Title: The Adventure of the Six Painted Virgins
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saathi1013
Summary: Sherlock dons an unusual disguise for a case. John is…conflicted. Character study, casefic, & smut (in that order).
Spoilers: The whole of BBC’s Sherlock (series/season 1), plus various references to Arthur Conan Doyle’s original Sherlock Holmes canon, and a subtle nod or two towards the Granada series.
Pairing: John/Sherlock, first-time.
Rating: NC-17 for sexual content
Warnings: Violence, sexual content, heresy and blasphemy on many, many levels, and fucked-up dream sequences.
Word Count: ~14.5k
A/N: Eternal gratitude tomazarin221b & carolyn_claire for their patience, encouragement, and occasionally-frustrating thoroughness (which is the best possible thing to have in a beta, honestly). Much <3 to Marielikestodraw for the stunning header image that you'll find under the cut - her talent and enthusiasm for my work will never cease to astonish me. Special thanks to AccioAyla, because she's known about this plot bunny longer than anyone else (and as a result, has had to wait longer than anyone should have for the finished story).
** Now available in Russian, thanks to 82al07il! [ Part 1 ] [ Part 2 ]
*****
When John Watson was a child, he had been, for a very short time, an altar boy at his family's Catholic church. This fact rarely fails to elicit amusement in those who learn it. Very few do; he considers his past faith inconsequential to those around him, of as much interest as the phase he went through when he was twelve, absolutely obsessed with Doctor Who. Some respond with remarks along the lines of, "Of course you were, it all makes sense now," (those relationships never last long) or, "Oh, I'm sorry …?"
"It was ages ago," he will reply, or, with a shrug, "What can I say? I was young." The latter is only partially true–nothing compares to the innocent piety of youth–but the more honest response is, "I was a different person, then."
In fact, John Watson considers his life a progression of selves. Not literally–he hasn't got multiple personalities sharing his head space–but pragmatically, like a scientist who recognizes several states of matter (solid, liquid, gas, and so on). Each state may be made up of the same atoms, but they behave very differently under different kinds of stress, of volume and temperature and pressure. So it is with his life: child, adolescent, university student, medical man, soldier … and now, doctor again, but more importantly: blogger and companion to the world's only consulting detective.
John wonders, occasionally and idly, how healthy it is to define himself by his connections to those around him, how he has been shaped by them, instead of as a singular entity. Then he looks at Sherlock and thinks that it could be worse, really. And it's probably for the best that there is someone like him, willing to forge connections under (and despite, and perhaps because of) remarkable circumstances, in Sherlock's life.
John Watson stopped practising Catholicism long ago, a fact clearly evident to even those lacking Sherlock's deductive skills. He does not observe the regular Sacraments, neither Communion nor Penance. He does not observe holidays in any but secular, familial, and habitual ways. He has broken more of the Commandments than he's entirely comfortable admitting and is not up-to-date on his Catechism.
Despite all of this, it can be argued that, once one has been baptised into Roman Catholicism, it is impossible to escape the Church entirely. In the end, it is always possible to 'return to the fold'–something his grandmother often reminded him of before her death, in her hopeful and passively-insistent way–and some traces of Sunday-schooling in the faith during one's formative years occasionally surface, in both good ways and bad. For instance, John's appreciation of and facility for Latin comes from these years and helped him immensely in learning medicine.
On the other hand, he has vestiges of what is commonly termed 'Catholic guilt,' all the more poignant at times due to the circumstances surrounding his decision to leave the embrace of the Holy Mother Church.
Of all those who have learned of his religious upbringing, no one has ever asked him this; no one has questioned why he left. It seems self-explanatory, in modern times, that John would no longer adhere to what seems from the outside to be a remarkably dated and trouble-plagued religious institution. The closest anyone has come was his roommate in uni, who asked tentatively, "Was … was there something …. Are the scandals true?"
At which, John stammered, "No–no! Well, there have been cases, but I was never one of them. No." His parish priest had been a pleasant if remote old man, someone whom John had adored for holding all the wisdom of God locked in his mind.
Well. It had seemed so, at the time.
What John remembers is this–and it's all a bit hazy with all the intervening years, but this is the best account he would give of his last days in the Church if anyone bothers to ask:
He remembers his sister, fourteen and gawky and suddenly remote, their childhood bond strained to near breaking by the changes her body imposed on her (and the whole family by association). He remembers the long silences, the sulks, the rages. And, most startling of anything, he remembers her crawling into his bed late one night, as if she were suddenly John's age again–as if the intervening years had not happened and they were taking comfort against the monsters in the dark with a flickering torch and a book under the shield of blankets.
He remembers Harry crying, her awkward limbs clutching and twining against his, his pyjamas getting damp with tears and snot. And when her sobs had calmed she had said, in a tiny, hoarse voice, "Freddy called me a lesbo last week."
"I'll feed him his teeth," John replied immediately, fierce and protective, anger overwriting the reality that Freddy Spenson was twice his size.
"No, don't," Harry said. "'Cos I think he's right."
"Oh," John said, and wrapped his arms tight round his sister's bird-fragile shoulders. "D'you still love me, even though I'm a boy?"
Harry had choked a sound that was as close to laughter as she could manage and hugged him tightly back and said, yes, of course, and cried some more until they were both asleep.
And a couple of Sundays later he heard a sermon by Father Michael–the Man Who Knew Everything–about the evils of homosexuality and the diseases that God had inflicted upon mankind for their sins. It was gently put–no fire and brimstone and shouting–but it was pointed and clear. John listened with a sinking stomach the whole way through, and when it was all over he went through the rest of his duties by rote.
It hadn't even been the first sermon on the topic, John realized. It was just that he hadn't really thought about it, all those other times. But now …
That's my sister he's talking about, John thought. He's talking about Harry.
When Mass was finished and they were in the tiny room at the back of the church, John hung up his robes and turned to Father Michael and asked, "Did you really mean all that, what you said about sodomites?" (It was only later that he sorted out the whole 'Sodomites' / 'act of sodomy' / 'what girls actually do in bed together' thing, and was that ever a surprise.)
"Of course," Father Michael replied. "My words during Mass are a reflection of God's will."
"Oh," John said. He gathered up his things and left.
He never returned to another service, to the consternation of his parents. He never explained why, as some part of him already knew that he was the sole keeper of his sister's secret–and when she came out to their parents, years later, it was no longer an issue. Harry never said a word to him about it, but he thinks she understood more than she let on.
Much later, he was grateful for that early decision, as it spared him a lot of internal conflict later on. Not that he couldn't have tried to deny his own sexuality–to be fair, it would have been easier for him than Harry, as his primary inclination was towards women, anyway–but he wouldn't have been entirely happy, either. Just because he can pass as wholly heterosexual doesn't mean that he wants to. Years in the military taught him that distinction.
Not to say that he never looked back, never wondered … In later years, when public opinion on homosexuality had changed–though not entirely, it had perhaps become more tolerant in a resigned and exhausted way–he’d considered looking up churches with more welcoming and progressive views. But there were always more urgent things to do with his time, exams or girls (and the occasional bloke) or, eventually, a war.
It was most difficult for him immediately after the initial split. He’d found himself with whole swathes of suddenly-free time on Sunday mornings, his polished shoes and pressed Sunday best hanging on the back of his bedroom door in silent accusation. "Just in case," his mother said, setting it all out every week with bustling practicality. She never scolded or pleaded with him to join the rest of the family, which was almost worse–his parents had their hands too full with Harry's antics by that time to fret over their solemn, sensible, responsible son.
Instead, they’d left him in the care of their neighbour, an older gentleman with a pack of small scruffy dogs that swarmed over the garden every time John went to visit. He watched war films with John and taught him checkers and told stories about his time in the Royal Navy, sinking U-boats (it also took John a while to realize that these were not actually boats curved in the shape of the letter 'U').
The closest John came to a 'relapse,' for lack of a better term, were the handful of times he went back to the church–usually in the middle of a week, just after school. In the quiet, empty building with no sermons or parishioners or hymns filling up the space he felt a faint echo of the old comfort he had experienced in his faith. Occasionally he prayed, but only silence answered. He realized that there were reasons that people came together to worship, but he could not bring himself to return to a community led by men so obviously flawed and petty and wrong.
The most puzzling thing about it all was that Harry continued to attend church. Still does, from what he can tell.
He wonders if that's why she drinks. Maybe the struggle between the duties to one's faith and to one's identity are easier to ignore when one is often either intoxicated or hungover … But that is, perhaps, an uncharitable and over-simplistic thought, so he tries not to think it too often.
***
John keeps expecting Sherlock to comment on his religious upbringing, some acerbic remark about his conflicted morals, about Catholic guilt and all of that rubbish, but it never comes. And then he realizes that Sherlock doesn't know. The man who can tell everything about a stranger with a quick glance at their shoes does not know this bit of John's history.
It seems impossible.
But the stark reality of it hits him in the face one morning when he comes downstairs on his day off to find Sherlock straightening his collar. Straightening the collar of his black dress shirt, to be precise, with the signature white notch in the front.
John simply cannot speak.
Sherlock flicks him an irritated glance. "About time, I was about to leave without you." Then he takes in John's reaction and rolls his eyes. "Oh, don't get all fussed about disrespect, technically I am working for the Church … albeit temporarily."
"What …" John manages, then rallies. "A case, then?"
"Yes, John, a case," Sherlock responds. "You received an email this morning from a man named Owen Byrne–am I correct in assuming by his sign-off as 'Padre' that he was a military chaplain with whom you associated during your time as a soldier? Never mind, of course I'm correct. His parish seems to be having a problem with vandals. Usually I would ignore such a trifle, but the pattern is strikingly specific, and yet–"
"I received an email?" John interjects.
"Well, yes, but the message was intended as a request to me via the connection to you, so I didn't think you would mind if I answered for you–and, by extension myself–in the affirmative."
John puts up with this kind of behaviour far too often. On the other hand, it seems that Sherlock will be engaged in a case instead of running appalling experiments or worse, sulking about the flat on John's day off. Not to mention, it will be nice to have something to distract from his lack of a date this evening.
It's been weeks since Sarah kindly but firmly shut the door on that particular possibility, and John's still smarting. Not that she hadn't been perfectly reasonable; there are only so many times a girl can get stood up or imperilled, after all. But still, she's lovely, and seeing her every day reminds John of the pleasant normalcy he's given up in favour of adventure.
"–all right," John says finally. "But let me get some breakfast before we go. You can fill me in on the details while I eat."
"I could fill you in on the cab ride over," Sherlock grumbles, but collapses onto one of the kitchen chairs in acquiescence, his legs sprawling under the spread of an honest-to-god cassock. The trailing silk fringe of the fascia carelessly drags across the floor in a way that makes John want to wince.
He puts the question of 'How on earth did you get an accurate cassock on such short notice?' on hold for later. The answer will probably be ridiculous, and this certainly isn't the first time Sherlock has used a disguise for a case. At least this time he's foregone anything else, like that awful wig, or the teeth, or the nose …
***
The case, as it stands, is this:
Father Owen Byrne is currently the pastor of a small parish whose congregation is mostly made up of elderly men and women with modest pensions but generous souls and families with enough money to send their children to the affiliated public school. Fund-raising and charity drives are common, from regular collections of tinned goods for the food bank to a yearly raffle of two round-trip tickets to Rome to see the Pope.
The latest fund-raiser involved the peddling (Sherlock's word, John thinks, certainly not the Padre's) of small plaster statues of the Virgin Mary for the purposes of sponsoring the school's upcoming term. Most are plain white with a clear glaze, but six were hand-painted by members of each classroom (elected by a democratic vote among the children in each class) and given to the top five highest-donating members of the parish. One was retained for display in the pastor's office.
Three of these have been destroyed. First, Father Byrne returned from his duties at the local homeless shelter to find his door ajar and plaster shards all over his office rug. He assumed that this was merely a childish fit of pique on the part of a student who felt slighted when their artwork was not chosen for use in the fund-raiser.
However, in both of the subsequent cases, the home of a wealthy donor was burgled somewhat clumsily, their statue removed and broken on the pavement outside, with no other disturbance or theft from the house. The police, of course, gave these incidents a low priority, but the very strangeness of it all sent Father Byrne to look for alternate sources of help.
He recalled spotting John's name in a newspaper article, linked to the name of a private detective–Sherlock sniffs at the designation in the retelling, saying, "–and the rest was a lot of him playing on your sympathies. You can read it some other time."
***
"Come on, John," Sherlock says with impatience. It is not merely the chill in the air that causes him to stamp his feet and flex his hands inside his gloves as John pays the cab driver but his preternatural delight at having a new puzzle before him, ripe for the solving. John rolls his eyes.
"Never thought I'd see you so excited to go to a church," he comments dryly, and Sherlock grins at him.
"Not one word about being struck by lightning as I cross the threshold, John," Sherlock says in falsely-stern tones.
John suppresses his own answering smile. "Best keep your gloves on, though," he responds. Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "You could get contact burns from consecrated objects if you're not careful."
It is perhaps not entirely accidental that Sherlock jostles him into the door frame as they enter the building.
The vestibule is hushed and dim, long stripes of variegated colour falling across the stone floors from the strips of abstractly-stained windows. John blinks to let his eyes adjust from the piercing cool winter light outside to the subdued warmth of the church. There is something familiar about the air, hushed as it is. It smells of stone and of wood polish and of candle-smoke, but there are also the faint remnants of canonically-prescribed incenses and oils and flowers from years of Easters and Christmases and marriages and baptisms.
Above it all is the familiar feel of the place, unlike anything else John has experienced, barring a few notable exceptions. Were he more fanciful, he would describe it as a presence, but the pragmatic side of him simply thinks that it's his own awareness of the significance of the place, of decades, if not centuries, of ritual, thousands of people from bygone ages coming to this place, over and over again, speaking much the same words, confessing the same sins of the flesh, each feeling small and alone but seeking a connection with something greater than themselves. He inhales deeply and feels it settle about his shoulders, an unexpected pang of wistfulness threading through his lungs.
He shakes it off and looks around for Sherlock. The detective is still beside him, and John realizes that Sherlock is waiting for him, watching with that ever-clear gaze. Ah, John thinks ruefully, Well, there are those secrets gone, then. He wonders how many he has left and if he should be more worried about the exponentially-dwindling reserve.
"Well, what are we waiting for?" John asks aloud, summoning an enthusiastic expression as he leads the way to the pastor's office. Thankfully, Sherlock follows without any comment.
***
Afghanistan is not Iraq. It is shocking how many people mistake the geography of the two. There are deserts to the west, but all John saw were mountains and crevasses, plateaus and valleys that folded and crumpled the green landscape all the way to the horizon, where the creeping shoulders of the Himalayas cast smudgy shadows on the sky.
What shocked John most about it was the cold. He remembers the shivers that wracked his body one night as he ducked out of a field hospital set up in a low building on the outskirts of Kabul. The doorway through which he exited had a heavy canvas panel instead of a door, as it had once been an entrance to another room, but before he'd arrived that part of the building had been abruptly removed, sawed irregularly off by an explosion, only soot and bricks and cleared pathways through the rubble and broken glass remaining as testament to its former whole.
