a groan, and John found himself in a tiny chamber that held a staircase leading nowhere.
Can't go nowhere. There's got to be something…. He moved the beam of the torch upward and saw a sort of trapdoor at the top of the stairs. Good. There must be a handle, a lever, something. He climbed the stairs, keeping his torch aimed at the door, and saw nothing. Experimentally, he pushed against the wooden panel, and it popped up quite easily. Relief flooded John's chest, and he scrambled through the hole into another dark, nearly airless chamber.
As he hoisted himself through the hole, candlestick under one arm and the torch clenched in his teeth, he saw that the chamber was tiny, wood-walled, and littered with a jumble of items he couldn't identify immediately. There was a door, though, and he grasped the handle and pushed it open.
A sudden burst of light hurt his eyes, and he blinked and raised his arm instinctively to block the brightness. As his vision cleared, he stepped out of the chamber and saw that he was in the balneary, and the chamber he'd come from was in fact a cabinet, the wooden cabinet where Sherlock had found the hose and siphon for the baths.
"Wow," John whispered. Was there anywhere these tunnels didn't lead?
Now that he was out of the tunnels, he felt calmer and clear-headed again. He glanced at his watch: half twelve. Christ, had he really been down there almost an hour and a half? He must have been moving at a snail's pace. And still nothing from Sherlock. He hadn't really expected to bump into him down there, but still. He pulled out his phone and fired off another text: Stop sulking. Are you OK?
John waited; no reply came. He frowned. He and Sherlock had had their bouts of crankiness before, and he was still pissed off enough to think some fairly black thoughts, but…well, what did Sherlock have to be pissed off about? He was the one fucking the criminal, not John. It was taking petty revenge a bit far.
He resisted the impulse to send an even snottier text, and went off to the refectory in search of a snack.
*
Four hours later, he'd neither seen Sherlock nor heard from him, and he was starting to worry. He'd gone back to his room to read and wound up pacing, bending his copy of The Lancet back and forth and watching the rain fall outside. The day had darkened considerably, the rain pounded against the windows, and every moment he half-expected Sherlock to come in, drenched and irritable, and drag John outside to look at some totally obscure clue, but the door remained closed, Sherlock continued absent, and John was beginning to fret.
It wasn't the first time Sherlock had disappeared without telling anyone. Just this past January, he'd gone missing for three days – not a text, not a call – and when he'd finally come back, blithe as blithe could be, he'd been wide-eyed and stunned into at least three minutes of silence when John had subjected him to a tongue-lashing. I thought you were dead, you absolute arsehole, John had raged. And Sherlock had actually apologised – that had stunned John into silence. Since then, Sherlock had been a bit more conscientious about informing John of his whereabouts, and John had been a bit more laid back about Sherlock's habitual lack of sensible communication.
Idiot. A small, guilty part of John acknowledged that he wanted Sherlock to turn up so he could stop worrying and be pissed off again without impediment. It was a cheap, shit way to feel, but he couldn't quite help it. He sent another text: Not funny anymore. Where the hell are you?
John flung himself disconsolately across his bed. He could hunt down Brother Wilhelm, ask to talk to one of the monks who knew the place inside and out, get him to lead John through the tunnels and search for Sherlock. Maybe Brother Edward – he'd been at the abbey for nearly thirty years, he'd said. He could ask to borrow the car and have a look on the roads surrounding the place – though why Sherlock would venture beyond the monastery grounds was a mystery. He had to do something - he couldn't just sit around any longer. If Sherlock were as close to a conclusion as he'd claimed, surely he'd be bursting with information, dragging John along, oblivious of John's anger.
Buttoning himself into his jacket, John sighed as he left his room. Pain in the arse. He's going to be just fine, and I'll want to murder him. Well, it wouldn't be the first time.
Just outside the guest quarters, he saw Ian Adler walking toward him, uselessly ducking his head against the pouring rain. He wore that expensive motorbike jacket of his, and John felt a small, nasty satisfaction that the water was probably ruining the soft leather. Then he stopped and glared at Ian as he approached.
Of course.
Ian stared at him as if dumbfounded. "Why the hell haven't you gone?" He shook his head. "I told you to leave."
"Where's Sherlock?"
"How should I know?" Ian shouldered past John and withdrew his wooden key tag from his pocket. He wiped water from his face. "Shit," he muttered.
John followed him back into the guest building and down the corridor. "You were the last one to see him. Nobody's seen him today."
"He's probably off investigating or deducing or whatever it is that he does," Ian replied. "I haven't seen him since last night."
Ian's response was smooth and cool, but John watched his hands. He was having trouble with the key; it wouldn't quite go into the lock. He's lying, John realised. Nervous. "Bollocks you haven't seen him," John said, moving closer to Ian. "Where is he?"
"I don't know," Ian snapped, then let out a low choked cry as John grasped his jacket and swung him round, pushing him against his door. The door swung open, and both men stumbled inside.
John kept his grip on Ian's jacket and shoved him down on his bed. "I'm not going to ask you again."
"Dr. Watson." Ian smiled up at him. "You think you frighten me? Please."
"I know he was with you last night."
"That's right." Ian drew his phone from a pocket and busied himself on it for a moment, then passed the phone to John. "Look."
John looked. He saw Sherlock tied up on Ian's bed, not fighting to get free, and Ian kneeling between his legs, grasping his knees and spreading his thighs open. He heard Sherlock's groans, and then –
"Jealous?"
John tossed the phone onto the bed; he'd have preferred to hurl it out the window, but he'd be damned if he'd give Ian the satisfaction of seeing his rage. "What makes you think I want to watch your homemade porn?"
Ian unzipped his jacket and draped it carefully over the iron slats at the foot of the bed. "Oh, come on, John. Give yourself just a little freedom." He reached up, took John's hand in his, and turned it over, tracing his fingertip over John's palm. "Do you know what I see when I look at you?"
"I don't give a rat's arse, thanks," John said, shaking his hand free of Ian's grasp.
"I see a man who's half alive, expending what energy he has into trying to keep up with Sherlock Holmes. I see a man who can't sustain a relationship because he's desperately in love and struggling even more desperately to keep that love hidden. You have girlfriends, don't you, John? One after the other?"
"Shut up," John said, but didn't move, half-hypnotised by Ian's words, his audacity, the soft sonorousness of his voice.
"One after the other, and they all leave, or you leave. You attract them, you hold them for a little while, and then you frustrate them because you're sweet and gentle with them…and distant. So distant, and when they finally figure it out, they're insulted. Enraged. Hurt. You hurt them without meaning to, but you can't stop, because you can't admit that you're in love with Sherlock. You're afraid nothing you say will ever pierce that thorny exterior of his, and even though you were a soldier –" Ian held up a forestalling hand as John opened his mouth. "I've done my homework on you both, John. Even though you were a soldier, you can't screw up the courage to say three little words. Tragic, really."
"Oh, you've got it all worked out, haven't you?" John sneered, but he heard the catch in his own voice and winced.