John stood there, his exhalations hanging opaque and pale in the air as he blindly surveyed the panorama around him, too numb to appreciate the view. He let his shoulders slump and just breathed.
There was still blood on his jacket.
It shouldn't have been as difficult as it was–the kid (nineteen if he'd been a day) hadn't been the first patient he'd lost since his tour began, certainly not the first since he started practising medicine, and yet it had rattled him to the core. He couldn't remember the point of it all. Years of marvelling at the intricacy and startling resiliency of the human form, all of the well-intentioned reasons that had brought him there, to make a difference, to bring a light, however small, into a dark place … all of it had fled from him.
John took another shaky breath, tipping his head back against the wall.
The sky above him was vast and dark and remote, save for a few tenacious stars fighting through the glare of the military floodlights. He'd always been rubbish at remembering their names, even on a clear night at the right latitude, the right longitude. But then, they were askew slightly, even more unrecognisable.
He remembered that Harry had a telescope, a brief surge of interest in astronomy before her life turned to shit. Something about a crush on her physics professor at uni. He remembered her saying, one night during winter holidays, Some of these stars are probably dead. We just don't know it yet. All we're seeing are echoes of life, memories the universe stores of their time alive, their light travelling on into infinity.
He remembered the Sergeant's face, placid under anaesthesia, and the slight shift, the barest fraction of a change under his skin as the alarms went off. There was a lassitude that took root in the underlying structure, no matter what John or his team did to change it.
And John had thought, out under the Afghani sky, God, Harry's going to kill me if I die out here.
Somehow that had been enough for him to square his shoulders, to walk back inside past the nurses on sterilisation duty. He went down the hall and into the small, dark, cool room where the bodies were kept, prepared for shipping and eventual burial. Locals went elsewhere, had their own rituals, but foreigners had to wait to make the long return to their families.
John remembers thinking how unfortunate it was for those still-devout soldiers to die so far removed from their faith. He hadn't known why he'd wanted to seek out the late Sergeant again, but he'd known at least that he couldn't face the sympathetic and resigned faces of his medical team.
Then he'd spotted the kneeling figure among the small handful of horizontal ones, laid out on the floor. And that was how he'd met Owen Byrne.
***
All John had done, that first time, was apologise for the intrusion, but the padre had invited him to stay.
"It's not so bad, to think that I am not alone in shepherding their spirits to their final reward," Owen said with a brief, welcoming smile.
"Ah," John said, "I'm not …" And then he'd stopped, not knowing how to finish the sentence. 'Religious' would've been a mostly a lie, because even after all he'd seen, he still believed in the Divine. 'Catholic' would've been true, but he would have had to add 'any more,' because that would've been more accurate, and he'd still had that old instinct of complete and utter honesty towards clergymen.
Owen had smiled again. "That's all right. It's the company, not assistance, I'm after." So John had stayed and let the familiar rhythm of the words settle the awful jangling of his nerves.
After that, somehow John and Owen had become friends. John ran into him more often than either of them would've preferred, one a doctor and one a priest, both in an active war zone. Almost every other time they'd seen each other it had been under unfortunate circumstances.
John would stay late after shifts, just to stand vigil as Owen performed his duties.
"We share the same role, if you think about it," Owen said once over watery bottles of beer they'd been gifted by a couple of Marines, generous after a recent victory. "Looking after the health of the troops. You do the physical, I'll handle the spiritual."
John had grinned at this and tipped his head back to finish his bottle. It might have been terrible American beer, but it had been his first since deployment, and it tasted better than anything he could remember. "I used to be Catholic, you know," he found himself saying.
Owen had eyed him. "Ah," he replied, finally, with a faint huff of a laugh. "That would do it."
"Do what?" John asked.
"Nothing," Owen said, and then, at John's narrowed stare, he shrugged. "When I say the Rites, John, you look … quiet. Quiet all the way down, past skin and blood and bone. Quieter than most men who come to it late, or without questioning before coming back."
"I haven't come back," John protested.
"No?" Owen asked. "Well, maybe I'm wrong–"
"Well, you are," John said quickly. "I'm not looking to be lured back or–"
"I'm not looking to lure you back," Owen assured him. "I'm not the evangelical type. Couldn't run a mission to save my life. But if you're not trying the Church back on, John, then maybe the quiet I see is patience. Maybe you're waiting."
"Waiting for what?" John asked.
"Answers you never got before you left."
***
There's a second familiar face in Father Owen's office. Both rise to their feet when Sherlock and John enter after knocking, Lestrade looking flummoxed. "Please tell me you can't actually read minds, and you've just got a scanner hidden in your flat," he says by way of weary greeting.
"The case has escalated, then," Sherlock replies.
"Yeah, it has, and if it weren't a puzzle before, the dead body would have sealed it," Lestrade says.
"Hullo again, Padre," John says, before Sherlock can start firing off questions. "Sorry to see you, under the circumstances. This is Sherlock, of course. Don't mind him, he's always like this." It's become habit to add that last bit to introductions; it saves a lot of time and explanations later on.
Owen takes John's outstretched hand and pulls him in for a rough clap on the back. "Good to see you, John, especially now. I really haven't the faintest clue what to make of all this. I thought I was being silly when I wrote, but now …"
"You called them in?" Lestrade looks relieved and approving as he sits down again. "I'd've done the same if Dimmock had bothered to tell me about it. Something off about all of it, but I can’t quite figure out why."
"Tell me everything," Sherlock says, shucking off scarf and gloves and unbuttoning his coat while settling into a regal sprawl over the second guest chair in front of the desk. There is absolute, stunned silence for a moment from the other men, and John presses thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose.
"He intends to go undercover," John informs the room at large.
Sherlock glances down at his attire. "Oh, that. Yes, as John says. I thought keeping a low profile–"
"You call that keeping a low profile?" Lestrade interjects, while at the same time, Owen is spluttering.
"Really, Mr. Holmes, I can't–"
"A man is dead," Sherlock says above their protests, somehow containing his glee at this twist of the mystery. "Do we really want both a gaggle of policemen and a private detective traipsing all round the parish, asking questions? Or, perhaps, do we think that a 'friend and colleague' of Father Byrne, helping him 'bear the weight of this tragic disruption to his flock,' will do better to gather information discreetly?"
There is a small quiet, and then Owen says, "You intend to pose as a member of the clergy."
"I intend to wear this ridiculous get-up and be as unobtrusive as I can–" Sherlock shoots a glare at Lestrade when the other man snorts incredulously. "–while your parishioners assume the rest. Don't worry, this shouldn't take long, and I have no plans to involve myself in your silly rituals."
"Sacraments," John corrects.
"Yes, those," Sherlock says, waving a hand. Owen is still frowning darkly at him.
Then he turns to John. "Do you vouch for this man?" John opens his mouth to reply, but Owen continues, "Do you swear that his presence will be of more benefit than harm, that you will ensure that his actions–beside the obvious–will not violate any of our laws, and that this matter will be resolved as swiftly and with as much discretion as is humanly possible?"
John swallows, and when he hears Sherlock take in a breath for an indignant reply, he makes a warning gesture at his flatmate without breaking Owen's gaze. "Yes, Padre," he says. "I do."
Owen stares at him a moment longer. "All right, then." He transfers his attention to Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes, I hope you realize that if you make a liar of our friend, here, you'll both be in more trouble than just tangling with a murderer." Sherlock rolls his eyes, but Owen just stares him down. "Don't start that with me, I was trained by Jesuits. If you want to argue matters of faith, come back when this mess is over, and I'll give your clever mind a run for its money."
There is something that might be a smothered laugh from Lestrade's chair. It turns into him clearing his throat. "So. About the actual case …"
***
Owen starts from the beginning, and it is much as Sherlock related from their previous email exchange. One vandalism at the parish and now three of parishioners' homes; the first three sets of plaster shards are provided for Sherlock's perusal in separate shoe boxes before they are remanded into Lestrade's care. They were all commissioned, created, and purchased at a local shop named Gelder & Sons' Ceramics and Fine Art.
"Ah," Sherlock says, looking it up on his phone. "One of those places that calls itself 'fine art' but rarely sells any item for over a hundred pounds and runs pottery workshops for the local housewives and their bored children."
"The Gelder family has been attending this church for decades," Owen informs him. "And they did the work at cost out of the generosity of their hearts."
"We'll see," Sherlock says dourly. "Tell me about the murder, Lestrade, as I'm sure Anderson has destroyed any evidence I'll find at the crime scene."
"The victim’s body was found at the latest crime scene. He’s been identified as Peter Venucci," Lestrade says. "No connection with the homeowners. Twenty-four and with a criminal record, some minor gang activity, vandalism and general misconduct, but nothing as severe as burglary." He puts on gloves and pulls an evidence bag from his coat pocket that contains a wallet and some miscellaneous items. "His money was missing, but the credit cards are still here."
"It's also missing the photograph sleeves," Sherlock says, glancing at it.
Lestrade shakes his head. "He could have pitched those when he got the wallet."
"Examine the wear pattern on the leather," Sherlock says.
John takes a look for himself over Sherlock's shoulder. Sure enough, there's an odd smoothness to the exposed pockets of the leather. "Who'd take the photos and the money but not the rest of it?"
"Someone clever or someone stupid," Sherlock replies. "What else did you find?"
"The usual junk, coins, wrappers, that sort of thing," Lestrade says. He hands the bag over with an extra set of gloves. Sherlock sorts through the contents while Lestrade continues, "The really strange bit is the wound pattern."
"What about it?" John asks.
"We haven't been able to identify the weapon. It's got three sides, very sharp, very small. Nothing like I've ever seen."
"I'd like to take a look when we're done here," John offers.
"We are done here," Sherlock announces, stuffing everything back in the evidence bag and handing it to Lestrade. "Father Byrne, I'd like you to accompany me to the homes of the three victims. John, you may go with Lestrade to the morgue–send pictures and any relevant information to my phone, if you please."
John glances at Owen. The padre smiles. "It's fine, John, I can stand him for a bit longer. Besides, it's probably best we two go together and without anyone else, just to keep them at ease. You get a reprieve from your oath while I'm keeping an eye on him."
That is not quite reassuring. John gives Owen a crooked smile and leaves with Lestrade.
***
Photos attached. Add'l wounds on L hand, knuckles. Min. bruising arms, wrists. Med. bruising L shoulder, chest. Likely altercation w/accomplice? John sends to Sherlock.
Perhaps. Meet at Gelder&Sons when finished.
Molly's hovering again. It's a bit unnerving. Lestrade left half an hour ago with the excuse of needing to process the bag of evidence and all the attendant paperwork. "Everything okay?" she asks, and not for the first time.
"Yeah," John says, smiling at her. "Thanks, Molly." She could probably use more kindness, the poor girl, considering how Sherlock treats her regularly. It's only gotten worse since Moriarty.
John's just started wondering how she'd look dressed for a proper night out when his phone chimes.
You will be finished sometime today, I hope? Sherlock's text reads.
"Sorry," John says. "Gotta go. Thanks again–you've been very helpful." Molly practically beams back at him as he leaves.
***
"What did you find out?" John asks, practically the instant he's out of the cab.
"Nothing from the victims, but everything from the crime scenes. As usual. One of these days I'm going to stop talking to the people involved in these cases entirely. I might even solve them more quickly." Sherlock paces back and forth in front of the store, looking at the doors, windows, exits, signage.
"There's an idea," John says with false cheer. "No pesky human interaction, no one to put off with your cleverness."
Sherlock makes a face at him. "It's not about proving to them that I'm clever. I would be perfectly happy if you and the police force handled all the interpersonal messiness for me one day." They enter the store and Sherlock adopts a pleasant mask when the shop girl comes out from behind the counter.
"Can I help you, ah … Father?" she asks him. She's petite and blonde and a little plain, but she's pretty when she smiles. Her tag says 'Lucy' and her eyes are slightly puffy, as if she's been crying.
"I certainly hope so," Sherlock says. "I'm here from St. Teresa's … I'm sure you heard about the burglaries?"
"Oh, yes, terrible business," she says, twisting her fingers together. "How can we help?"
"Well, I was actually wondering if I could speak to one of the owners …"
"Mr. Gelder is out on family business. His brother recently suffered a terrible loss–" Lucy bites her lip. "Not that that should matter to you, Father."
"Every loss diminishes us," Sherlock says loftily. "Please pass on our condolences. Would you mind terribly taking a message?"
"Not at all," she replies. "One second, let me find a pen and paper."
When she bustles off, Sherlock bends low to murmur to John, "I need you to flirt with her."
"What?" John looks at her. "She's at least ten years younger than I am."
"Oh, as if that's stopped you before. You might start by asking what she's studying at university."
"Why don't you ask her? Are you starting the process of using me as your human-to-sociopath interpreter already?" Somehow this question earns John a frown from his flatmate.
"No, the best way to find out about her and the Gelder family is flirting, and I'm wearing this stupid costume. Will you please just–" Sherlock cuts himself off as Lucy returns within earshot.
"What's the message?" she asks.
"You know what?" Sherlock says brightly, "Don't bother, actually. I can just come back some other time. Do pass along our condolences." He turns to John. "I believe you had some other business, John. I'll wait for you outside." And then he's gone, the rat bastard.
Lucy transfers her attention to John. "Are you with the Church, too?" she asks. John mentally finds several more names to call Sherlock in at least two languages.
"No, just … just a friend, visiting," he answers lamely. "I'm looking for a gift for … my mum. He mentioned he was on his way to an art store and … Oh, for heaven's sake." Lucy blinks at him. "I'm rubbish at lying. I think you're lovely, and you're probably still in uni studying something like law, and here I am, fumbling for an excuse to talk to you." He gives her the smile that's gotten him laid on three continents, and Lucy's shoulders relax just enough to let him know he's on the right track.
"It's art, actually. Well, sculpture and printmaking …" she says, looking away and biting her lip. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't. I just got out of a bad relationship, and–"
"No, no, it's fine. I'm sorry to hear that," John says. "Let me give you my number, in case you change your mind." He searches his pockets, finding the battered set of business cards he keeps on hand, just in case. "I'm sorry to hear that you're all going through such a rough time–bad relationship, and your family loss …"
"Oh, I'm not related," she corrects abruptly. "I just work here part-time, but they've always been good to me and … It's just awful, all of it." Her eyes are welling up with tears.
"And here I am, trying to pick you up," John says, feeling terrible. "I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry. You know what, just. Just take my card, and if you ever need anyone to talk to, I promise, I won't try anything."
Lucy gives him a watery smile and takes his card.
***
"You're an absolute bastard," John says, rejoining Sherlock outside.
"What did you find out?" Sherlock asks, hailing a taxi.
"She's studying art, just got dumped, and isn't any relation to the owners, though she's close to the family," John snaps. "So now is probably not the best time to be interrogating her."
"I think it's the perfect time," Sherlock replies breezily. "People are more honest when they're vulnerable and distracted." A cab pulls up and they climb in.
"You just proved my earlier point," John says.
"Not at all. My parents were married when they had both Mycroft and me."
John decides to stop speaking to Sherlock for the duration of the cab ride home. It's probably for the best, because if he says everything he'd like to, they're liable to get kicked out of the vehicle.
***
"I don't think there will be a break-in tonight," Sherlock announces when they return to Baker Street. "The culprit will be too frightened to risk exposure, but Lestrade has put a few men on lookout at the final two targets' homes, just in case."
"Have it all figured out?" John asks, settling into his armchair with a sigh. Sherlock settles into his own chair, still looking strange in the cassock. John can't figure out why the sight is so distracting, but it is.
"Yes, but I haven't any proof." Sherlock tugs at his collar, and somehow that's worse.
"Care to fill me in?"
Sherlock steeples his fingers and stares off into the middle distance. "Gelder and Sons was founded by Francis Gelder, whose grandsons now own the shop. Michael Gelder actually runs the business, while his brother Marcus simply lives off his part of the inheritance. Marcus, by the way, has a violent criminal record and has spent two years in jail. He also has an ex-wife to whom he was married for ten years, until his incarceration. Said ex-wife had a son by a previous marriage, and Marcus served as the boy's de-facto father."
"Go on, I'm sure you'll reach the point eventually," John says, letting his head fall back against the chair cushion and closing his eyes.
"The ex-wife's maiden name was Maria Venucci."
John lifts his head so quickly he might've sprained something. "And her son's name was Peter."
"Obviously." Sherlock smiles at him. "Did you notice that Lucy was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, despite the fact that she frequently works with plaster and a kiln? I'm willing to bet that Peter picked up on his step-father's bad habits and was rough with her."
"Peter is the bad ex-boyfriend," John says.
"Lestrade can't seem to track down Marcus Gelder," Sherlock adds.
"That's interesting."
"Isn't it?"
Sherlock picks up his violin, and John draws in a breath. It's always a risk, when Sherlock plays–it's either exquisite or appalling, and he really can't handle listening to the violin being tortured right now. Fortunately, today has been a good day, and a slow, sweet melody pours forth from the instrument.
John lets his head fall back again, relaxing utterly for a moment. He lets his mind drift. Poor Lucy, he thinks. Went in for a part-time job to make ends meet, starts up with someone who she thinks is a nice bloke, and then everything goes to hell around her. He opens his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. "Sherlock," he says, and the violin stops. "Is Lestrade watching Lucy, in case she's in trouble?"
"I've informed him that there's an outside chance that Marcus Gelder might show up for her, yes," Sherlock says. "But I believe she's past that danger now. Our first priority should be the statues."
"Wait, hold on. The statues. Why-" John stops, sitting up straight again so he can stare at Sherlock. "There's something hidden in one of them, isn't there. Something Peter stole."
Sherlock points the bow at John with an exultant flourish. "Knew you'd get there eventually. I do enjoy watching your mind work. Unlike most people, you actually use it from time to time."
John can feel a delighted grin spreading across his face. "Certainly don't keep me round for my pretty face," he mumbles, trying to defray the moment with a joke. But Sherlock blinks at him, eyebrows knitting as if he's done a poor job of it. "Don't stare at me like that," John says. "It's like I'm back in Sunday school. You should change out of that, it's terribly unnerving."
"It's just a costume, John," Sherlock says irritably, setting the violin aside. "You know I'm not a clergyman, what do my clothes matter?"
"You might as well be," John replies without thinking, realizing as he says it that it's true. That's what's been bothering him about seeing Sherlock in the cassock–it suits him, in a strange way. John continues, musing aloud, "If there were a Church of … of logic, of Reason, you'd be the pope. Or Mycroft would be and you'd be a minor bishop or something who can't be bothered with the politics."
"Is that what you think," Sherlock says flatly, his expression even darker than before. "Then you're right, John, I absolutely should go change." He sweeps out of the room, and John hears the door slam.
Sherlock doesn't come out again for the rest of the night.
***
When John falls asleep, he dreams of dying. Again. There is the sudden blooming pain in his shoulder, the vertiginous sensation of the world tipping and reeling around him, and the grind of gravel under his knees and his clutching hands and then against his face.
The blackness swallows him whole, and the fragment of himself that knows he's dreaming expects to wake, panting and sweating with his heart pounding in his throat.
He wakes, bound in clinging sheets.
Wait. No, John realises. Not bedsheets, but a shroud. His body is cold and heavy. He does not breathe, does not blink, and his body does not move when he tries to wrest free of his bindings. His limbs are weighted down as if made of lead.
A switch in perspective, then. He is still motionless, but he can also see the wider scene: a row of bodies, of which his is only one. Dog-tags glint at the throat of each (he knows all the names, they are forever inscribed in his mind) and crimson blooms against the bleached cerements, marking their mortal wounds.
There is a dark figure among the white, intoning quiet words in an even darker voice.
Sherlock! John wants to shout, but he cannot. Even his lungs will not budge to draw breath. Sherlock moves with unhurried grace among the dead, one by one, murmuring to each in low Latin, passing his hand over them, pressing his palm in benediction to their heads when he is finished.
And then it is John's turn.
Sherlock's hand grazes down John's body, from forehead to abdomen, and the sheet falls away as cleanly as if it were cut. As if it were a body bag with a zipper. John wants to flinch, would welcome even the sensation of horripilation creeping over his exposed skin.
Instead, he has the heat of Sherlock's hands. They are shockingly warm as Sherlock pokes and prods at John's wound, at his scars, at the structure of his bones beneath his skin. And as he goes, he speaks.
"You were shot from above, by a sniper on high ground while you crouched over your patient, a fellow soldier wounded by shrapnel from a roadside bomb. He was a lost cause before you even arrived; he would have died of sepsis within eighteen hours even with the best surgeons in the country. Well, that country." He picks up one of Johns limp hands and turns it over, drawing a fingertip along the creases. "Three people have died under your care due to insufficient skill or training …"
On and on he goes, not proper Last Rites, but a litany of John's sins, of all his failures, both big and small, as if Sherlock is reading the text of John's life in every pore. John has never felt smaller than this, his every flaw magnified beneath Sherlock's scrutiny. And yet, each time Sherlock touches him, he grows a little warmer. Pins and needles prick the edges of his limbs, his diaphragm shifts to pull a thin trickle of air down his throat and into his lungs, and his eyes begin to water, though he still cannot blink.
Sherlock moves away, and when he returns, he brings his hand up to John's face, smearing oil on John's forehead. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I bear witness to your sins," Sherlock says, "and grant you forgiveness." His hand passes before John's face, and for a moment, like the flicker of a single frame in a film, it is not covered in oil, but in brilliant crimson blood.
And then it is simply oil again, richly perfumed and blessed to purity. Sherlock's fore and middle fingers spread wide in a vee, and he closes John's eyes. Darkness hides him from Sherlock's gaze, a small mercy after so much vulnerability.
This is the part where, again, John expects to wake. But no. Sherlock's hand burns a brand into his skin, rousing him from death. He moves from John's eyelids to his mouth to his throat, murmuring in Latin again. He presses his palm over John's heart, and it begins to beat. Fingertips graze his ribs and they draw in a full breath.
Sherlock continues on, his touch moving inexorably down.
And that is when John wakes, heart in his throat and sheets tangling around his legs. He is, to his eternal mortification, hard as stone.
Oh, fuck, he thinks, and buries his head in his hands, even as the details of his dream fragment and begin to fade away.
***
John is spared the embarrassment of facing Sherlock the next morning, finding a text in his mobile that simply says, Meet @ Gelder&Sons when available. This is worrisome (Sherlock could be running around the city in disguise without John's sworn supervision) and also gratifying, as Sherlock seems to be respecting the often-debated boundaries of John's work schedule. "Debated," of course, being a blanket term for "argued," "scoffed at," and "wholly disregarded."
The worry wins out, and John is distracted with enough potential guilt and fragments of dream-memory that it's a miracle he doesn't prescribe antibiotics for the middle-aged father who sprained his ankle on an icy patch, and 'rest, ice, compression, and elevation' to the twelve year old girl with an ear infection. His phone remains mercifully silent, despite the fact that he steals a bit of his lunch hour to ring up Padre Owen. He does have to do a bit of careful wording when Owen asks him what Sherlock is doing while John's at the practise, but he manages somehow.
And then, though it seemed to take an eternity, his shift is over, and John finds himself dawdling a bit before leaving. He tells himself he's being conscientious as he restocks the supplies, when in actual fact he's a bloody coward. He doesn't want to look Sherlock in the eye after the dream last night (had it been a sex dream? Or hadn't it? A man his age should be able to tell), and he doesn't want to see what liberties Sherlock will attempt to get away with when people believe he's a man of the cloth.
Sherlock texts three minutes after John's shift officially ended, and seventeen after his last patient left. At shop, it says, Fr.B uncooperative. John sighs as he grabs his coat.
"Oh," Sarah say with a warm smile (that's a mercy, at least, that they're both still friendly) as they pass each other in the hall. "Sorry, but we won't need you for the weekend after all. Appointments are a bit thin, I'm afraid. We'll ring you if it changes, yeah?"
"That would be great," he says, and considers adding, Good to know you still know my number, but decides against it. "Have a good weekend, Sarah," he says instead.
"You too, John," she says, her smile deepening to crinkle the corners of her eyes, just slightly. "Don't get into too much trouble."
"Ha, right," he says. "I'll see what I can do." Her laugh follows him as he turns the corner at the end of the hall.
***
When John arrives at the shop, Sherlock barely spares him a glance, embroiled as he is in a heated argument with Padre Byrne. They're standing nearly toe-to-toe, and John's not sure he's ever seen the clergyman this enraged.
"–harass my parishioners like this!"
"Whoa, whoa," John says, shouldering his way in between the two men. "Hold on, what's going on?"
"Your friend," Owen spits, "Wants to interrogate members of my church after they've suffered a terrible loss–"
"A terrible loss of an abusive criminal, yes–" Sherlock interrupts, only to have Owen simply raise his voice and continue on.
"–because he says that their grief will make it more difficult to lie, especially to a priest!" Owen finishes.
John sighs and presses Sherlock back a step with a carefully-angled elbow. "All right, all right, I see," he says with resignation. "Sherlock, would it be an acceptable compromise to tell the Padre what questions to ask, and he went in instead?"
"Not at all," Sherlock replies coldly. "He won't know what physical tells he should be observing."
Owen snorts and rolls his eyes. "If you think a priest has no experience in picking up on lies," he says, "then clearly you haven't done your research."
Sherlock's eyebrows completely disappear into his unruly fall of curls. "Fine. Then you must have no need of my expertise."
"Wait, Sherlock, no," John says, thinking of his suddenly-free weekend and what it will be like spending it cooped up at Baker Street with a petulant flatmate. He also considers the lost wages from those days and their odds of finally getting a consulting fee from the Yard. "Just give him a chance. If he fails–" he holds a placating hand up to Owen, repeating, "if he fails, then he will have more respect for your skills, and you can try a different tactic. If he succeeds, you will have the information you need to continue, and the Gelder family won't have any reason to suspect they've been questioned. Fair?"
Padre Owen nods. After holding John's gaze for an unsettling amount of time–is it unsettling? Why is it unsettling? It is, with the pale quicksilver colour of Sherlock's eyes reflecting the overcast sky above–Sherlock looks away and lifts his chin. "Fine," he says. "Ask what Peter stole from Marcus."
"Marcus isn't in there," Owen says, "so I doubt he can provide that answer."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth begins to creep up, slowly, in a crooked and delighted grin. "He isn't? Perhaps Michael can provide the answer. And if he cannot, ask when he last saw his brother. It will help me confirm the timeline of events."
Owen frowns. "I think I can manage that. Anything else?"
"No," Sherlock says. "That will be all, for now." His voice is bored and dismissive, making Owen open his mouth as if to retort. John just shrugs and gives him an apologetic smile, and Owen spins on his heel and walks away to enter the shop.
"I always thought clergymen were supposed to be even-tempered," Sherlock muses.
"You, as the saying goes, would try the patience of a saint," John says.
"Mm," Sherlock hums thoughtfully. "Then what does that make you, John?"
John just blinks at him. The only person in all of Creation able to tolerate you, apparently, he wants to say, but that might just be too strange an assertion to make to one's flatmate. So he stays silent, and after a moment, Sherlock turns away in a brusque swirl of his coat, clapping his hands together.
"So!" Sherlock says excitedly, "While Father Byrne is busy distracting Michael Gelder–and, conveniently, himself as well–we will have the chance to case the building." He strides to the end of the block, not looking to see if John will follow.
"Case the building," John echoes under his breath, as he does (inevitably) follow.
***
Sherlock has apparently spent the day scouting the residences of the owners of the final two statues. "The security's a bit tighter, which is why they've been left for last," he says, scrambling up onto a stack of wooden crates that end within arm's reach of a second-story balcony. "But our thief is getting desperate. I'm sure we will be able to–"
He swings himself up onto the balcony in a graceful motion that makes John boggle; Sherlock is wearing so many unwieldy layers that the move seems impossible. The coat and cassock alone, let alone whatever he's wearing beneath … Don't look up the cassock, John scolds himself as he stands watch on the pavement below. Don't even think about it.
Sherlock peers in the windows on both second and third storeys, then shimmies back down, apparently satisfied. "We’ll have to break into the top floor tonight," he says casually. "The family owns the whole building. Just needed to know which flat belonged to Marcus. We'd best get moving, before the good Padre notices that we're missing," Sherlock says. "I'll explain later."
They get back, barely in time. Owen's just leaving the shop.
"What did you find out?" Sherlock asks without preamble.
"Michael last saw his brother yesterday at the morgue, when they identified Peter's body. And he doesn't know anything about Peter taking anything from Marcus. He was upset when I asked, though–I had to make something up about making sure Peter's effects were retrieved from evidence and returned to the right recipients, as some items may have been stolen." Owen frowned. "Which, as it's actually possible, I promised I'd take care of." He shakes his head. "So much trouble, all over plaster statues …"
"Thank you," John says. "That's very helpful, isn't it, Sherlock?"
"Absolutely. My thanks, Father," Sherlock says, grinning broadly and falsely. John tries not to wince. "We should have this case wrapped up by tomorrow evening at the latest."
"Good," Owen says, eyes narrowing. "I don't want any more disruption to this family or my parish, you understand?"
"Yes, yes we do," John says vehemently before Sherlock can draw a breath. "And we'll do what we can to minimise the impact."
"Fair enough," Owen says with a rueful smile. "Thank you, John. I'll see you both tomorrow–if not sooner, God willing."
"Tomorrow, then," John agrees, as Sherlock hails a cab.
***
When they arrive at Baker Street, John’s mobile chirps. "Ah, that’ll be Lucy," Sherlock says before John has even flipped his phone open.
"Yes, she says she wants to meet up tonight," John says with no little surprise. He stares at the display for a moment before moving to tuck the phone away in his coat.
Sherlock’s hand interrupts the motion, long gloved fingers closing around John’s wrist. "You should go," he advises. "I suspect she knows more than she’s letting on."
John blinks. "But we were going to–"
Sherlock squeezes John’s wrist once before letting go and heading up the stairs. "I can check Marcus’ flat myself. Don’t worry, I’ll call if I need you–but if Marcus is indeed our culprit, he’ll be out, going after one of the two remaining statues. With any luck, he’ll get caught by one of Lestrade’s teams." He slants a sideways smile at John from the landing. "It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if your charms managed to secure a key witness for this case."
John starts reviewing restaurant options in his mind as he climbs the staircase.