"It took me a little while." Ian unbuttoned the bottom of John's jacket and stood to unbutton the rest. "I was taken with Sherlock's glamour, but then I looked at you and thought – there's a man with secrets. If he's Sherlock Holmes' constant companion –"
"Give me a break –" Why wasn't he pulling away from Ian? Ian's hands were slowly undoing his jacket, and he brushed his fingers against John's throat, so why the fuck didn't he pull away? And why, oh Christ almighty, why was his cock starting to twitch?
"He's far too intelligent, too canny and sharp to be merely what he appears to be," Ian continued.
"Get the hell away from me," John whispered, but he didn't move. You don't want this. Not from Ian Adler. He didn't even move when Ian's fingers went to the button of John's trousers, not when they lowered the zipper. If it's Sherlock you want, then why are you still here? Ian's hand slipped inside and found John's stiff cock.
Ian looked down at John and smiled. "I thought so." He went to his knees in front of John. "Would you like to pretend that I'm Sherlock? I don't mind."
Get away. Leave now. Go! John grasped the back of Ian's head. His cock ached, and he conjured up the image of Sherlock writhing on Ian's bed. Bastard. Fucking bastard. "Go on, then," he whispered. "Do it."
Ian's mouth curled into a smile, and he reached up to tug down John's boxers. He leant forward, cupped John's balls in one hand, and nuzzled his lips against the underside of John's cock, moving upward until his mouth reached the head.
John steadied himself by grabbing at the iron footboard and closed his fingers on a handful of soft, wet leather. He threaded the fingers of his other hand in Ian's curls and pulled him closer. "Suck on it."
Obediently, Ian opened his mouth and traced the tip of his tongue over the head of John's cock. He enveloped the tip with his mouth and began a gentle, steady suction; his fingers moved over John's balls, stroking and caressing.
John closed his eyes and tilted his head back, concentrating on the licking and pulling sensation round his cock. He felt Ian's mouth open wider and pushed himself deep, deeper until he felt the delicious constriction of Ian's throat. He heard Ian gag slightly, and didn't give a fuck. He tightened his hand in Ian's curls and pushed. The suction was stronger now, almost desperate, and he abandoned himself to it, imagining Sherlock's mouth wrapped round his cock, Sherlock's lips sucking him off, Sherlock's hands toying with his balls. He tensed, then thrust forward savagely as he came in short, violent bursts, a low, guttural cry escaping his throat.
He stood still, panting, as Ian pulled back, swallowed, and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You're welcome," Ian said hoarsely.
John blinked and stared down at Ian. "What?" He stepped back and quickly re-ordered his clothes. He'd regret this later…or sooner, maybe….
"I don't suppose you'd care to reciprocate." Ian rose to his feet, took John's hand, and rested it against the bulge in his rain-dampened jeans.
John looked up at Ian's face: flushed, his lips parted and wet, the tip of his tongue teasing at one corner of his mouth. His eyes fixed on John's, and he smiled with genuine warmth. John moved his hand from Ian's crotch. "What do I owe you?"
Ian's expression of warmth faltered for a split second, then he smiled. "On the house."
"Good." John's hand darted out and caught Ian's wrist. Quickly, deftly, he spun Ian round, pushed him to the bed, and dug a knee into his back. Ian cried out, and John twisted his arm upward. "Shut up. Shut up, or I'll break your arm."
"Get the fuck off me!" Ian cried, struggling uselessly. "Get - Ow!"
John still had one hand free. He reached down and grasped Ian's hair. "I will break it. Don't tempt me."
"All right, all right – ease up, for God's sake. You're hurting me."
"Not as badly as I will hurt you if you don't cooperate. You know where Sherlock is, don't you?"
"No." Ian glared up at him, then gasped as John wrenched his arm up. "All right! Stop!"
"You know where he is?"
"Yes." Ian winced as John let his grip relax a bit. "He's in the tunnels. The well."
John frowned. "Well." Vaguely, he remembered reading about a well in the abbey brochure. "You're going to take me there."
"Listen," Ian said. "If you've got any brain cells working, you'll leave now. I can help Sherlock – I won't be able to help you both, don't you –" His words disintegrated into a yelp as John twisted his arm again. "Don't be bloody stupid, John!"
"Is Dzundza down there with him?" John asked. When Ian didn't reply, John torqued his arm upward again. "Is he?"
"Yes!" Ian panted for breath. "Listen to me."
"No," John said. He looked around and saw a bag on the bed, resting near the pillow. He released Ian's hair and dragged it close, looking inside. Jackpot. He grabbed a braided leather cord and used it to tie Ian's hands behind his back. "You're going to show me where it is."
Ian rolled over onto his back and glared at John. "This is going to look a little awkward, isn't it? Whatever will the monks say?"
"I couldn't care less what they say," John replied. "Let's go." He dragged Ian up by his shirt, then took his jacket and arranged it over his shoulders. "Don't want you to catch cold."
*
The rain was falling harder, and nobody was about to make uncomfortable inquiries regarding Ian's predicament. Ian made a few half-hearted attempts to pull away from John, but John held his arm tightly and steered him implacably toward the church. The thought of Sherlock in Dzundza's hands superseded even the lurid imagery of Ian's little video. Sherlock, you miserable…I swear this is the last time I'm getting you out of a jam.
Ian's soft-spoken analysis reverberated in John's ears, each word taunting and certain. And right….how had Adler known? More importantly, why hadn't John realised what he was doing sooner? Ian was right, he hadn't intended to hurt anyone – some of the women he'd seen had made disparaging comments about Sherlock, but John always figured that was because Sherlock was so god-damned snotty to them.
"I wonder what Sherlock would say if he knew that you and I had a little assignation," Ian said pleasantly, breaking into John's thoughts.
"Oh, shut it, or I'll gag you," John snapped.
"I realise that I'm just a substitute, of course. Still, pity I didn't get to record it."
"That's how you get your jollies, isn't it?"
"That's how I make most of my money," Ian corrected him. "Though a few make for interesting viewing. Sherlock's film, for example. He's quite responsive when properly motivated."
"Fuck off."
"But that's what you really want to know, isn't it, John? How responsive Sherlock can be. And if he'd respond to you that way."
John pressed his lips together and said nothing. They were at the church now; John pushed the door open and dragged Ian up the central aisle, where the altarpiece still stood ajar, untouched since John had opened it this morning.
"I think he probably would," Ian went on, "but none of that matters now."
"Careful on the stairs," John muttered, clicking on his torch.
"You wouldn't rather I broke my neck?" Ian inquired, but he descended the stairs with caution, now and then leaning on John for support. "You know, this would be a lot easier if you untied me."
"Not a chance. And if the Golem's hurt Sherlock, I'm going to break both your legs." John's grip tightened on Ian's upper arm. And if that bastard's killed him, then…. He couldn't finish the thought. He felt cold and clammy and slightly ill.
Whatever Sherlock had done – whatever either of them had done, they were still friends. He'd given Sherlock no reason to suspect that he felt more than ordinary friendship for him. John wasn't the fucking Morals Squad, he hadn't any claim on Sherlock's actions, and if Sherlock wanted to get himself tied up and fucked, then that was his affair. John would just have to live with it, that was all.