***
In the end, he settles on a small Italian place not far from Gelder & Sons, partly because it will be easy for Lucy to find and also handily located in case Sherlock runs afoul of Marcus Gelder. It’s small and quiet without being too intimate, a perfect setting for whatever confidences the poor girl might want to share with him.
Lucy arrives five minutes late, flustered and rosy-cheeked, hands chapped from the brisk chill outside. "I’m so sorry I’m late," she says. "Everything’s been such a mess since … well. It’s all I can do to keep it all together."
"I understand, believe me," he says. "Be glad you’re not in medicine."
Lucy gives a fleeting smile at this and hangs her coat on the back of a chair before sitting down. "What kind of medicine?" she asks.
"Mostly locum work, at the moment. I was a medic in Afghanistan, though, so I’ve had my fair share of the world going a bit pear-shaped on me."
"Oh, that must have been awful," she says earnestly. "All those wounded soldiers and all that blood …" She hunches her shoulders up round her ears, hugging herself with both arms. The cuff of one sleeve slides back from her wrist and John does see the telltale bruising, as predicted.
"Oh," he says, reaching one hand half across the table, palm upwards. "Oh, don’t, please. I didn’t bring you here to hear my war stories."
Her eyes flit up from the tablecloth, and she musters another half smile. "Well. It’s good to have a reminder that it could be worse, I suppose."
"That’s the spirit," he says, trying not to take that the wrong way. "Come on, I’ll bet you haven’t had a proper meal in days. It’ll be on me if you promise me one thing."
"What’s that?"
"Don’t blame yourself. Whatever happened, I’m sure you weren’t at fault."
Lucy’s eyes go wide and round and soft. One hand creeps across the table to rest in John’s palm. "Really? I just … Peter and I were going to get married, and I keep thinking that maybe if we’d never …" Her shoulders sag. "I don’t know. I just keep going round and round everything, and it all seems to end up the same."
He squeezes her hand gently. "There probably wasn’t anything you could have done," he says, nudging the menu in her direction. "A decent dinner will be a start, and we can just talk. About whatever you like. All right?"
Lucy gives him a nod, a watery smile, and a sniffle. She takes the menu, her hand slipping from his. "You never did explain how you wound up in our store," she comments. "A priest and a doctor walk into a pottery shop … Sounds like a bad joke set-up."
John chuckles and proceeds to tell her a highly edited version of meeting Padre Owen, letting her think that he’s referring to Sherlock. And then the follow-up story of the goat that found its way into the mess hall.
She counters with the story of a painting student who used a dozen mice and a whole palette of non-toxic vegetable dye for their work.
"–they were finding rainbow-hued tufts of fur everywhere in the building all winter!"
John laughs so hard he almost cries.
***
"Oh, damn," Lucy says, when they leave the restaurant. "I forgot my house keys at the shop. D’you mind terribly if …?"
"Not at all," John says, acutely aware that he's learned more about intaglio than her part in the Gelder family tragedy. "Let me walk you over. It’s dark and you’ve been through enough stress lately."
"You don’t have to–" Lucy protests, but when he lifts his eyebrows and offers her his arm, she capitulates and takes it. They walk in companionable silence for a few blocks.
"If you wanted to talk about Peter," he ventures, "I told you before, I’m willing to be a friendly ear if you need one."
She sighs and grips his elbow more tightly. "He was a good bloke," she starts. "I mean, aside from the thieving. But you know, artists are attracted to nonconformity." Lucy gives a little laugh–at herself, at the cliché, he can’t be sure.
They get to the shop, and John tries not to look up, see if there’s any sign of Sherlock moving about in the flat above. "D’you want to come in, I’ve been working on a piece for him. A … tribute, like."
John blinks. "Sure, absolutely."
Lucy continues her story as she unlocks the door and disengages the alarm. "It was his da that was the trouble. Peter should have known better than to give me his mother’s engagement ring–he didn’t ask, just nicked it from his father."
She sighs a little and leads the way to the workshop in the back without flipping on the lights, used to navigating around the space. They weave around racks of in-progress pieces, molds, and materials, towards the line of work counters and sinks at the far wall that John can see faintly in the dim light coming through the windows.
He follows Lucy’s voice: "I should have known better than to take it. But you know how it is. Getting caught up in a whirlwind and all that." She turns a corner and he loses sight of her for an instant. "Like when you met Mr. Holmes," she says, quietly.
John starts to smile fondly, then freezes. "I never–" he starts.
"No," she says, sounding sad. "You never did." He realises that she’s looped around behind him, and turns–
–only to find the pale blur of a plaster statue being swung at his head.
He drops like a stone.
***
He wakes to find Sherlock crouched over him in a small room, clay figures in rows on shelving all round them. Still in the shop, then, he thinks vaguely. Everything is bathed in a muted, red glow.
Sherlock is muttering as he cuts through the restraints on John's ankles, "Next date you go on, I’m getting you a helmet … Honestly, John, I can’t believe–"
"Lucy," John groans. "Knew who you were."
"Of course she did. You gave her your card. She looked up your blog, obviously."
"Where–" John tries to sit up, but Sherlock’s hands are like a vise on his shoulders, keeping him still. "How?"
Sherlock lets out a snort. "Silly nit sent a photo of you all trussed up, using your phone. Gave a vague threat and demanded I get her the ring and then give her 24 hours to get out of the city. Of course, I figured out where you were. Don’t think she expected me to be nearby." He gives a small smile. "Not the brightest when she panics, our Lucy."
"Where is she?"
"Gone. Probably wants some distance, in case–"
Sherlock is awfully, terribly wrong. There is a heavy creak, then a clang, and Sherlock’s gone from John’s side in an instant, shouting, "Lucy! Lucy, open the door! You don’t want to do this! Marcus was self-defence, but this is murder!" His voice echoes oddly in the small space, and John sits up to get a better look around.
"Sherlock, please tell me we aren’t in a kiln," he says, feeling calm and disconnected. He lifts his hand and touches it to his throbbing head, only to have his fingers come away wet.
"I’m sorry, Mister Holmes," Lucy says, her voice faint through the door. "Really I am. I just don’t know what else to do."
"Let us out!"
"And get arrested–for murder and theft and whatever else? No, I can’t. I’m sorry." Then, quieter, "I wish Marcus had killed me with Peter. This is all my fault."
And then she’s gone. Sherlock pounds on the door and shouts her name, but there’s only the distant sound of machinery whirring to life, the heating mechanism starting up, indifferent to its new inhabitants.
"Fuck," John says, his muscles weak and his joints like liquid as he tries to stand. He slumps back against the wall.
***
Please God, let me live, John had thought, after a few long moments of agony down in the Afghani dirt, his ears still ringing from the bomb that had upset the first truck in the convoy. Please, God, and when he'd realised what he'd been thinking, the shock of it made him exhale sharply, which made the pain spike, and then he didn't know anything at all.
He still hasn't quite processed that shock. His dying thoughts had been a prayer, and it had been answered. Hadn't it?
If it had, what did that mean?
Before that, his general idea of God had been that of an absent-minded Creator, someone who had more to worry about in the infinite vastness of the universe than the petty, daily problems of his Creation. How else to explain the whole scope of Existence, in both its glory and absolute, grinding misery?
And yet …
During the confrontation with Moriarty, John tracked Sherlock's arm as he trained a gun on a pile of explosives. Silently, John closed his eyes and thought, God, please let us get out of this alive, hoping that if there was a fraction of Divine concern for his well-being there might be some to spare for Sherlock, too.
To be fair, he hadn't expected Moriarty to be covered under the unspecified 'us,' but John will take his miracles where he gets them and choose his words more carefully next time.
–if they are miracles, of course. He's still wavering, but vaguely grateful. And he'd rather take the long odds than no odds at all, when he's staring death in the face.
So his last thought, before the heat of the furnace finally puts him under, is Please God, don't let us die like this.
***
When he comes to in the ambulance, his first thought is, three for three, before he drifts out again.
***
"–glad you tipped me off about Marcus’ body when you did," Lestrade is saying. "You’d both have died if we hadn’t searched the building in time."
"Did you catch Lucy?" Sherlock asks, voice rough with dehydration.
"Yes," Lestrade replies. "Caught her at a train station, trying to leave the city. Are you sure we can’t pin both murders on her?"
"Absolutely," Sherlock says. "Marcus Gelder’s corpse has a cut on the right thumb from the burnisher he used to stab his son. Impromptu weapon; he didn’t know how to handle it. If Lucy had been using it, she wouldn’t have a cut, but as Marcus does, it points to his guilt. As for the ring: you retrieved it?"
"Took some doing, but yeah. Turns out, it's from one of Marcus' old jobs. Worth a hefty sum–no wonder they were all rabid for it."
Sherlock makes a small dubious noise, then says, "I think, in Lucy's case, it was sentiment that undid her. Sentiment and blind terror."
"H’llo, Lestrade," John interrupts, lifting himself up on the pillows.
"Oh, good, you’re not dead," Lestrade remarks. "I really do prefer arriving at a crime scene where you’re both conscious."
"We’ll keep that in mind," John offers. Lestrade gives him a dubious look.
***
They’re fine with another couple of hours of IV fluids and numerous fussing nurses and doctors taking blood-pressure and temperature readings so often that even John starts getting grumpy. Still, they have to stay until everyone is assured they’re well.
"Thai?" Sherlock offers once they’re released, and John’s stomach growls in agreement.
"What did I miss?" John asks when they’ve ordered. "Tell me everything." Sherlock complies with enthusiasm; of course, dramatic exposition is one of his favourite parts of a case.
Peter had stolen a costly engagement ring from his father to give to Lucy. Upon discovering the theft, Marcus threatened Peter, and when she heard about it, a panicked Lucy hid the ring in one of the still-drying statues. She set that batch aside for the painted six, hoping to retrieve it later.
Of course, she hadn't really thought it through, and under the watchful gaze of her employer, she never got a chance to 'accidentally' break the proper statue before it left the shop. So the artist was forced to turn burglar, with her more experienced fiancee lending a hand. Marcus caught on and followed them; they fought, and Marcus used one of the printmaking tools Lucy had in her kit–" … the so-called ingenuity of artists," Sherlock scoffed, "adapting their tools to any task at hand, in this case burglary. I noticed the scratches around the lock also had a triangular shape. Still, it worked." –to stab his son.
Lucy escaped but was again cornered by Marcus and killed him in self defence. "Almost the same way she got you, John; there were plaster fragments in his head wound," Sherlock points out. "I found his body last night in his bath, covered in ice."
"He got ice and we got fire," John says.
"But we survived," Sherlock responds with a smile.
***
They get back to the flat in high spirits after a good meal and another victory against London's criminal element, only to find the front door of 221 Baker Street locked. This is quite possibly another one of Mrs. Hudson's passive-aggressive reminders to keep regular hours, or at least to "keep things down after midnight, for heaven's sake." So John fumbles for his keys, while Sherlock mutters in a gently disgruntled way under his breath.
As he turns back to Sherlock, John notices that they're still covered in bits of clay and plaster from passing out on the kiln floor. He reaches out to brush it off his flatmate's expensive coat, and when Sherlock realises what he's doing he grumbles some more. John replies that perhaps quiet and a tidy front hall are acceptable expectations from the woman who turns a blind eye to hazardous waste in her rubbish bins.
It's around the time that Sherlock stoops over and combs through his hair with his fingers, bits of glazed ceramic shaking out of the curls with faint pattering sounds, that John starts grinning stupidly at his life. Perhaps before, even–this wouldn't be the first occasion he's done so and it won't be the last. Then Sherlock straightens up, an answering smile on his face, his hair a dishevelled cloud around his temples, and John thinks, quite clearly, I want to kiss him.
It also occurs to him that this isn't the first time he's wanted to; it's just the first time he's allowed himself to actually acknowledge the wrench of attraction without guilt, or confusion, or hesitation.
And, god help him, he does it. He doesn't even think about it. His keys are mashed against Sherlock's lapels and his cracked lips are screaming bloody murder where they're sealed against Sherlock's mouth, but there it is.
Sherlock pulls back, looking wild around the eyes. John has a moment to consider whether his attraction to danger has less to do with adrenaline addiction and more to do with an actual death wish before Sherlock exhales, "Yes," against his mouth. And then, "Finally," before they're kissing again.
Sherlock crowds him against the door and does his level best to drive John insane with his warm mouth and his slick tongue and just enough teeth against John's lower lip to send spikes of sensation jolting down his spine. John tangles his fingers in Sherlock's hair and hauls him closer till the heat of their bodies bleeds and mingles through their clothes.
John pulls back for air, his head knocking against the door.
Several things occur to him: one, they're on the wrong side of the door. They're still outside, exposed to any passer-by and any number of surveillance cameras (both official and unofficial). He's not entirely keen on the fact that Mycroft now has them on tape.
Secondly: what the hell?
"Of all the times for you to decide to start thinking," Sherlock huffs. "Although your point about the cameras is a good one."
"How–"
"You glanced up over my shoulder and then your forehead crumpled up. And yes, we'll probably have commemorative copies of the video files by morning."
John manages the door handle as best he can without looking behind him and stumbles back and in as soon as it's open, getting some necessary space between them. Sherlock follows, stripping his gloves off, stuffing them in one pocket while practically stalking after John. "Go on," he says. "Say them. All the stupid reasons you've thought up for why this is a bad idea."
"Flattery," John grumbles in protest and tries to sort it all out. "Married to your work?" he manages.
"Work seems to have taken a shine to you," Sherlock responds. "And if you can put up with me under all other circumstances, I think your ego can handle the same under expanded terms for our relationship." He hooks his hands around John's waist and just breathes against the edge of John's ear before adding, "Although I am open to negotiation."
"Oh my God," John says, and tries to remember how stairs work, dragging Sherlock along. He shrugs out of his jacket on the way, planning to sit down and talk with Sherlock once they reach the living room. But Sherlock's right there when they reach the doorway, so John has to pull him in and shove him up against the wall to get a bit of his own back. Naturally.
Sherlock crumples against the wall, his mouth open and pliant beneath John's, deft fingers rucking up John's shirt to stroke bare skin. John presses forward with a dirty roll of his hips, half hard and getting harder at the small encouraging noises that Sherlock is making in the back of his throat. He breaks away to shove at Sherlock's heavy coat.
When John pulls the scarf open, hoping to expose the pale skin of Sherlock's neck, he finds the white notch of the cassock's collar. He exhales sharply and closes his eyes, his head falling forward to rest against Sherlock's shoulder. "This is ridiculous," he says. "Why on Earth are you still wearing this?"
"I wore it to Marcus’ flat in case he was still alive. Devout Catholic like that, might’ve given me a psychological edge. Is that really your only remaining objection to this–to us?" Sherlock asks irritably. "Here I thought you were being noble or sensible or some kind of self-sacrificing rubbish." He slides one palm to the small of John's back and aligns their bodies. "When all this time, you simply didn't know." There is more than enough evidence to convince John that Sherlock's not the untouchable, unattainable figure he once appeared to be. Not a monk, not a celibate priest in the Church of Reason, and–oh. Nothing like a saint.
John hisses through his teeth, his hands fisting around the fabric of Sherlock's coat. "How–how was I supposed to–" he says against Sherlock's jawline, closing his eyes against the damning collar.