If he's all right, I'll tell him. No more hiding, no more stalling. If they couldn't make a go of it – because he couldn't understand how to read Sherlock, he didn't know how to take the little touches, the flashes of what might have been affection, but might have just been Sherlock being weirdly good-natured – then maybe they could go back to the way things had been. Friends. That was okay, he could live with it, even if it hurt a little. Or a lot.
They moved through the corridors, Ian leading John down the same passages he'd traversed earlier – right, then right, then right again. At last they came to a familiar door. John started. The same door where he thought he'd heard a noise. Oh, Jesus Christ. He's been behind that door the whole time. Oh, Sherlock –
"Call to him," John whispered, and rapped on the door.
Ian cleared his throat. "Oscar! C'est moi – Ian Adler!"
There was a rattling, and the door swung open. John steered Ian in front of him as hostage and human shield.
The room was fairly small. A squat well stood in its centre, with a crudely hewn stone pillar beside it, to which a pulley was attached. At the far side of the chamber, he saw Oscar Dzundza leaning against the wall, huge and menacing even at rest, illuminated by a portable lantern. John looked around in panic and finally saw Sherlock – curled on his side on the stone floor, naked and tightly bound. The creepy leather cock gag prevented him from speaking, but as Sherlock focussed his gaze on John and Ian, he made a slight panicky noise and shook his head. John's heart contracted. That was Sherlock I heard earlier. Oh, God.
"Untie him, Dzundza," John said. "Now."
Sherlock shook his head frantically and tried to shout something. John frowned, and then blinding pain exploded in his head. He staggered and fell to his knees.
"Surprise!" trilled a voice behind him.
I know that voice, John thought, and another pain slammed into his head, and he tumbled into darkness.
*
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.
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
*
*
He'd accused Sherlock, once, of having a heart, a distinct liability for any thinking person. It was so much easier, so much more pleasant, to do without. No heart, no sense of propriety, no social conscience…all that was for the sheep-like billions who took up breathing space on the planet. They didn't deserve the privileges in life that resulted from doing without. How many people right now, for example, were sitting in positively ducal luxury thirty thousand feet above sea level, eating delicately shaved asparagus spears dipped in butter and watching Seb Moran bum-fucking a flight attendant? Jim nibbled at the tip of one green stem and regarded the flight attendant's creamy-white arse, cupped between Seb's hands, such a startling contrast to his flushed face.
Wonder what the poor people are doing.
The flight attendant's nails dug into the soft leather of the sofa, and he let out a cry as Seb suddenly clutched his narrow hips and thrust once, twice, and a third time that paid for all. Sweat lent his face a liquid glittering sheen and cords stood out on his neck. Finally Seb collapsed against him and buried his nose in the young man's neck, like a horse searching for an elusive lump of sugar.
"All done?" Jim inquired softly.
"Yeah." Sebastian pulled out of the flight attendant and patted his arse. "Nice. Thank you, honey."
The flight attendant glanced over his shoulder, his face inscrutable. Nice. "Pleasure's mine," he said, not sounding as if he meant it. He rose to his feet, gathered up and zipped his trousers, and moved toward the galley.
"I don't think he was smitten by your charms, Seb."
"Who cares? He was nice and tight." Seb dragged himself up to one of the sofas and sprawled on it, re-ordering his clothes.
"You have such a wonderful lack of discernment," Jim replied in a low purr. "It's breathtaking, honestly."
"Oh, fuck you, Jim."
"Not tonight, you won't. And not until you get tested. Can you imagine how many cocks that dumb piece has had up his hole? Loaded dice, darling." Idly, he thought about cutting Seb loose. It wasn't just that the man's sexual tastes were louche…actually, scratch that. Seb courted danger with every anonymous fuck, and it was a pleasure to watch, if not to participate. Seb was a live wire, thrumming with tension, and if that made him occasionally delicate to handle, human nitroglycerine, it was worth it. You couldn't have everything predictable all the time, which was why he was thirty thousand feet above sea level. His little wild card had thrown a spanner into the works.
Fun.
"You worry too much." Seb leant over and plucked an asparagus spear from Jim's plate. "How long 'til we get there?"
Jim shrugged. "Are you in a hurry?"
Seb returned the shrug. "Don't know why you needed me to come along if you've got other help already there."
"Let's not be bitchy. I might just need your skill set, darling." Jim's phone hummed – F minor seventh, B flat – and he glanced at the readout before answering. "Hi, sweetie. How's it going? You did? Oh, very nice. Looking forward to it. You did? No. You have proof, I assume. Well, I'm delighted for you, but Oscar's going to be awfully disappointed. You can break the news to him yourself. Of course! I'm dying to see his expression. No. No, I've got a car waiting. If you haven't got the stomach for it, Oscar can do it. Not really your line of expertise anyway, is it? You just sit tight and I'll see you shortly. 'Bye, now." He hung up and smiled at Seb. "We have a treat in store for us, Seb."
"Hurrah."
"You'll see. This is going to be fun."
A little unexpected bloodshed in an otherwise ordinary business transaction was always fun.
*
John's alarm beeped quietly at nine o'clock, and he fumbled for his phone and shut it off, simultaneously sitting up and rubbing sleep from his eyes. He blinked, yawned, stretched, and got up to use the toilet. The bathroom was empty and tidy, no residue of shower steam in the air, and John concluded that Sherlock had possibly 1) gone out very early, 2) not come back to the room at all, or 3) had decided to shower in Ian Adler's room. All three scenarios were totally acceptable. Sherlock could fuck off in each of them, in fact.
Let it go, he counselled himself as he took a quick shower. Sherlock had feigned ignorance last night, but for all his acting talent he was a piss-poor liar when one came right down to it. He'd blushed and hadn't come up with a quick and glibly scornful denial; he'd practically stammered. And so what? You've never promised each other anything. Maybe John had been the dry run, the practise alert; Ian Adler was tall, good-looking, a scholar, the obscure sort towards which Sherlock might naturally gravitate, and had the advantage of novelty and apparently a quick come-on. Sherlock's indignation when John had untied him had seemed very real, but knowing Sherlock, he'd probably just been pissed off that Ian had left him tied up. Could have been part of a game.
John realised he was clenching his fists hard enough to drive his nails into his palms, and his body was aching with rage. Something savage and violent inside him was howling for vengeance. Jesus. He uncurled his hands and stepped beneath the hot spray. He wanted to punch Sherlock in the nose. And beat the living shit out of Ian Adler while he was at it.
Sherlock could have said something. Anything. And with Ian Adler, for fuck's sake, a blackmailer and party to murder, if not a murderer himself.
Sherlock's private life is his own business. And he does more than flirt with danger; he opens his arms and beckons to it.
True, but still. "John, I'm spending the night with Ian. See you in the morning." How fucking difficult would that have been?
Oh, really? You would have been all right with hearing that?
Why not? He was in love with Sherlock. He admitted that now. But that didn't mean Sherlock was compelled to love him back. Wasn't it enough that they lived together, that Sherlock respected him more than any other person – more than his own brother, for God's sake? He didn't owe John love.
Christ, get over it! If you wanted him so badly you should have said something, done something instead of just mooning over him and doing fuck-all about it.
"I only just worked it out," John muttered, and leant his head against the wall, letting the spray wash down his back. "Oh, fuck."
He had to pull himself together. With luck, Sherlock would regard his outburst with his usual lack of emotional comprehension, and things would go on as normal. John would get through the day, this case, next month, the rest of his life as usual, and he'd never give Sherlock so much as a glimpse of the icy blade in his heart, and as time passed, his feelings would soften into friendship again, and everything would be the way it was before John had decided he was in love with his fucking flatmate.
John finished his shower, towelled off, and dressed. He checked his phone for messages and found a text from Harry: Where are you?! Stopped by & nobody home. Have news. Call me!! God, she was probably back with Clara. Again. Another text, from Sarah: Are you & S having fun in Italy? See you soon. Loads of fun, Sarah, thanks. A text from the Medical Society of London: Mem: meeting April 24 8:15 PM. Topic: TREATMENT OF HEAD WOUNDS – A NEW FRONTIER. He'd missed the last two meetings because he'd been busy with Sherlock's cases; he'd make a point of going to this one.
Nothing from Sherlock. What did you expect?
Impulsively, he texted Alice. I'll be home in a few days. Can we chat?
Two seconds after he sent it, he remembered that Alice was in Cornwall, likely with another man. Oh, you fuckwit. Well, it was worth a shot, anyhow. He was fairly good at persuading her out of bad moods.
He threw on his jacket and strolled toward the refectory. The path climbed imperceptibly but steadily, and John felt the welcome stretching of his calf muscles. It was cool, and a ragged grey fringe of fog clung to the ground. A soft drizzle of rain misted his cheeks. The drifting tendrils lent an otherworldly look to the surrounding stone buildings, and John shivered involuntarily. He'd never seen anything remotely supernatural nor had ever felt the passage of a soul at a death, though he'd witnessed his fair share, and he was inclined to skepticism in general, but something about this place, like the weight of time and faith in the church last night, felt peculiar to him, haunted and keeping secrets.
The refectory was nearly empty, as breakfast had been a few hours ago, but John heard activity in the kitchen and went in, hoping to beg a bowl of porridge or some toast and tea. He stopped just inside the threshold, unpleasantly surprised to see Ian Adler chatting with two monks. No Sherlock, though.
Conversation ceased as John entered, and the monks gave him friendly, questioning looks. Ian turned. "Dr. Watson. Good morning." He looked tired, drawn and pale.
Well, small wonder. He probably hadn't got much sleep last night. John nodded stiffly and brushed past Ian. "I was wondering if you had anything left over from breakfast," he said to the monks apologetically. "I'm afraid I slept right through it."
Happily, there were leftovers: John received a tray laden with a monster bowl of porridge, accompanied by a ripe pear and a mug of tea with generous lashings of milk. He took his tray to the refectory table and began to eat.
As he was finishing the pear, he saw Brother Wilhelm enter the refectory. He greeted the monk, who looked as tired as Ian. "Terribly sorry about Brother Marcelo."
Brother Wilhelm slumped into the chair next to John's. "There have been far too many deaths. I hope you and your friend can bring this terrible rash of killings to a stop. The community is devastated, and frightened, quite rightly."
"Sherlock's close to solving this," John assured him.
"So Mr. Holmes told Father Simon last night," Brother Wilhelm replied. "Father Simon has gone to Milan with Father Umberto, but he left a set of keys with Mr. Holmes and gave him free rein to do what was needed. I hope Mr. Holmes can come to a conclusion quickly."
Ah, that was it. Sherlock was likely opening every door on the premises. Of course he hadn't bothered to inform John as to his whereabouts, or his actions. Maybe he didn't need John at all. "I think he left quite early this morning," John explained, cloaking his irritation and disappointment. It was stupid, fucking petty revenge because John had dared to lecture Sherlock. Because God forbid that Sherlock Holmes would even entertain the notion that fucking a criminal was a little beyond moral ambiguity. Well, fuck him – John could do a little investigating of his own. "Brother Wilhelm, you haven't got a map of the abbey, have you? One showing the underground passages? It would be easier to navigate with a map."
"I don't know of one," Brother Wilhelm said, shaking his head. "And the librarians…."
"Yeah, I know," John murmured. "Do you think Simon would know of one?"
"He might," Brother Wilhelm admitted, "but he's in Milan, as I said."
"Hasn't he got a mobile?"
"I cannot recall the number."
"You must have it somewhere," John said. "For emergencies."
Brother Wilhelm nodded. "I must speak to the kitchen staff for a moment, but afterward I will look for it. Come to the offices when you've finished your breakfast and I will try to find it for you."
"Okay." He waved a glum good-bye to Brother Wilhelm and bit fiercely into the last of the pear. Might as well do something. Anything's better than just sitting around and brooding.
As John gathered his soiled breakfast dishes together, he saw Ian come out of the kitchen. He met Ian's gaze for an instant and quickly looked away, but it was too late. Ian moved toward him and without an invitation dropped into the chair Brother Wilhelm had vacated. "John," he said quietly. "A word."
What could Ian possibly want with him? "What?"
Ian glanced about. "You need to leave," he said. "Today. Now, if possible."
John frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Look, I'm not going to…you're in danger if you stay here."
"Right," John replied automatically. "From you?" He met Ian's gaze squarely now. "Are you warning Sherlock off too, or is he under your protection?"
Ian's mouth tightened. "He – I can't explain it, and I don't really expect you to believe me, but if you care at all about your own life, you need to leave immediately. And if you care about Sherlock –"
"You'll what?" John snapped. "Kill me? Listen to me, Adler. You don't frighten me one little bit. And as for Sherlock – if you hurt him, try to blackmail him the way you did Simon or Brother Marcelo, you'll have me to deal with. I don't care if you're a fucking legend in the kip – you fuck with him, you fuck with me. Do you understand me?"
Ian regarded John with surprise and said nothing for a long, silent moment. "I believe you, Dr. Watson. You're in love with him, aren't you?"
"He's my best friend, and he doesn't know fuck-all about –" John closed his mouth abruptly. Sherlock wasn't an innocent, he wasn't some shrinking virgin. He didn't need John to defend him, and he'd had more than his fair share of opportunities; John wasn't the only person to realise that Sherlock had some undefinable allure that went beyond his good looks. But Sherlock had never taken advantage of those opportunities, as far as John knew. Until Ian. Searing anger as raw and painful as an unhealed wound blazed in John's chest. What the fuck did Ian Adler have that nobody else did?
"You were saying?"
Ian was inspecting John's face, his eyes wide and speculating. John dug in and used the anger. It was better than the sick, lost feeling threatening to overwhelm it. "Get the hell away from me, and don't threaten me unless you're prepared to make good on it." Ian wasn't a fighter, that much was certain. He was just a cock that lacked remorse, the proverbial good time that was had by all.
Ian rose to his feet. "I'm not joking, Dr. Watson. The danger isn't from me."
"Who, then? Dzundza?"
Ian started. "I can't –"
"No, I'm sure you can't," John retorted, getting to his feet as well. He picked up his tray and walked off, ignoring Ian still standing at the table, looking a bit lost himself.