It is somewhat gratifying to hear Sherlock's breath catch as he answers, "D-don't be obtuse, John. Lestrade's been making comments for months."
Well. John's gotten somewhat accustomed to people making assumptions about them. Perhaps he could adjust his opinions of other people's intuition a bit. He laughs. The both of us could, at that, he thinks. "I did have a dream about you," he admits, dragging his teeth along the line of muscle in Sherlock's neck.
"Oh?" Sherlock asks in a voice more breath than speech.
"You were giving me Last Rites," John says without thinking, grinding his pelvis forward, the hot line of Sherlock's erection at his hip irresistible enticement. "And you brought me back to life." When he realises what he's said, he freezes in place, mortified.
Instead of reacting like a sane, normal person and oh, running for the hills screaming, Sherlock pants a laugh into John's hair. "Hah," he says, "I can keep the cassock on, if you like." John rolls his eyes.
"No, oh god, no, shut up–" John says, hooking his fingers around that damned collar and dragging Sherlock back in for a kiss. It's a long minute of shared breath and trying to crawl under each other's skin through their clothes before they part again. John pulls away, taking the scrap of white linen and cardboard with him–just a disguise, after all, a cheap costume Sherlock doesn't need any longer – and lets it drop to the floor.
"That's better," he says, and Sherlock gives him a wicked smile. It's the same smile he reserves for proposing they go into a known drug kingpin's lair or attempt to purchase extra bullets from the black market using Anderson's credit card.
"Not as good as it's going to be," Sherlock promises, and steers John backwards towards the bedroom.
***
The buttons on the cassock are a nightmare. And, beyond that, Sherlock has a vest and trousers and pants, all black and of course they didn't think to turn on the light.
John generally considers himself to be a very patient man., but this is simply unfair. It's only with Sherlock's help–and it usually takes more than this to make John properly clumsy–that they get undressed at all.
But then, finally, they are both rid of their offending garments, and John has Sherlock's hot, hard length in his hand. They're sprawled in haphazard, misaligned angles across the bed and John stares down at the sight below him, his own erection weeping trails against Sherlock's narrow waist. Sherlock arches up in time with his strokes, his eyelids flickering shut and his own touches becoming erratic over John's skin.
"John," he's saying, and "please," and "oh," and then "yes" when John bends down and takes one of Sherlock's nipples between his teeth. He comes in hot slick pulses over John's hand, his spine bending in a steep arc as he presses the back of one wrist to his mouth to muffle his ecstatic shout.
John lifts his head to just look at Sherlock, who is collapsed below him with heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips. Sherlock looks … well, John doesn't have words for it, but an image of baroque white marble flickers through his mind. Then Sherlock opens those pale-pale eyes of his and surges upwards, rolling them both over so that he can–
"Ohmygod," John says in a gasp, because he's pretty sure Teresa didn't have a mouth like this. Sherlock's lips are a brand, his flickering tongue a flame setting John's nerves alight. "I want–I, I want–" John says blindly, and Sherlock lifts his head for a moment to catch his eye.
"Yes," is all Sherlock says, and then he bends down again to take John completely apart.
***
Sherlock breaks the pleasant, companionable silence that follows with, "You never took the Lord's name in vain before Afghanistan."
John feels his diaphragm clench and his mouth stretch into a smile. He holds back the giggle. This is absurd. Of all the things to say … "Yes, yes, you're right." It had been one of the last behavioural strictures he'd kept for himself, but it had been absolutely, irrevocably broken with the crack of gunfire during his first terrifying skirmish. "How can you tell?"
"You have a faint touch of an accent when you blaspheme, as if you picked up the habit around others from … mm, I'd say southern America, but I don't have enough data to say for sure."
That's enough to set John off. "You–you were deducing me while we were–" He rolls onto his side and allows the laughter to bubble up out of him, post-coital endorphins and the sheer absurdity of it all seizing him. "Oh for–for heaven's sake," he manages when he can draw a proper breath, "How is this going to work?"
Beside him, Sherlock props himself up on his elbows, frowning. "You don't think it will? Then why did you kiss me?"
"Oh, it will," John assures him, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's forearm, rubbing circles against the fine hairs with his thumb. "I know it will. I just don't understand how."
Sherlock looks mollified, but just barely. "Conclusions without even a hypothesis to support them are rubbish. You've no proof."
"Oh," John says, tugging Sherlock into a kiss. "But I have faith," he says, and Sherlock huffs a small, disbelieving laugh but kisses him back anyway.
***
John wakes alone in a tent of heavy and faded olive drab canvas, the sides stitched together with rope through eyelets that bleed rusty stains down the seams. There is a familiar silhouette at the entrance, one hand brushing the flap aside as if it is a window curtain. Beyond that are the brightness of the Afghani sun and the faint sound of gunfire.
"Who are you?" John hears himself asking, even though he knows the answer.
"Joan of Arc," Sherlock replies.
"You're not French," John points out. Because that's the major problem with what Sherlock's just said.
"I am, actually," Sherlock says, letting the curtain fall. "On my mother's side."
"Ah," John says as if this explains everything. "What are you doing up? Come back to bed." He feels a little thrill as he says this, because he can say it, can pull Sherlock down to the pile of blankets and pillows and do whatever he likes to him now. It's fantastic.
"In a moment," Sherlock says. "I want to see how the battle is going." He pushes the canvas aside again.
John pulls a sheet around his waist and pads across the room, toes digging into the thick plush Persian carpeting unrolled over the dirt floor. When he joins Sherlock, they're standing at the window in the living room of 221b, watching men in armour fight on the London street. The sounds of gunfire are now clashing swords.
Lestrade fells a giant in maille and a crimson tunic and pauses to wave up at them. John lifts a hand to wave back.
"He fights for justice," Sherlock is saying. "But he doesn't see the larger picture. He doesn't see what I see. I'm the only one, John. I see things that others don't and I–" His voice falters, and John looks at him, concerned. Sherlock's face is placid, but a line flexes in his jaw.
"Is that why I'm here?" John says.
"You are my sword and my shield and my solace, John," Sherlock says, stepping in close, looping his arms around John's waist and resting his chin on John's shoulder, still staring out the window. "You allow me to focus on what's important."
"Thought I'd be a distraction," John says lightly.
"No," Sherlock corrects. "You keep me grounded. You keep me from being blinded to what I overlook by those things only I can see. You keep me from being consumed by the hunt." And outside the window the street is a verdant field, far, far below, and Lestrade sits astride a horse, a swarm of hounds keeping pace as they chase a fox with Moriarty's face.
John turns in Sherlock's embrace. "Come to bed," he says, taking Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock follows without a word.
***
After the case wraps up, John visits Padre Byrne every Saturday afternoon. This time, Owen's outside in the courtyard, staring at a smallish square patch of earth thoughtfully. A faint hint of spring is creeping into the air, stronger every day. Time for planting. "Vegetables or flowers?" he asks without turning to look at John.
"Vegetables–carrots and lettuce and tomatoes, maybe? Get the students to help, send the results to the soup kitchen," John suggests.
Owen looks at him, smiling. "Such a generous soul you are, John … I just finished writing tomorrow's sermon. Would you like to hear it?"
"All right," John replies, already knowing how Owen will respond. It's become their private ritual, this exchange.
"Then you should come to Mass tomorrow morning."
John grins. "Maybe." He always says 'maybe,' and they both know he always means 'no.' But Owen will always offer–not prod or push, but offer, a fine distinction that John appreciates. It's why he says 'maybe' every week instead of ‘no.’ Maybe one Saturday, he'll actually mean 'yes.'
"Still living in sin with that detective of yours?" Owen says as they wander back inside, towards warmth.
John ducks his head and scrubs at the short hairs on the back of his head with one hand. "Yeah, I suppose you could call it that."
"You're not married," Owen points out.
"Not fair, mate," John says. "It's not like we could, not here, anyway." He still remembers the distressed phone call from Harriet, back when he’d been in Afghanistan. He'd arranged an eight-hour gap to catch up on rest between surgeries, and half of them had been spent on a phone because she and Clara couldn't have a 'proper wedding.'
Owen stops in the hallway to face him. "You're a decorated war veteran, not to mention a good friend of mine, and that madman you've fallen for is one of the most heroic civilians I've had the mixed fortune of meeting. I see his name in the papers more often than you think. A man could do a lot worse than you two, if he wanted a good example to fight his own superiors over."
John blinks, sets his jaw, and nods. "Bit early, still," he manages. "But thanks."
Owen nods curtly, and they continue on.
- END -
Post-fic note: this is what a burnisher looks like (the printmaking tool that Marcus used to kill Peter). Artists get the best weapons and the best chemicals, I sweartogod.
Author:
saathi1013 Summary: Sherlock dons an unusual disguise for a case. John is…conflicted. Character study, casefic, & smut (in that order).
Spoilers: The whole of BBC’s Sherlock (series/season 1), plus various references to Arthur Conan Doyle’s original Sherlock Holmes canon, and a subtle nod or two towards the Granada series.
Pairing: John/Sherlock, first-time.
Rating: NC-17 for sexual content
Warnings: Violence, sexual content, heresy and blasphemy on many, many levels, and fucked-up dream sequences.
Word Count: ~14.5k
A/N: Eternal gratitude to
mazarin221b & carolyn_claire for their patience, encouragement, and occasionally-frustrating thoroughness (which is the best possible thing to have in a beta, honestly). Much <3 to Marielikestodraw for the stunning header image that you'll find under the cut - her talent and enthusiasm for my work will never cease to astonish me. Special thanks to AccioAyla, because she's known about this plot bunny longer than anyone else (and as a result, has had to wait longer than anyone should have for the finished story).** Now available in Russian, thanks to 82al07il! [ Part 1 ] [ Part 2 ]
*****
(header art by MarieLikestoDraw)
When John Watson was a child, he had been, for a very short time, an altar boy at his family's Catholic church. This fact rarely fails to elicit amusement in those who learn it. Very few do; he considers his past faith inconsequential to those around him, of as much interest as the phase he went through when he was twelve, absolutely obsessed with Doctor Who. Some respond with remarks along the lines of, "Of course you were, it all makes sense now," (those relationships never last long) or, "Oh, I'm sorry …?"
"It was ages ago," he will reply, or, with a shrug, "What can I say? I was young." The latter is only partially true–nothing compares to the innocent piety of youth–but the more honest response is, "I was a different person, then."
In fact, John Watson considers his life a progression of selves. Not literally–he hasn't got multiple personalities sharing his head space–but pragmatically, like a scientist who recognizes several states of matter (solid, liquid, gas, and so on). Each state may be made up of the same atoms, but they behave very differently under different kinds of stress, of volume and temperature and pressure. So it is with his life: child, adolescent, university student, medical man, soldier … and now, doctor again, but more importantly: blogger and companion to the world's only consulting detective.
John wonders, occasionally and idly, how healthy it is to define himself by his connections to those around him, how he has been shaped by them, instead of as a singular entity. Then he looks at Sherlock and thinks that it could be worse, really. And it's probably for the best that there is someone like him, willing to forge connections under (and despite, and perhaps because of) remarkable circumstances, in Sherlock's life.
John Watson stopped practising Catholicism long ago, a fact clearly evident to even those lacking Sherlock's deductive skills. He does not observe the regular Sacraments, neither Communion nor Penance. He does not observe holidays in any but secular, familial, and habitual ways. He has broken more of the Commandments than he's entirely comfortable admitting and is not up-to-date on his Catechism.
Despite all of this, it can be argued that, once one has been baptised into Roman Catholicism, it is impossible to escape the Church entirely. In the end, it is always possible to 'return to the fold'–something his grandmother often reminded him of before her death, in her hopeful and passively-insistent way–and some traces of Sunday-schooling in the faith during one's formative years occasionally surface, in both good ways and bad. For instance, John's appreciation of and facility for Latin comes from these years and helped him immensely in learning medicine.
On the other hand, he has vestiges of what is commonly termed 'Catholic guilt,' all the more poignant at times due to the circumstances surrounding his decision to leave the embrace of the Holy Mother Church.
Of all those who have learned of his religious upbringing, no one has ever asked him this; no one has questioned why he left. It seems self-explanatory, in modern times, that John would no longer adhere to what seems from the outside to be a remarkably dated and trouble-plagued religious institution. The closest anyone has come was his roommate in uni, who asked tentatively, "Was … was there something …. Are the scandals true?"
At which, John stammered, "No–no! Well, there have been cases, but I was never one of them. No." His parish priest had been a pleasant if remote old man, someone whom John had adored for holding all the wisdom of God locked in his mind.
Well. It had seemed so, at the time.
What John remembers is this–and it's all a bit hazy with all the intervening years, but this is the best account he would give of his last days in the Church if anyone bothers to ask:
He remembers his sister, fourteen and gawky and suddenly remote, their childhood bond strained to near breaking by the changes her body imposed on her (and the whole family by association). He remembers the long silences, the sulks, the rages. And, most startling of anything, he remembers her crawling into his bed late one night, as if she were suddenly John's age again–as if the intervening years had not happened and they were taking comfort against the monsters in the dark with a flickering torch and a book under the shield of blankets.
He remembers Harry crying, her awkward limbs clutching and twining against his, his pyjamas getting damp with tears and snot. And when her sobs had calmed she had said, in a tiny, hoarse voice, "Freddy called me a lesbo last week."
"I'll feed him his teeth," John replied immediately, fierce and protective, anger overwriting the reality that Freddy Spenson was twice his size.
"No, don't," Harry said. "'Cos I think he's right."
"Oh," John said, and wrapped his arms tight round his sister's bird-fragile shoulders. "D'you still love me, even though I'm a boy?"
Harry had choked a sound that was as close to laughter as she could manage and hugged him tightly back and said, yes, of course, and cried some more until they were both asleep.
And a couple of Sundays later he heard a sermon by Father Michael–the Man Who Knew Everything–about the evils of homosexuality and the diseases that God had inflicted upon mankind for their sins. It was gently put–no fire and brimstone and shouting–but it was pointed and clear. John listened with a sinking stomach the whole way through, and when it was all over he went through the rest of his duties by rote.
It hadn't even been the first sermon on the topic, John realized. It was just that he hadn't really thought about it, all those other times. But now …
That's my sister he's talking about, John thought. He's talking about Harry.
When Mass was finished and they were in the tiny room at the back of the church, John hung up his robes and turned to Father Michael and asked, "Did you really mean all that, what you said about sodomites?" (It was only later that he sorted out the whole 'Sodomites' / 'act of sodomy' / 'what girls actually do in bed together' thing, and was that ever a surprise.)
"Of course," Father Michael replied. "My words during Mass are a reflection of God's will."
"Oh," John said. He gathered up his things and left.
He never returned to another service, to the consternation of his parents. He never explained why, as some part of him already knew that he was the sole keeper of his sister's secret–and when she came out to their parents, years later, it was no longer an issue. Harry never said a word to him about it, but he thinks she understood more than she let on.
Much later, he was grateful for that early decision, as it spared him a lot of internal conflict later on. Not that he couldn't have tried to deny his own sexuality–to be fair, it would have been easier for him than Harry, as his primary inclination was towards women, anyway–but he wouldn't have been entirely happy, either. Just because he can pass as wholly heterosexual doesn't mean that he wants to. Years in the military taught him that distinction.