*
The abbey offices were locked. John peered in the single narrow window, but the place appeared to be deserted. Annoyed, he went to the library, but that door was locked as well. Creepy – had everyone just vanished? John went back toward his room and saw an older man in a ragged sweater and a rain hat outside the guest quarters. He recognised the man as being the other guest in the abbey, the one who was travelling from one monastery to the other. He raised a hand in greeting. "Hi. You're staying here too, aren't you?"
The man doffed his hat briefly and adjusted a knapsack on his shoulder. "Yes. I'm leaving today, though. I've had quite enough." The man's accent was Irish, western if John wasn't mistaken.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"I'm not. I might be next on the murder list. The police had me up until two o'clock this morning, asking me questions, as if I knew a thing." The man's seamed face contracted as he scrutinised John. "You'd better be careful, young fella. Even if you're not a monk, this place is a deathtrap."
"Well, that's a bit…have you seen Brother Wilhelm? I went by the office and it was dark and locked."
The man shook his head. "Not since breakfast. Everything's quiet now – the library is locked, the brewery, the balneary's closed up, everything. There's a mass at ten for the repose of Brother Marcelo's soul. I'm sure he'll be at that." He squinted out at the foggy pathway. "The rest are hiding. Can't blame them. Anyone could be next. Even the dead disappear here. Well – take care now." He nodded and trudged off into the mist.
John stared after the man until he vanished into the fog. His quota for adventure was filling up fast. Sighing, he went back to his room. He tossed his jacket on the bed, then went through the bathroom and knocked on Sherlock's door. "Sherlock? You back?"
Nothing. Maybe he was sleeping off his tryst with Ian. Carefully, John opened the door, half-expecting to see Sherlock sprawled out on his bed, but it was empty, and neatly made, and there was no evidence that Sherlock had been back at all. "Fine – fuck it," John muttered, and went back to his room.
His phone pinged with a text message. He picked it up and found a text from Alice: No, and don't call me or text me again.
Well, that was that. John sighed and erased the text, then paused, his finger hovering over the buttons. He scowled ferociously and then, against his better judgment, texted Sherlock. All right. Where the hell are you?
He waited a few minutes, but no reply came. Sherlock had his moods, but he usually replied promptly, especially when he had the opportunity to say something snippy and superior, and John had given him a wide in.
Fine. He doesn't want to answer? Fine, fuck you, Sherlock.
John sat on his bed, uncertain what to do next. He checked his watch: ten minutes to ten. He could go to the church and examine the passageways, but there probably wouldn't be time with the monks gathering for mass. He couldn't get into the library if it was locked, and that was the only other point of ingress to the tunnels that he knew of. He wasn't keen on going to the mass. There was nothing to do but wait.
Suddenly, he thought of Victoria Trevor. She'd given John and Sherlock her mobile number before they'd left for Italy; surely she'd have her brother's number. He paged through his contact list, found the number, and hit CALL.
She picked up on the second ring and greeted John with what sounded like genuine pleasure. "Dr. Watson, how are you?"
"I'm great, thanks." John put warmth in his tone; hers was the friendliest voice he'd heard in days. "Sherlock – we're very close to solving this case. There's been another murder, unfortunately."
"Simon told me. I spoke to him earlier this morning. Terribly sad. But I knew it wouldn't take long."
"Well, you know Sherlock." You might, Ms. Trevor. I certainly fucking don't.
"Yes. I expect he's been creating merry hell for Simon in the meantime."
"No more than usual. I don't know where the hell he is now, to be quite honest. I think he's wandering the tunnels. That was why I was calling, actually. I was hoping that Simon knew of a map or blueprints or something so we could find our way about more easily, but I don't have his mobile number. Could you give it to me?"
"Oh, of course. Have you got a pen?" Victoria Trevor gave him the number. "Pity Horst is in Cologne at the moment. He knows the layout of those tunnels like the back of his hand. I've only been in them two or three times, but Horst is fascinated with them."
"Horst?"
"Oh, sorry – my husband." She gave a little laugh. "He doesn't see eye-to-eye with me about preserving the monastery, but he'd be devastated if it actually had to be sold. He loves the tunnels. Must be the small boy in him."
"Could be," John said politely. "Thanks very much for the number. I'll give Simon a call. You don't think I'll be disturbing him in the midst of something important?"
"He's taking Father Umberto to one of the hospitals, I believe. I doubt you'll bother him, Dr. Watson. You're very pleasant. I know Sherlock must think so too – I've never seen him as close to anyone. It's quite extraordinary, I can tell you."
Right. "Thanks, that's lovely. It was good to speak with you."
"Good luck, Dr. Watson."
"Thanks very much."
John rang off and phoned Simon, who answered in a tone of immense irritation. "I'm afraid I can't help you, Dr. Watson. I don't know of any map. The tunnels are extensive, but you won't get lost. I gave Sherlock keys and carte blanche to search as he saw fit." A doubtful note crept into his voice. "You're not lost, are you? I find it hard to believe that Sherlock actually needs help with anything – he seems so certain of himself."
"No, we're not lost. In fact, I'm certain Sherlock's searching the passageways now." Not that he'd tell me if he were.
"May I ask how you got this number?"
"From your sister, actually. I thought it would save time if we had a map, that's all." John paused. "She's lovely."
"Yes," Simon sighed. "I'm immensely relieved that she split up with Sherlock, quite frankly. He'd have sucked all the joie de vivre out of her."
"Split up?" John frowned. "You mean they were…an item?"
"So I gather. She wasn't keen to divulge intimate details of her relationship with him, not that I begged for any," Simon said. "At any rate, she found Horst and married him, thank God."
"Yeah," John said, a bit numb. Sherlock, you dark fucking horse. "She said he knew the tunnels quite well."
"Yes, he does. It's a busman's holiday sort of thing, though. He's the CTO of Deutsche Bergleute – it's simply what he does. Purely geological interest. Look here, Dr. Watson, I have to be going. If there's nothing else –"
"No," John said. "Sorry to have bothered you."
"I'm sorry I can't help you, but I'm sure that Sherlock will manage. He claims to be close to solving the whole thing. And if there's any way to stop Mr. Adler –" Simon sighed again. "It's all too much."
"We'll do our very best," John assured him. They traded farewells, and John sat staring at his phone.
He'd learned more about Sherlock's sex life in the last twelve hours than he had in the year that they'd lived together. Funny – he didn't begrudge Victoria Trevor a thing. It had been years ago, and she'd got married in the meantime. Ian Adler, though….
He wished he had Sherlock's gift for deletion. He'd delete the memory of Ian, his own stupid longing, the mental pictures he'd had just lately of Sherlock in his bed, and any hint of extraordinary emotion he'd misinterpreted. He'd chuck it into his mental recycle bin and empty it.
All right? Are you all right?
Sherlock's face as he'd torn the Semtex parka from John's body. That near-frantic questioning, as close as Sherlock had ever come to genuine panic. And afterward, his distracted pacing.
That thing that you, ah, did, that…you offered to do. That was…good. From Sherlock, that was a cornucopia of accolades.
You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.
People do little else.
He'd delete the whole fucking thing.