Not to say that he never looked back, never wondered … In later years, when public opinion on homosexuality had changed–though not entirely, it had perhaps become more tolerant in a resigned and exhausted way–he’d considered looking up churches with more welcoming and progressive views. But there were always more urgent things to do with his time, exams or girls (and the occasional bloke) or, eventually, a war.
It was most difficult for him immediately after the initial split. He’d found himself with whole swathes of suddenly-free time on Sunday mornings, his polished shoes and pressed Sunday best hanging on the back of his bedroom door in silent accusation. "Just in case," his mother said, setting it all out every week with bustling practicality. She never scolded or pleaded with him to join the rest of the family, which was almost worse–his parents had their hands too full with Harry's antics by that time to fret over their solemn, sensible, responsible son.
Instead, they’d left him in the care of their neighbour, an older gentleman with a pack of small scruffy dogs that swarmed over the garden every time John went to visit. He watched war films with John and taught him checkers and told stories about his time in the Royal Navy, sinking U-boats (it also took John a while to realize that these were not actually boats curved in the shape of the letter 'U').
The closest John came to a 'relapse,' for lack of a better term, were the handful of times he went back to the church–usually in the middle of a week, just after school. In the quiet, empty building with no sermons or parishioners or hymns filling up the space he felt a faint echo of the old comfort he had experienced in his faith. Occasionally he prayed, but only silence answered. He realized that there were reasons that people came together to worship, but he could not bring himself to return to a community led by men so obviously flawed and petty and wrong.
The most puzzling thing about it all was that Harry continued to attend church. Still does, from what he can tell.
He wonders if that's why she drinks. Maybe the struggle between the duties to one's faith and to one's identity are easier to ignore when one is often either intoxicated or hungover … But that is, perhaps, an uncharitable and over-simplistic thought, so he tries not to think it too often.
***
John keeps expecting Sherlock to comment on his religious upbringing, some acerbic remark about his conflicted morals, about Catholic guilt and all of that rubbish, but it never comes. And then he realizes that Sherlock doesn't know. The man who can tell everything about a stranger with a quick glance at their shoes does not know this bit of John's history.
It seems impossible.
But the stark reality of it hits him in the face one morning when he comes downstairs on his day off to find Sherlock straightening his collar. Straightening the collar of his black dress shirt, to be precise, with the signature white notch in the front.
John simply cannot speak.
Sherlock flicks him an irritated glance. "About time, I was about to leave without you." Then he takes in John's reaction and rolls his eyes. "Oh, don't get all fussed about disrespect, technically I am working for the Church … albeit temporarily."
"What …" John manages, then rallies. "A case, then?"
"Yes, John, a case," Sherlock responds. "You received an email this morning from a man named Owen Byrne–am I correct in assuming by his sign-off as 'Padre' that he was a military chaplain with whom you associated during your time as a soldier? Never mind, of course I'm correct. His parish seems to be having a problem with vandals. Usually I would ignore such a trifle, but the pattern is strikingly specific, and yet–"
"I received an email?" John interjects.
"Well, yes, but the message was intended as a request to me via the connection to you, so I didn't think you would mind if I answered for you–and, by extension myself–in the affirmative."
John puts up with this kind of behaviour far too often. On the other hand, it seems that Sherlock will be engaged in a case instead of running appalling experiments or worse, sulking about the flat on John's day off. Not to mention, it will be nice to have something to distract from his lack of a date this evening.
It's been weeks since Sarah kindly but firmly shut the door on that particular possibility, and John's still smarting. Not that she hadn't been perfectly reasonable; there are only so many times a girl can get stood up or imperilled, after all. But still, she's lovely, and seeing her every day reminds John of the pleasant normalcy he's given up in favour of adventure.
"–all right," John says finally. "But let me get some breakfast before we go. You can fill me in on the details while I eat."
"I could fill you in on the cab ride over," Sherlock grumbles, but collapses onto one of the kitchen chairs in acquiescence, his legs sprawling under the spread of an honest-to-god cassock. The trailing silk fringe of the fascia carelessly drags across the floor in a way that makes John want to wince.
He puts the question of 'How on earth did you get an accurate cassock on such short notice?' on hold for later. The answer will probably be ridiculous, and this certainly isn't the first time Sherlock has used a disguise for a case. At least this time he's foregone anything else, like that awful wig, or the teeth, or the nose …
***
The case, as it stands, is this:
Father Owen Byrne is currently the pastor of a small parish whose congregation is mostly made up of elderly men and women with modest pensions but generous souls and families with enough money to send their children to the affiliated public school. Fund-raising and charity drives are common, from regular collections of tinned goods for the food bank to a yearly raffle of two round-trip tickets to Rome to see the Pope.
The latest fund-raiser involved the peddling (Sherlock's word, John thinks, certainly not the Padre's) of small plaster statues of the Virgin Mary for the purposes of sponsoring the school's upcoming term. Most are plain white with a clear glaze, but six were hand-painted by members of each classroom (elected by a democratic vote among the children in each class) and given to the top five highest-donating members of the parish. One was retained for display in the pastor's office.
Three of these have been destroyed. First, Father Byrne returned from his duties at the local homeless shelter to find his door ajar and plaster shards all over his office rug. He assumed that this was merely a childish fit of pique on the part of a student who felt slighted when their artwork was not chosen for use in the fund-raiser.
However, in both of the subsequent cases, the home of a wealthy donor was burgled somewhat clumsily, their statue removed and broken on the pavement outside, with no other disturbance or theft from the house. The police, of course, gave these incidents a low priority, but the very strangeness of it all sent Father Byrne to look for alternate sources of help.
He recalled spotting John's name in a newspaper article, linked to the name of a private detective–Sherlock sniffs at the designation in the retelling, saying, "–and the rest was a lot of him playing on your sympathies. You can read it some other time."
***
"Come on, John," Sherlock says with impatience. It is not merely the chill in the air that causes him to stamp his feet and flex his hands inside his gloves as John pays the cab driver but his preternatural delight at having a new puzzle before him, ripe for the solving. John rolls his eyes.
"Never thought I'd see you so excited to go to a church," he comments dryly, and Sherlock grins at him.
"Not one word about being struck by lightning as I cross the threshold, John," Sherlock says in falsely-stern tones.
John suppresses his own answering smile. "Best keep your gloves on, though," he responds. Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "You could get contact burns from consecrated objects if you're not careful."
It is perhaps not entirely accidental that Sherlock jostles him into the door frame as they enter the building.
The vestibule is hushed and dim, long stripes of variegated colour falling across the stone floors from the strips of abstractly-stained windows. John blinks to let his eyes adjust from the piercing cool winter light outside to the subdued warmth of the church. There is something familiar about the air, hushed as it is. It smells of stone and of wood polish and of candle-smoke, but there are also the faint remnants of canonically-prescribed incenses and oils and flowers from years of Easters and Christmases and marriages and baptisms.
Above it all is the familiar feel of the place, unlike anything else John has experienced, barring a few notable exceptions. Were he more fanciful, he would describe it as a presence, but the pragmatic side of him simply thinks that it's his own awareness of the significance of the place, of decades, if not centuries, of ritual, thousands of people from bygone ages coming to this place, over and over again, speaking much the same words, confessing the same sins of the flesh, each feeling small and alone but seeking a connection with something greater than themselves. He inhales deeply and feels it settle about his shoulders, an unexpected pang of wistfulness threading through his lungs.
He shakes it off and looks around for Sherlock. The detective is still beside him, and John realizes that Sherlock is waiting for him, watching with that ever-clear gaze. Ah, John thinks ruefully, Well, there are those secrets gone, then. He wonders how many he has left and if he should be more worried about the exponentially-dwindling reserve.
"Well, what are we waiting for?" John asks aloud, summoning an enthusiastic expression as he leads the way to the pastor's office. Thankfully, Sherlock follows without any comment.
***
Afghanistan is not Iraq. It is shocking how many people mistake the geography of the two. There are deserts to the west, but all John saw were mountains and crevasses, plateaus and valleys that folded and crumpled the green landscape all the way to the horizon, where the creeping shoulders of the Himalayas cast smudgy shadows on the sky.
What shocked John most about it was the cold. He remembers the shivers that wracked his body one night as he ducked out of a field hospital set up in a low building on the outskirts of Kabul. The doorway through which he exited had a heavy canvas panel instead of a door, as it had once been an entrance to another room, but before he'd arrived that part of the building had been abruptly removed, sawed irregularly off by an explosion, only soot and bricks and cleared pathways through the rubble and broken glass remaining as testament to its former whole.
John stood there, his exhalations hanging opaque and pale in the air as he blindly surveyed the panorama around him, too numb to appreciate the view. He let his shoulders slump and just breathed.
There was still blood on his jacket.
It shouldn't have been as difficult as it was–the kid (nineteen if he'd been a day) hadn't been the first patient he'd lost since his tour began, certainly not the first since he started practising medicine, and yet it had rattled him to the core. He couldn't remember the point of it all. Years of marvelling at the intricacy and startling resiliency of the human form, all of the well-intentioned reasons that had brought him there, to make a difference, to bring a light, however small, into a dark place … all of it had fled from him.
John took another shaky breath, tipping his head back against the wall.
The sky above him was vast and dark and remote, save for a few tenacious stars fighting through the glare of the military floodlights. He'd always been rubbish at remembering their names, even on a clear night at the right latitude, the right longitude. But then, they were askew slightly, even more unrecognisable.
He remembered that Harry had a telescope, a brief surge of interest in astronomy before her life turned to shit. Something about a crush on her physics professor at uni. He remembered her saying, one night during winter holidays, Some of these stars are probably dead. We just don't know it yet. All we're seeing are echoes of life, memories the universe stores of their time alive, their light travelling on into infinity.
He remembered the Sergeant's face, placid under anaesthesia, and the slight shift, the barest fraction of a change under his skin as the alarms went off. There was a lassitude that took root in the underlying structure, no matter what John or his team did to change it.
And John had thought, out under the Afghani sky, God, Harry's going to kill me if I die out here.
Somehow that had been enough for him to square his shoulders, to walk back inside past the nurses on sterilisation duty. He went down the hall and into the small, dark, cool room where the bodies were kept, prepared for shipping and eventual burial. Locals went elsewhere, had their own rituals, but foreigners had to wait to make the long return to their families.
John remembers thinking how unfortunate it was for those still-devout soldiers to die so far removed from their faith. He hadn't known why he'd wanted to seek out the late Sergeant again, but he'd known at least that he couldn't face the sympathetic and resigned faces of his medical team.
Then he'd spotted the kneeling figure among the small handful of horizontal ones, laid out on the floor. And that was how he'd met Owen Byrne.
***
All John had done, that first time, was apologise for the intrusion, but the padre had invited him to stay.
"It's not so bad, to think that I am not alone in shepherding their spirits to their final reward," Owen said with a brief, welcoming smile.
"Ah," John said, "I'm not …" And then he'd stopped, not knowing how to finish the sentence. 'Religious' would've been a mostly a lie, because even after all he'd seen, he still believed in the Divine. 'Catholic' would've been true, but he would have had to add 'any more,' because that would've been more accurate, and he'd still had that old instinct of complete and utter honesty towards clergymen.
Owen had smiled again. "That's all right. It's the company, not assistance, I'm after." So John had stayed and let the familiar rhythm of the words settle the awful jangling of his nerves.
After that, somehow John and Owen had become friends. John ran into him more often than either of them would've preferred, one a doctor and one a priest, both in an active war zone. Almost every other time they'd seen each other it had been under unfortunate circumstances.
John would stay late after shifts, just to stand vigil as Owen performed his duties.
"We share the same role, if you think about it," Owen said once over watery bottles of beer they'd been gifted by a couple of Marines, generous after a recent victory. "Looking after the health of the troops. You do the physical, I'll handle the spiritual."
John had grinned at this and tipped his head back to finish his bottle. It might have been terrible American beer, but it had been his first since deployment, and it tasted better than anything he could remember. "I used to be Catholic, you know," he found himself saying.
Owen had eyed him. "Ah," he replied, finally, with a faint huff of a laugh. "That would do it."
"Do what?" John asked.
"Nothing," Owen said, and then, at John's narrowed stare, he shrugged. "When I say the Rites, John, you look … quiet. Quiet all the way down, past skin and blood and bone. Quieter than most men who come to it late, or without questioning before coming back."
"I haven't come back," John protested.
"No?" Owen asked. "Well, maybe I'm wrong–"
"Well, you are," John said quickly. "I'm not looking to be lured back or–"
"I'm not looking to lure you back," Owen assured him. "I'm not the evangelical type. Couldn't run a mission to save my life. But if you're not trying the Church back on, John, then maybe the quiet I see is patience. Maybe you're waiting."
"Waiting for what?" John asked.
"Answers you never got before you left."
***
There's a second familiar face in Father Owen's office. Both rise to their feet when Sherlock and John enter after knocking, Lestrade looking flummoxed. "Please tell me you can't actually read minds, and you've just got a scanner hidden in your flat," he says by way of weary greeting.
"The case has escalated, then," Sherlock replies.
"Yeah, it has, and if it weren't a puzzle before, the dead body would have sealed it," Lestrade says.
"Hullo again, Padre," John says, before Sherlock can start firing off questions. "Sorry to see you, under the circumstances. This is Sherlock, of course. Don't mind him, he's always like this." It's become habit to add that last bit to introductions; it saves a lot of time and explanations later on.
Owen takes John's outstretched hand and pulls him in for a rough clap on the back. "Good to see you, John, especially now. I really haven't the faintest clue what to make of all this. I thought I was being silly when I wrote, but now …"
"You called them in?" Lestrade looks relieved and approving as he sits down again. "I'd've done the same if Dimmock had bothered to tell me about it. Something off about all of it, but I can’t quite figure out why."
"Tell me everything," Sherlock says, shucking off scarf and gloves and unbuttoning his coat while settling into a regal sprawl over the second guest chair in front of the desk. There is absolute, stunned silence for a moment from the other men, and John presses thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose.
"He intends to go undercover," John informs the room at large.
Sherlock glances down at his attire. "Oh, that. Yes, as John says. I thought keeping a low profile–"
"You call that keeping a low profile?" Lestrade interjects, while at the same time, Owen is spluttering.
"Really, Mr. Holmes, I can't–"
"A man is dead," Sherlock says above their protests, somehow containing his glee at this twist of the mystery. "Do we really want both a gaggle of policemen and a private detective traipsing all round the parish, asking questions? Or, perhaps, do we think that a 'friend and colleague' of Father Byrne, helping him 'bear the weight of this tragic disruption to his flock,' will do better to gather information discreetly?"
There is a small quiet, and then Owen says, "You intend to pose as a member of the clergy."
"I intend to wear this ridiculous get-up and be as unobtrusive as I can–" Sherlock shoots a glare at Lestrade when the other man snorts incredulously. "–while your parishioners assume the rest. Don't worry, this shouldn't take long, and I have no plans to involve myself in your silly rituals."
"Sacraments," John corrects.
"Yes, those," Sherlock says, waving a hand. Owen is still frowning darkly at him.