*
Lacking anything else to do, he went to the mass after all, and stayed behind after the monks – and Ian Adler, that hypocritical bastard – had left. He worked the mechanism that opened the altar passageway, and descended into the darkness once more.
Turning on his torch, he walked through the passage, pausing now and then to look at the tombs that lined the corridor. He came to the place where he'd tangled with the Golem, and left him tied up, but there was no sign of him now. He wondered if Dzundza had actually fled – or were there throughways and chambers enough to hide anyone who wanted to disappear? John wished he had the kitchen knife that he'd stolen. He played the beam of the torch around and saw the candlestick that Brother Marcelo had dropped in his struggles to be free of the Golem. It was better than nothing; he'd brain Dzundza with it if he had to.
Dr. Watson, in the secret passage, with the candlestick.
He kept moving until he found the fork in the passage where Brother Marcelo had led him – the one that went to the library. Where did the other one go? He took the right tunnel, which was as narrow and dark as the left one, and carefully made his way down the corridor.
The floor here seemed to slope, and the air became cooler. John buttoned up his jacket and stepped carefully, shining his torch on the floor now and then in case the floor were to drop away suddenly. All he needed was to break his neck on a flight of stairs or even a riser. He became aware that he was moving slower. The passage curved one way, then another, and then there was another fork. Arbitrarily, he chose the one on the right. Further down, another, fork, and he went right again. Here the corridor was rougher, and there was a smell of damp earth. There was no sound save John's breathing. He slowed to a near-crawl, then stopped as he saw a low door set into the rock. It had an iron lever handle; John tried it, but it was locked. Impatiently, he rattled it, but it didn't give. And of course Sherlock has the keys. He –
John sucked in a quick breath and held still. He'd heard a noise behind that door, a faint, quick scrape. And – a human voice? Just a brief, almost negligible sound? He put his ear to the door, but the noise wasn't repeated. Your imagination.
Still, he rattled the handle again. "Is anyone there?" He clamped his mouth shut. That's good. Great. Could be Dzundza. Fantastic way to draw attention to yourself, idiot. He stepped back and held the candlestick at the ready. He felt his chest expanding to compensate for the air he wasn't getting, and tried to steady his breathing. He waited, heart thundering.
Nothing happened. The door stayed closed, and there was no noise. He bent to look through the large keyhole, then tried to shine his torch through it, but it was impossible to see anything. Sighing in mingled exasperation and relief, John moved further down the corridor, alert now for any unfamiliar noise. He shone his beam against the wall, and saw that the stone was speckled with the dark nodules that Sherlock had handled gingerly.
Radioactive.
All at once the air felt too still, too damp – unhealthy, dangerous. He knew that one instance of casual contact wouldn't poison him, but he wanted to be away from this entombing stone just the same. What the hell are you doing down here anyhow? Just what do you think you'll find? More dead bodies of monks? The codex? Buried treasure?
He turned to go back, then decided to keep going ahead. The passage had to end somewhere. If it turned out to be a dead end, he'd go back the way he came. There had been…two forks? Three? Disorientation tugged at his limbs and made him dizzy. He'd kept right, he knew that much, but the passages had curved and twisted…. Christ, where the hell was he?
"Fucking hell," he muttered, and kept moving down the passageway. It sloped down once more, and he felt cobwebs brush against his face and hands. Once he trained his light on the wall and saw a spider half the size of his fist. "Jesus!" The still air and rock sucked his voice into nothingness. He moved faster now; he'd never been claustrophobic before, but there was a first time for everything, wasn't there? Faster and faster he walked until he was nearly running, colliding clumsily with the wall as the corridor twisted this way and that, and then nearly ran straight into a door.
"Oh, thank Christ," John whispered. If the fucking handle was locked, he'd break the damned door down. He yanked on the lever, and it refused to move.
"Come on, come on." John tugged on it again, and this time it moved a bit. Rusty, that's all. Get hold of yourself. He stopped, took a breath, and tried again. It yielded with a groan, and John found himself in a tiny chamber that held a staircase leading nowhere.
Can't go nowhere. There's got to be something…. He moved the beam of the torch upward and saw a sort of trapdoor at the top of the stairs. Good. There must be a handle, a lever, something. He climbed the stairs, keeping his torch aimed at the door, and saw nothing. Experimentally, he pushed against the wooden panel, and it popped up quite easily. Relief flooded John's chest, and he scrambled through the hole into another dark, nearly airless chamber.
As he hoisted himself through the hole, candlestick under one arm and the torch clenched in his teeth, he saw that the chamber was tiny, wood-walled, and littered with a jumble of items he couldn't identify immediately. There was a door, though, and he grasped the handle and pushed it open.
A sudden burst of light hurt his eyes, and he blinked and raised his arm instinctively to block the brightness. As his vision cleared, he stepped out of the chamber and saw that he was in the balneary, and the chamber he'd come from was in fact a cabinet, the wooden cabinet where Sherlock had found the hose and siphon for the baths.
"Wow," John whispered. Was there anywhere these tunnels didn't lead?
Now that he was out of the tunnels, he felt calmer and clear-headed again. He glanced at his watch: half twelve. Christ, had he really been down there almost an hour and a half? He must have been moving at a snail's pace. And still nothing from Sherlock. He hadn't really expected to bump into him down there, but still. He pulled out his phone and fired off another text: Stop sulking. Are you OK?
John waited; no reply came. He frowned. He and Sherlock had had their bouts of crankiness before, and he was still pissed off enough to think some fairly black thoughts, but…well, what did Sherlock have to be pissed off about? He was the one fucking the criminal, not John. It was taking petty revenge a bit far.
He resisted the impulse to send an even snottier text, and went off to the refectory in search of a snack.
*
Four hours later, he'd neither seen Sherlock nor heard from him, and he was starting to worry. He'd gone back to his room to read and wound up pacing, bending his copy of The Lancet back and forth and watching the rain fall outside. The day had darkened considerably, the rain pounded against the windows, and every moment he half-expected Sherlock to come in, drenched and irritable, and drag John outside to look at some totally obscure clue, but the door remained closed, Sherlock continued absent, and John was beginning to fret.
It wasn't the first time Sherlock had disappeared without telling anyone. Just this past January, he'd gone missing for three days – not a text, not a call – and when he'd finally come back, blithe as blithe could be, he'd been wide-eyed and stunned into at least three minutes of silence when John had subjected him to a tongue-lashing. I thought you were dead, you absolute arsehole, John had raged. And Sherlock had actually apologised – that had stunned John into silence. Since then, Sherlock had been a bit more conscientious about informing John of his whereabouts, and John had been a bit more laid back about Sherlock's habitual lack of sensible communication.
Idiot. A small, guilty part of John acknowledged that he wanted Sherlock to turn up so he could stop worrying and be pissed off again without impediment. It was a cheap, shit way to feel, but he couldn't quite help it. He sent another text: Not funny anymore. Where the hell are you?
John flung himself disconsolately across his bed. He could hunt down Brother Wilhelm, ask to talk to one of the monks who knew the place inside and out, get him to lead John through the tunnels and search for Sherlock. Maybe Brother Edward – he'd been at the abbey for nearly thirty years, he'd said. He could ask to borrow the car and have a look on the roads surrounding the place – though why Sherlock would venture beyond the monastery grounds was a mystery. He had to do something - he couldn't just sit around any longer. If Sherlock were as close to a conclusion as he'd claimed, surely he'd be bursting with information, dragging John along, oblivious of John's anger.
Buttoning himself into his jacket, John sighed as he left his room. Pain in the arse. He's going to be just fine, and I'll want to murder him. Well, it wouldn't be the first time.
Just outside the guest quarters, he saw Ian Adler walking toward him, uselessly ducking his head against the pouring rain. He wore that expensive motorbike jacket of his, and John felt a small, nasty satisfaction that the water was probably ruining the soft leather. Then he stopped and glared at Ian as he approached.
Of course.
Ian stared at him as if dumbfounded. "Why the hell haven't you gone?" He shook his head. "I told you to leave."
"Where's Sherlock?"
"How should I know?" Ian shouldered past John and withdrew his wooden key tag from his pocket. He wiped water from his face. "Shit," he muttered.
John followed him back into the guest building and down the corridor. "You were the last one to see him. Nobody's seen him today."
"He's probably off investigating or deducing or whatever it is that he does," Ian replied. "I haven't seen him since last night."
Ian's response was smooth and cool, but John watched his hands. He was having trouble with the key; it wouldn't quite go into the lock. He's lying, John realised. Nervous. "Bollocks you haven't seen him," John said, moving closer to Ian. "Where is he?"
"I don't know," Ian snapped, then let out a low choked cry as John grasped his jacket and swung him round, pushing him against his door. The door swung open, and both men stumbled inside.
John kept his grip on Ian's jacket and shoved him down on his bed. "I'm not going to ask you again."
"Dr. Watson." Ian smiled up at him. "You think you frighten me? Please."
"I know he was with you last night."
"That's right." Ian drew his phone from a pocket and busied himself on it for a moment, then passed the phone to John. "Look."
John looked. He saw Sherlock tied up on Ian's bed, not fighting to get free, and Ian kneeling between his legs, grasping his knees and spreading his thighs open. He heard Sherlock's groans, and then –
"Jealous?"
John tossed the phone onto the bed; he'd have preferred to hurl it out the window, but he'd be damned if he'd give Ian the satisfaction of seeing his rage. "What makes you think I want to watch your homemade porn?"
Ian unzipped his jacket and draped it carefully over the iron slats at the foot of the bed. "Oh, come on, John. Give yourself just a little freedom." He reached up, took John's hand in his, and turned it over, tracing his fingertip over John's palm. "Do you know what I see when I look at you?"
"I don't give a rat's arse, thanks," John said, shaking his hand free of Ian's grasp.
"I see a man who's half alive, expending what energy he has into trying to keep up with Sherlock Holmes. I see a man who can't sustain a relationship because he's desperately in love and struggling even more desperately to keep that love hidden. You have girlfriends, don't you, John? One after the other?"
"Shut up," John said, but didn't move, half-hypnotised by Ian's words, his audacity, the soft sonorousness of his voice.
"One after the other, and they all leave, or you leave. You attract them, you hold them for a little while, and then you frustrate them because you're sweet and gentle with them…and distant. So distant, and when they finally figure it out, they're insulted. Enraged. Hurt. You hurt them without meaning to, but you can't stop, because you can't admit that you're in love with Sherlock. You're afraid nothing you say will ever pierce that thorny exterior of his, and even though you were a soldier –" Ian held up a forestalling hand as John opened his mouth. "I've done my homework on you both, John. Even though you were a soldier, you can't screw up the courage to say three little words. Tragic, really."
"Oh, you've got it all worked out, haven't you?" John sneered, but he heard the catch in his own voice and winced.
"It took me a little while." Ian unbuttoned the bottom of John's jacket and stood to unbutton the rest. "I was taken with Sherlock's glamour, but then I looked at you and thought – there's a man with secrets. If he's Sherlock Holmes' constant companion –"
"Give me a break –" Why wasn't he pulling away from Ian? Ian's hands were slowly undoing his jacket, and he brushed his fingers against John's throat, so why the fuck didn't he pull away? And why, oh Christ almighty, why was his cock starting to twitch?
"He's far too intelligent, too canny and sharp to be merely what he appears to be," Ian continued.
"Get the hell away from me," John whispered, but he didn't move. You don't want this. Not from Ian Adler. He didn't even move when Ian's fingers went to the button of John's trousers, not when they lowered the zipper. If it's Sherlock you want, then why are you still here? Ian's hand slipped inside and found John's stiff cock.
Ian looked down at John and smiled. "I thought so." He went to his knees in front of John. "Would you like to pretend that I'm Sherlock? I don't mind."
Get away. Leave now. Go! John grasped the back of Ian's head. His cock ached, and he conjured up the image of Sherlock writhing on Ian's bed. Bastard. Fucking bastard. "Go on, then," he whispered. "Do it."
Ian's mouth curled into a smile, and he reached up to tug down John's boxers. He leant forward, cupped John's balls in one hand, and nuzzled his lips against the underside of John's cock, moving upward until his mouth reached the head.
John steadied himself by grabbing at the iron footboard and closed his fingers on a handful of soft, wet leather. He threaded the fingers of his other hand in Ian's curls and pulled him closer. "Suck on it."
Obediently, Ian opened his mouth and traced the tip of his tongue over the head of John's cock. He enveloped the tip with his mouth and began a gentle, steady suction; his fingers moved over John's balls, stroking and caressing.
John closed his eyes and tilted his head back, concentrating on the licking and pulling sensation round his cock. He felt Ian's mouth open wider and pushed himself deep, deeper until he felt the delicious constriction of Ian's throat. He heard Ian gag slightly, and didn't give a fuck. He tightened his hand in Ian's curls and pushed. The suction was stronger now, almost desperate, and he abandoned himself to it, imagining Sherlock's mouth wrapped round his cock, Sherlock's lips sucking him off, Sherlock's hands toying with his balls. He tensed, then thrust forward savagely as he came in short, violent bursts, a low, guttural cry escaping his throat.
He stood still, panting, as Ian pulled back, swallowed, and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You're welcome," Ian said hoarsely.
John blinked and stared down at Ian. "What?" He stepped back and quickly re-ordered his clothes. He'd regret this later…or sooner, maybe….
"I don't suppose you'd care to reciprocate." Ian rose to his feet, took John's hand, and rested it against the bulge in his rain-dampened jeans.
John looked up at Ian's face: flushed, his lips parted and wet, the tip of his tongue teasing at one corner of his mouth. His eyes fixed on John's, and he smiled with genuine warmth. John moved his hand from Ian's crotch. "What do I owe you?"
Ian's expression of warmth faltered for a split second, then he smiled. "On the house."
"Good." John's hand darted out and caught Ian's wrist. Quickly, deftly, he spun Ian round, pushed him to the bed, and dug a knee into his back. Ian cried out, and John twisted his arm upward. "Shut up. Shut up, or I'll break your arm."
"Get the fuck off me!" Ian cried, struggling uselessly. "Get - Ow!"