Then he turns to John. "Do you vouch for this man?" John opens his mouth to reply, but Owen continues, "Do you swear that his presence will be of more benefit than harm, that you will ensure that his actions–beside the obvious–will not violate any of our laws, and that this matter will be resolved as swiftly and with as much discretion as is humanly possible?"
John swallows, and when he hears Sherlock take in a breath for an indignant reply, he makes a warning gesture at his flatmate without breaking Owen's gaze. "Yes, Padre," he says. "I do."
Owen stares at him a moment longer. "All right, then." He transfers his attention to Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes, I hope you realize that if you make a liar of our friend, here, you'll both be in more trouble than just tangling with a murderer." Sherlock rolls his eyes, but Owen just stares him down. "Don't start that with me, I was trained by Jesuits. If you want to argue matters of faith, come back when this mess is over, and I'll give your clever mind a run for its money."
There is something that might be a smothered laugh from Lestrade's chair. It turns into him clearing his throat. "So. About the actual case …"
***
Owen starts from the beginning, and it is much as Sherlock related from their previous email exchange. One vandalism at the parish and now three of parishioners' homes; the first three sets of plaster shards are provided for Sherlock's perusal in separate shoe boxes before they are remanded into Lestrade's care. They were all commissioned, created, and purchased at a local shop named Gelder & Sons' Ceramics and Fine Art.
"Ah," Sherlock says, looking it up on his phone. "One of those places that calls itself 'fine art' but rarely sells any item for over a hundred pounds and runs pottery workshops for the local housewives and their bored children."
"The Gelder family has been attending this church for decades," Owen informs him. "And they did the work at cost out of the generosity of their hearts."
"We'll see," Sherlock says dourly. "Tell me about the murder, Lestrade, as I'm sure Anderson has destroyed any evidence I'll find at the crime scene."
"The victim’s body was found at the latest crime scene. He’s been identified as Peter Venucci," Lestrade says. "No connection with the homeowners. Twenty-four and with a criminal record, some minor gang activity, vandalism and general misconduct, but nothing as severe as burglary." He puts on gloves and pulls an evidence bag from his coat pocket that contains a wallet and some miscellaneous items. "His money was missing, but the credit cards are still here."
"It's also missing the photograph sleeves," Sherlock says, glancing at it.
Lestrade shakes his head. "He could have pitched those when he got the wallet."
"Examine the wear pattern on the leather," Sherlock says.
John takes a look for himself over Sherlock's shoulder. Sure enough, there's an odd smoothness to the exposed pockets of the leather. "Who'd take the photos and the money but not the rest of it?"
"Someone clever or someone stupid," Sherlock replies. "What else did you find?"
"The usual junk, coins, wrappers, that sort of thing," Lestrade says. He hands the bag over with an extra set of gloves. Sherlock sorts through the contents while Lestrade continues, "The really strange bit is the wound pattern."
"What about it?" John asks.
"We haven't been able to identify the weapon. It's got three sides, very sharp, very small. Nothing like I've ever seen."
"I'd like to take a look when we're done here," John offers.
"We are done here," Sherlock announces, stuffing everything back in the evidence bag and handing it to Lestrade. "Father Byrne, I'd like you to accompany me to the homes of the three victims. John, you may go with Lestrade to the morgue–send pictures and any relevant information to my phone, if you please."
John glances at Owen. The padre smiles. "It's fine, John, I can stand him for a bit longer. Besides, it's probably best we two go together and without anyone else, just to keep them at ease. You get a reprieve from your oath while I'm keeping an eye on him."
That is not quite reassuring. John gives Owen a crooked smile and leaves with Lestrade.
***
Photos attached. Add'l wounds on L hand, knuckles. Min. bruising arms, wrists. Med. bruising L shoulder, chest. Likely altercation w/accomplice? John sends to Sherlock.
Perhaps. Meet at Gelder&Sons when finished.
Molly's hovering again. It's a bit unnerving. Lestrade left half an hour ago with the excuse of needing to process the bag of evidence and all the attendant paperwork. "Everything okay?" she asks, and not for the first time.
"Yeah," John says, smiling at her. "Thanks, Molly." She could probably use more kindness, the poor girl, considering how Sherlock treats her regularly. It's only gotten worse since Moriarty.
John's just started wondering how she'd look dressed for a proper night out when his phone chimes.
You will be finished sometime today, I hope? Sherlock's text reads.
"Sorry," John says. "Gotta go. Thanks again–you've been very helpful." Molly practically beams back at him as he leaves.
***
"What did you find out?" John asks, practically the instant he's out of the cab.
"Nothing from the victims, but everything from the crime scenes. As usual. One of these days I'm going to stop talking to the people involved in these cases entirely. I might even solve them more quickly." Sherlock paces back and forth in front of the store, looking at the doors, windows, exits, signage.
"There's an idea," John says with false cheer. "No pesky human interaction, no one to put off with your cleverness."
Sherlock makes a face at him. "It's not about proving to them that I'm clever. I would be perfectly happy if you and the police force handled all the interpersonal messiness for me one day." They enter the store and Sherlock adopts a pleasant mask when the shop girl comes out from behind the counter.
"Can I help you, ah … Father?" she asks him. She's petite and blonde and a little plain, but she's pretty when she smiles. Her tag says 'Lucy' and her eyes are slightly puffy, as if she's been crying.
"I certainly hope so," Sherlock says. "I'm here from St. Teresa's … I'm sure you heard about the burglaries?"
"Oh, yes, terrible business," she says, twisting her fingers together. "How can we help?"
"Well, I was actually wondering if I could speak to one of the owners …"
"Mr. Gelder is out on family business. His brother recently suffered a terrible loss–" Lucy bites her lip. "Not that that should matter to you, Father."
"Every loss diminishes us," Sherlock says loftily. "Please pass on our condolences. Would you mind terribly taking a message?"
"Not at all," she replies. "One second, let me find a pen and paper."
When she bustles off, Sherlock bends low to murmur to John, "I need you to flirt with her."
"What?" John looks at her. "She's at least ten years younger than I am."
"Oh, as if that's stopped you before. You might start by asking what she's studying at university."
"Why don't you ask her? Are you starting the process of using me as your human-to-sociopath interpreter already?" Somehow this question earns John a frown from his flatmate.
"No, the best way to find out about her and the Gelder family is flirting, and I'm wearing this stupid costume. Will you please just–" Sherlock cuts himself off as Lucy returns within earshot.
"What's the message?" she asks.
"You know what?" Sherlock says brightly, "Don't bother, actually. I can just come back some other time. Do pass along our condolences." He turns to John. "I believe you had some other business, John. I'll wait for you outside." And then he's gone, the rat bastard.
Lucy transfers her attention to John. "Are you with the Church, too?" she asks. John mentally finds several more names to call Sherlock in at least two languages.
"No, just … just a friend, visiting," he answers lamely. "I'm looking for a gift for … my mum. He mentioned he was on his way to an art store and … Oh, for heaven's sake." Lucy blinks at him. "I'm rubbish at lying. I think you're lovely, and you're probably still in uni studying something like law, and here I am, fumbling for an excuse to talk to you." He gives her the smile that's gotten him laid on three continents, and Lucy's shoulders relax just enough to let him know he's on the right track.
"It's art, actually. Well, sculpture and printmaking …" she says, looking away and biting her lip. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't. I just got out of a bad relationship, and–"
"No, no, it's fine. I'm sorry to hear that," John says. "Let me give you my number, in case you change your mind." He searches his pockets, finding the battered set of business cards he keeps on hand, just in case. "I'm sorry to hear that you're all going through such a rough time–bad relationship, and your family loss …"
"Oh, I'm not related," she corrects abruptly. "I just work here part-time, but they've always been good to me and … It's just awful, all of it." Her eyes are welling up with tears.
"And here I am, trying to pick you up," John says, feeling terrible. "I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry. You know what, just. Just take my card, and if you ever need anyone to talk to, I promise, I won't try anything."
Lucy gives him a watery smile and takes his card.
***
"You're an absolute bastard," John says, rejoining Sherlock outside.
"What did you find out?" Sherlock asks, hailing a taxi.
"She's studying art, just got dumped, and isn't any relation to the owners, though she's close to the family," John snaps. "So now is probably not the best time to be interrogating her."
"I think it's the perfect time," Sherlock replies breezily. "People are more honest when they're vulnerable and distracted." A cab pulls up and they climb in.
"You just proved my earlier point," John says.
"Not at all. My parents were married when they had both Mycroft and me."
John decides to stop speaking to Sherlock for the duration of the cab ride home. It's probably for the best, because if he says everything he'd like to, they're liable to get kicked out of the vehicle.
***
"I don't think there will be a break-in tonight," Sherlock announces when they return to Baker Street. "The culprit will be too frightened to risk exposure, but Lestrade has put a few men on lookout at the final two targets' homes, just in case."
"Have it all figured out?" John asks, settling into his armchair with a sigh. Sherlock settles into his own chair, still looking strange in the cassock. John can't figure out why the sight is so distracting, but it is.
"Yes, but I haven't any proof." Sherlock tugs at his collar, and somehow that's worse.
"Care to fill me in?"
Sherlock steeples his fingers and stares off into the middle distance. "Gelder and Sons was founded by Francis Gelder, whose grandsons now own the shop. Michael Gelder actually runs the business, while his brother Marcus simply lives off his part of the inheritance. Marcus, by the way, has a violent criminal record and has spent two years in jail. He also has an ex-wife to whom he was married for ten years, until his incarceration. Said ex-wife had a son by a previous marriage, and Marcus served as the boy's de-facto father."
"Go on, I'm sure you'll reach the point eventually," John says, letting his head fall back against the chair cushion and closing his eyes.
"The ex-wife's maiden name was Maria Venucci."
John lifts his head so quickly he might've sprained something. "And her son's name was Peter."
"Obviously." Sherlock smiles at him. "Did you notice that Lucy was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, despite the fact that she frequently works with plaster and a kiln? I'm willing to bet that Peter picked up on his step-father's bad habits and was rough with her."
"Peter is the bad ex-boyfriend," John says.
"Lestrade can't seem to track down Marcus Gelder," Sherlock adds.
"That's interesting."
"Isn't it?"
Sherlock picks up his violin, and John draws in a breath. It's always a risk, when Sherlock plays–it's either exquisite or appalling, and he really can't handle listening to the violin being tortured right now. Fortunately, today has been a good day, and a slow, sweet melody pours forth from the instrument.
John lets his head fall back again, relaxing utterly for a moment. He lets his mind drift. Poor Lucy, he thinks. Went in for a part-time job to make ends meet, starts up with someone who she thinks is a nice bloke, and then everything goes to hell around her. He opens his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. "Sherlock," he says, and the violin stops. "Is Lestrade watching Lucy, in case she's in trouble?"
"I've informed him that there's an outside chance that Marcus Gelder might show up for her, yes," Sherlock says. "But I believe she's past that danger now. Our first priority should be the statues."
"Wait, hold on. The statues. Why-" John stops, sitting up straight again so he can stare at Sherlock. "There's something hidden in one of them, isn't there. Something Peter stole."
Sherlock points the bow at John with an exultant flourish. "Knew you'd get there eventually. I do enjoy watching your mind work. Unlike most people, you actually use it from time to time."
John can feel a delighted grin spreading across his face. "Certainly don't keep me round for my pretty face," he mumbles, trying to defray the moment with a joke. But Sherlock blinks at him, eyebrows knitting as if he's done a poor job of it. "Don't stare at me like that," John says. "It's like I'm back in Sunday school. You should change out of that, it's terribly unnerving."
"It's just a costume, John," Sherlock says irritably, setting the violin aside. "You know I'm not a clergyman, what do my clothes matter?"
"You might as well be," John replies without thinking, realizing as he says it that it's true. That's what's been bothering him about seeing Sherlock in the cassock–it suits him, in a strange way. John continues, musing aloud, "If there were a Church of … of logic, of Reason, you'd be the pope. Or Mycroft would be and you'd be a minor bishop or something who can't be bothered with the politics."
"Is that what you think," Sherlock says flatly, his expression even darker than before. "Then you're right, John, I absolutely should go change." He sweeps out of the room, and John hears the door slam.
Sherlock doesn't come out again for the rest of the night.
***
When John falls asleep, he dreams of dying. Again. There is the sudden blooming pain in his shoulder, the vertiginous sensation of the world tipping and reeling around him, and the grind of gravel under his knees and his clutching hands and then against his face.
The blackness swallows him whole, and the fragment of himself that knows he's dreaming expects to wake, panting and sweating with his heart pounding in his throat.
He wakes, bound in clinging sheets.
Wait. No, John realises. Not bedsheets, but a shroud. His body is cold and heavy. He does not breathe, does not blink, and his body does not move when he tries to wrest free of his bindings. His limbs are weighted down as if made of lead.
A switch in perspective, then. He is still motionless, but he can also see the wider scene: a row of bodies, of which his is only one. Dog-tags glint at the throat of each (he knows all the names, they are forever inscribed in his mind) and crimson blooms against the bleached cerements, marking their mortal wounds.
There is a dark figure among the white, intoning quiet words in an even darker voice.
Sherlock! John wants to shout, but he cannot. Even his lungs will not budge to draw breath. Sherlock moves with unhurried grace among the dead, one by one, murmuring to each in low Latin, passing his hand over them, pressing his palm in benediction to their heads when he is finished.
And then it is John's turn.
Sherlock's hand grazes down John's body, from forehead to abdomen, and the sheet falls away as cleanly as if it were cut. As if it were a body bag with a zipper. John wants to flinch, would welcome even the sensation of horripilation creeping over his exposed skin.
Instead, he has the heat of Sherlock's hands. They are shockingly warm as Sherlock pokes and prods at John's wound, at his scars, at the structure of his bones beneath his skin. And as he goes, he speaks.
"You were shot from above, by a sniper on high ground while you crouched over your patient, a fellow soldier wounded by shrapnel from a roadside bomb. He was a lost cause before you even arrived; he would have died of sepsis within eighteen hours even with the best surgeons in the country. Well, that country." He picks up one of Johns limp hands and turns it over, drawing a fingertip along the creases. "Three people have died under your care due to insufficient skill or training …"
On and on he goes, not proper Last Rites, but a litany of John's sins, of all his failures, both big and small, as if Sherlock is reading the text of John's life in every pore. John has never felt smaller than this, his every flaw magnified beneath Sherlock's scrutiny. And yet, each time Sherlock touches him, he grows a little warmer. Pins and needles prick the edges of his limbs, his diaphragm shifts to pull a thin trickle of air down his throat and into his lungs, and his eyes begin to water, though he still cannot blink.
Sherlock moves away, and when he returns, he brings his hand up to John's face, smearing oil on John's forehead. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I bear witness to your sins," Sherlock says, "and grant you forgiveness." His hand passes before John's face, and for a moment, like the flicker of a single frame in a film, it is not covered in oil, but in brilliant crimson blood.
And then it is simply oil again, richly perfumed and blessed to purity. Sherlock's fore and middle fingers spread wide in a vee, and he closes John's eyes. Darkness hides him from Sherlock's gaze, a small mercy after so much vulnerability.