John still had one hand free. He reached down and grasped Ian's hair. "I will break it. Don't tempt me."
"All right, all right – ease up, for God's sake. You're hurting me."
"Not as badly as I will hurt you if you don't cooperate. You know where Sherlock is, don't you?"
"No." Ian glared up at him, then gasped as John wrenched his arm up. "All right! Stop!"
"You know where he is?"
"Yes." Ian winced as John let his grip relax a bit. "He's in the tunnels. The well."
John frowned. "Well." Vaguely, he remembered reading about a well in the abbey brochure. "You're going to take me there."
"Listen," Ian said. "If you've got any brain cells working, you'll leave now. I can help Sherlock – I won't be able to help you both, don't you –" His words disintegrated into a yelp as John twisted his arm again. "Don't be bloody stupid, John!"
"Is Dzundza down there with him?" John asked. When Ian didn't reply, John torqued his arm upward again. "Is he?"
"Yes!" Ian panted for breath. "Listen to me."
"No," John said. He looked around and saw a bag on the bed, resting near the pillow. He released Ian's hair and dragged it close, looking inside. Jackpot. He grabbed a braided leather cord and used it to tie Ian's hands behind his back. "You're going to show me where it is."
Ian rolled over onto his back and glared at John. "This is going to look a little awkward, isn't it? Whatever will the monks say?"
"I couldn't care less what they say," John replied. "Let's go." He dragged Ian up by his shirt, then took his jacket and arranged it over his shoulders. "Don't want you to catch cold."
*
The rain was falling harder, and nobody was about to make uncomfortable inquiries regarding Ian's predicament. Ian made a few half-hearted attempts to pull away from John, but John held his arm tightly and steered him implacably toward the church. The thought of Sherlock in Dzundza's hands superseded even the lurid imagery of Ian's little video. Sherlock, you miserable…I swear this is the last time I'm getting you out of a jam.
Ian's soft-spoken analysis reverberated in John's ears, each word taunting and certain. And right….how had Adler known? More importantly, why hadn't John realised what he was doing sooner? Ian was right, he hadn't intended to hurt anyone – some of the women he'd seen had made disparaging comments about Sherlock, but John always figured that was because Sherlock was so god-damned snotty to them.
"I wonder what Sherlock would say if he knew that you and I had a little assignation," Ian said pleasantly, breaking into John's thoughts.
"Oh, shut it, or I'll gag you," John snapped.
"I realise that I'm just a substitute, of course. Still, pity I didn't get to record it."
"That's how you get your jollies, isn't it?"
"That's how I make most of my money," Ian corrected him. "Though a few make for interesting viewing. Sherlock's film, for example. He's quite responsive when properly motivated."
"Fuck off."
"But that's what you really want to know, isn't it, John? How responsive Sherlock can be. And if he'd respond to you that way."
John pressed his lips together and said nothing. They were at the church now; John pushed the door open and dragged Ian up the central aisle, where the altarpiece still stood ajar, untouched since John had opened it this morning.
"I think he probably would," Ian went on, "but none of that matters now."
"Careful on the stairs," John muttered, clicking on his torch.
"You wouldn't rather I broke my neck?" Ian inquired, but he descended the stairs with caution, now and then leaning on John for support. "You know, this would be a lot easier if you untied me."
"Not a chance. And if the Golem's hurt Sherlock, I'm going to break both your legs." John's grip tightened on Ian's upper arm. And if that bastard's killed him, then…. He couldn't finish the thought. He felt cold and clammy and slightly ill.
Whatever Sherlock had done – whatever either of them had done, they were still friends. He'd given Sherlock no reason to suspect that he felt more than ordinary friendship for him. John wasn't the fucking Morals Squad, he hadn't any claim on Sherlock's actions, and if Sherlock wanted to get himself tied up and fucked, then that was his affair. John would just have to live with it, that was all.
If he's all right, I'll tell him. No more hiding, no more stalling. If they couldn't make a go of it – because he couldn't understand how to read Sherlock, he didn't know how to take the little touches, the flashes of what might have been affection, but might have just been Sherlock being weirdly good-natured – then maybe they could go back to the way things had been. Friends. That was okay, he could live with it, even if it hurt a little. Or a lot.
They moved through the corridors, Ian leading John down the same passages he'd traversed earlier – right, then right, then right again. At last they came to a familiar door. John started. The same door where he thought he'd heard a noise. Oh, Jesus Christ. He's been behind that door the whole time. Oh, Sherlock –
"Call to him," John whispered, and rapped on the door.
Ian cleared his throat. "Oscar! C'est moi – Ian Adler!"
There was a rattling, and the door swung open. John steered Ian in front of him as hostage and human shield.
The room was fairly small. A squat well stood in its centre, with a crudely hewn stone pillar beside it, to which a pulley was attached. At the far side of the chamber, he saw Oscar Dzundza leaning against the wall, huge and menacing even at rest, illuminated by a portable lantern. John looked around in panic and finally saw Sherlock – curled on his side on the stone floor, naked and tightly bound. The creepy leather cock gag prevented him from speaking, but as Sherlock focussed his gaze on John and Ian, he made a slight panicky noise and shook his head. John's heart contracted. That was Sherlock I heard earlier. Oh, God.
"Untie him, Dzundza," John said. "Now."
Sherlock shook his head frantically and tried to shout something. John frowned, and then blinding pain exploded in his head. He staggered and fell to his knees.
"Surprise!" trilled a voice behind him.
I know that voice, John thought, and another pain slammed into his head, and he tumbled into darkness.
*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-06-23 11:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 12:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 02:46 am (UTC)That's a compliment, by the way.
no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 02:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 02:52 am (UTC)A little unexpected bloodshed in an otherwise ordinary business transaction was always fun.
Words to live by, friend. Words to live by.
nor had ever felt the passage of a soul at a death, though he'd witnessed his fair share,
This I found an interesting statement. Back when my sister was a hemoncology nurse practitioner, she witnessed her fair share of patient deaths, and she said that she did perceive the passage of, if not a soul precisely, then at least something. It makes me wonder if this might not be at the heart of the difference between someone trained as a medical doctor (John) and someone trained as a nurse (my sister). I keep thinking that this is the difference in philosophy between nursing and medicine. Medicine trains people to treat the disease, while nursing trains people to treat the patient -- maybe that's why my sister could see a soul passing and John couldn't, because she was trained in a style that looks for such things.
(Or it could be because she's a real person and John is a fictional character who sees only what a writer wants him to see, but let us not speak of that.)
no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 03:25 am (UTC)Words to live by, friend. Words to live by.
Ehe! Indeed.
Without interjecting my 'John' POV into it, I think that's a pretty good observation. If I were to ask the doctors I know [and this year I've got to know a lot!] I would guess that most of them would come down on the ruthlessly pragmatic side of things, and the nurses I know would be much more empathic. I completely agree with your take on philosophy in nursing vs. medicine - you have to wonder where the divergence starts to take place.
Thank you so, so much for reading! :D
no subject
Date: 2013-06-25 07:45 am (UTC)(ETA: that means I loved it)
no subject
Date: 2013-06-25 10:51 pm (UTC)