This is the part where, again, John expects to wake. But no. Sherlock's hand burns a brand into his skin, rousing him from death. He moves from John's eyelids to his mouth to his throat, murmuring in Latin again. He presses his palm over John's heart, and it begins to beat. Fingertips graze his ribs and they draw in a full breath.
Sherlock continues on, his touch moving inexorably down.
And that is when John wakes, heart in his throat and sheets tangling around his legs. He is, to his eternal mortification, hard as stone.
Oh, fuck, he thinks, and buries his head in his hands, even as the details of his dream fragment and begin to fade away.
***
John is spared the embarrassment of facing Sherlock the next morning, finding a text in his mobile that simply says, Meet @ Gelder&Sons when available. This is worrisome (Sherlock could be running around the city in disguise without John's sworn supervision) and also gratifying, as Sherlock seems to be respecting the often-debated boundaries of John's work schedule. "Debated," of course, being a blanket term for "argued," "scoffed at," and "wholly disregarded."
The worry wins out, and John is distracted with enough potential guilt and fragments of dream-memory that it's a miracle he doesn't prescribe antibiotics for the middle-aged father who sprained his ankle on an icy patch, and 'rest, ice, compression, and elevation' to the twelve year old girl with an ear infection. His phone remains mercifully silent, despite the fact that he steals a bit of his lunch hour to ring up Padre Owen. He does have to do a bit of careful wording when Owen asks him what Sherlock is doing while John's at the practise, but he manages somehow.
And then, though it seemed to take an eternity, his shift is over, and John finds himself dawdling a bit before leaving. He tells himself he's being conscientious as he restocks the supplies, when in actual fact he's a bloody coward. He doesn't want to look Sherlock in the eye after the dream last night (had it been a sex dream? Or hadn't it? A man his age should be able to tell), and he doesn't want to see what liberties Sherlock will attempt to get away with when people believe he's a man of the cloth.
Sherlock texts three minutes after John's shift officially ended, and seventeen after his last patient left. At shop, it says, Fr.B uncooperative. John sighs as he grabs his coat.
"Oh," Sarah say with a warm smile (that's a mercy, at least, that they're both still friendly) as they pass each other in the hall. "Sorry, but we won't need you for the weekend after all. Appointments are a bit thin, I'm afraid. We'll ring you if it changes, yeah?"
"That would be great," he says, and considers adding, Good to know you still know my number, but decides against it. "Have a good weekend, Sarah," he says instead.
"You too, John," she says, her smile deepening to crinkle the corners of her eyes, just slightly. "Don't get into too much trouble."
"Ha, right," he says. "I'll see what I can do." Her laugh follows him as he turns the corner at the end of the hall.
***
When John arrives at the shop, Sherlock barely spares him a glance, embroiled as he is in a heated argument with Padre Byrne. They're standing nearly toe-to-toe, and John's not sure he's ever seen the clergyman this enraged.
"–harass my parishioners like this!"
"Whoa, whoa," John says, shouldering his way in between the two men. "Hold on, what's going on?"
"Your friend," Owen spits, "Wants to interrogate members of my church after they've suffered a terrible loss–"
"A terrible loss of an abusive criminal, yes–" Sherlock interrupts, only to have Owen simply raise his voice and continue on.
"–because he says that their grief will make it more difficult to lie, especially to a priest!" Owen finishes.
John sighs and presses Sherlock back a step with a carefully-angled elbow. "All right, all right, I see," he says with resignation. "Sherlock, would it be an acceptable compromise to tell the Padre what questions to ask, and he went in instead?"
"Not at all," Sherlock replies coldly. "He won't know what physical tells he should be observing."
Owen snorts and rolls his eyes. "If you think a priest has no experience in picking up on lies," he says, "then clearly you haven't done your research."
Sherlock's eyebrows completely disappear into his unruly fall of curls. "Fine. Then you must have no need of my expertise."
"Wait, Sherlock, no," John says, thinking of his suddenly-free weekend and what it will be like spending it cooped up at Baker Street with a petulant flatmate. He also considers the lost wages from those days and their odds of finally getting a consulting fee from the Yard. "Just give him a chance. If he fails–" he holds a placating hand up to Owen, repeating, "if he fails, then he will have more respect for your skills, and you can try a different tactic. If he succeeds, you will have the information you need to continue, and the Gelder family won't have any reason to suspect they've been questioned. Fair?"
Padre Owen nods. After holding John's gaze for an unsettling amount of time–is it unsettling? Why is it unsettling? It is, with the pale quicksilver colour of Sherlock's eyes reflecting the overcast sky above–Sherlock looks away and lifts his chin. "Fine," he says. "Ask what Peter stole from Marcus."
"Marcus isn't in there," Owen says, "so I doubt he can provide that answer."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth begins to creep up, slowly, in a crooked and delighted grin. "He isn't? Perhaps Michael can provide the answer. And if he cannot, ask when he last saw his brother. It will help me confirm the timeline of events."
Owen frowns. "I think I can manage that. Anything else?"
"No," Sherlock says. "That will be all, for now." His voice is bored and dismissive, making Owen open his mouth as if to retort. John just shrugs and gives him an apologetic smile, and Owen spins on his heel and walks away to enter the shop.
"I always thought clergymen were supposed to be even-tempered," Sherlock muses.
"You, as the saying goes, would try the patience of a saint," John says.
"Mm," Sherlock hums thoughtfully. "Then what does that make you, John?"
John just blinks at him. The only person in all of Creation able to tolerate you, apparently, he wants to say, but that might just be too strange an assertion to make to one's flatmate. So he stays silent, and after a moment, Sherlock turns away in a brusque swirl of his coat, clapping his hands together.
"So!" Sherlock says excitedly, "While Father Byrne is busy distracting Michael Gelder–and, conveniently, himself as well–we will have the chance to case the building." He strides to the end of the block, not looking to see if John will follow.
"Case the building," John echoes under his breath, as he does (inevitably) follow.
***
Sherlock has apparently spent the day scouting the residences of the owners of the final two statues. "The security's a bit tighter, which is why they've been left for last," he says, scrambling up onto a stack of wooden crates that end within arm's reach of a second-story balcony. "But our thief is getting desperate. I'm sure we will be able to–"
He swings himself up onto the balcony in a graceful motion that makes John boggle; Sherlock is wearing so many unwieldy layers that the move seems impossible. The coat and cassock alone, let alone whatever he's wearing beneath … Don't look up the cassock, John scolds himself as he stands watch on the pavement below. Don't even think about it.
Sherlock peers in the windows on both second and third storeys, then shimmies back down, apparently satisfied. "We’ll have to break into the top floor tonight," he says casually. "The family owns the whole building. Just needed to know which flat belonged to Marcus. We'd best get moving, before the good Padre notices that we're missing," Sherlock says. "I'll explain later."
They get back, barely in time. Owen's just leaving the shop.
"What did you find out?" Sherlock asks without preamble.
"Michael last saw his brother yesterday at the morgue, when they identified Peter's body. And he doesn't know anything about Peter taking anything from Marcus. He was upset when I asked, though–I had to make something up about making sure Peter's effects were retrieved from evidence and returned to the right recipients, as some items may have been stolen." Owen frowned. "Which, as it's actually possible, I promised I'd take care of." He shakes his head. "So much trouble, all over plaster statues …"
"Thank you," John says. "That's very helpful, isn't it, Sherlock?"
"Absolutely. My thanks, Father," Sherlock says, grinning broadly and falsely. John tries not to wince. "We should have this case wrapped up by tomorrow evening at the latest."
"Good," Owen says, eyes narrowing. "I don't want any more disruption to this family or my parish, you understand?"
"Yes, yes we do," John says vehemently before Sherlock can draw a breath. "And we'll do what we can to minimise the impact."
"Fair enough," Owen says with a rueful smile. "Thank you, John. I'll see you both tomorrow–if not sooner, God willing."
"Tomorrow, then," John agrees, as Sherlock hails a cab.
***
When they arrive at Baker Street, John’s mobile chirps. "Ah, that’ll be Lucy," Sherlock says before John has even flipped his phone open.
"Yes, she says she wants to meet up tonight," John says with no little surprise. He stares at the display for a moment before moving to tuck the phone away in his coat.
Sherlock’s hand interrupts the motion, long gloved fingers closing around John’s wrist. "You should go," he advises. "I suspect she knows more than she’s letting on."
John blinks. "But we were going to–"
Sherlock squeezes John’s wrist once before letting go and heading up the stairs. "I can check Marcus’ flat myself. Don’t worry, I’ll call if I need you–but if Marcus is indeed our culprit, he’ll be out, going after one of the two remaining statues. With any luck, he’ll get caught by one of Lestrade’s teams." He slants a sideways smile at John from the landing. "It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if your charms managed to secure a key witness for this case."
John starts reviewing restaurant options in his mind as he climbs the staircase.
***
In the end, he settles on a small Italian place not far from Gelder & Sons, partly because it will be easy for Lucy to find and also handily located in case Sherlock runs afoul of Marcus Gelder. It’s small and quiet without being too intimate, a perfect setting for whatever confidences the poor girl might want to share with him.
Lucy arrives five minutes late, flustered and rosy-cheeked, hands chapped from the brisk chill outside. "I’m so sorry I’m late," she says. "Everything’s been such a mess since … well. It’s all I can do to keep it all together."
"I understand, believe me," he says. "Be glad you’re not in medicine."
Lucy gives a fleeting smile at this and hangs her coat on the back of a chair before sitting down. "What kind of medicine?" she asks.
"Mostly locum work, at the moment. I was a medic in Afghanistan, though, so I’ve had my fair share of the world going a bit pear-shaped on me."
"Oh, that must have been awful," she says earnestly. "All those wounded soldiers and all that blood …" She hunches her shoulders up round her ears, hugging herself with both arms. The cuff of one sleeve slides back from her wrist and John does see the telltale bruising, as predicted.
"Oh," he says, reaching one hand half across the table, palm upwards. "Oh, don’t, please. I didn’t bring you here to hear my war stories."
Her eyes flit up from the tablecloth, and she musters another half smile. "Well. It’s good to have a reminder that it could be worse, I suppose."
"That’s the spirit," he says, trying not to take that the wrong way. "Come on, I’ll bet you haven’t had a proper meal in days. It’ll be on me if you promise me one thing."
"What’s that?"
"Don’t blame yourself. Whatever happened, I’m sure you weren’t at fault."
Lucy’s eyes go wide and round and soft. One hand creeps across the table to rest in John’s palm. "Really? I just … Peter and I were going to get married, and I keep thinking that maybe if we’d never …" Her shoulders sag. "I don’t know. I just keep going round and round everything, and it all seems to end up the same."
He squeezes her hand gently. "There probably wasn’t anything you could have done," he says, nudging the menu in her direction. "A decent dinner will be a start, and we can just talk. About whatever you like. All right?"
Lucy gives him a nod, a watery smile, and a sniffle. She takes the menu, her hand slipping from his. "You never did explain how you wound up in our store," she comments. "A priest and a doctor walk into a pottery shop … Sounds like a bad joke set-up."
John chuckles and proceeds to tell her a highly edited version of meeting Padre Owen, letting her think that he’s referring to Sherlock. And then the follow-up story of the goat that found its way into the mess hall.
She counters with the story of a painting student who used a dozen mice and a whole palette of non-toxic vegetable dye for their work.
"–they were finding rainbow-hued tufts of fur everywhere in the building all winter!"
John laughs so hard he almost cries.
***
"Oh, damn," Lucy says, when they leave the restaurant. "I forgot my house keys at the shop. D’you mind terribly if …?"
"Not at all," John says, acutely aware that he's learned more about intaglio than her part in the Gelder family tragedy. "Let me walk you over. It’s dark and you’ve been through enough stress lately."
"You don’t have to–" Lucy protests, but when he lifts his eyebrows and offers her his arm, she capitulates and takes it. They walk in companionable silence for a few blocks.
"If you wanted to talk about Peter," he ventures, "I told you before, I’m willing to be a friendly ear if you need one."
She sighs and grips his elbow more tightly. "He was a good bloke," she starts. "I mean, aside from the thieving. But you know, artists are attracted to nonconformity." Lucy gives a little laugh–at herself, at the cliché, he can’t be sure.
They get to the shop, and John tries not to look up, see if there’s any sign of Sherlock moving about in the flat above. "D’you want to come in, I’ve been working on a piece for him. A … tribute, like."
John blinks. "Sure, absolutely."
Lucy continues her story as she unlocks the door and disengages the alarm. "It was his da that was the trouble. Peter should have known better than to give me his mother’s engagement ring–he didn’t ask, just nicked it from his father."
She sighs a little and leads the way to the workshop in the back without flipping on the lights, used to navigating around the space. They weave around racks of in-progress pieces, molds, and materials, towards the line of work counters and sinks at the far wall that John can see faintly in the dim light coming through the windows.
He follows Lucy’s voice: "I should have known better than to take it. But you know how it is. Getting caught up in a whirlwind and all that." She turns a corner and he loses sight of her for an instant. "Like when you met Mr. Holmes," she says, quietly.
John starts to smile fondly, then freezes. "I never–" he starts.
"No," she says, sounding sad. "You never did." He realises that she’s looped around behind him, and turns–
–only to find the pale blur of a plaster statue being swung at his head.
He drops like a stone.
***
He wakes to find Sherlock crouched over him in a small room, clay figures in rows on shelving all round them. Still in the shop, then, he thinks vaguely. Everything is bathed in a muted, red glow.
Sherlock is muttering as he cuts through the restraints on John's ankles, "Next date you go on, I’m getting you a helmet … Honestly, John, I can’t believe–"
"Lucy," John groans. "Knew who you were."
"Of course she did. You gave her your card. She looked up your blog, obviously."
"Where–" John tries to sit up, but Sherlock’s hands are like a vise on his shoulders, keeping him still. "How?"
Sherlock lets out a snort. "Silly nit sent a photo of you all trussed up, using your phone. Gave a vague threat and demanded I get her the ring and then give her 24 hours to get out of the city. Of course, I figured out where you were. Don’t think she expected me to be nearby." He gives a small smile. "Not the brightest when she panics, our Lucy."
"Where is she?"
"Gone. Probably wants some distance, in case–"
Sherlock is awfully, terribly wrong. There is a heavy creak, then a clang, and Sherlock’s gone from John’s side in an instant, shouting, "Lucy! Lucy, open the door! You don’t want to do this! Marcus was self-defence, but this is murder!" His voice echoes oddly in the small space, and John sits up to get a better look around.
"Sherlock, please tell me we aren’t in a kiln," he says, feeling calm and disconnected. He lifts his hand and touches it to his throbbing head, only to have his fingers come away wet.
"I’m sorry, Mister Holmes," Lucy says, her voice faint through the door. "Really I am. I just don’t know what else to do."
"Let us out!"
"And get arrested–for murder and theft and whatever else? No, I can’t. I’m sorry." Then, quieter, "I wish Marcus had killed me with Peter. This is all my fault."
And then she’s gone. Sherlock pounds on the door and shouts her name, but there’s only the distant sound of machinery whirring to life, the heating mechanism starting up, indifferent to its new inhabitants.
"Fuck," John says, his muscles weak and his joints like liquid as he tries to stand. He slumps back against the wall.
***
Please God, let me live, John had thought, after a few long moments of agony down in the Afghani dirt, his ears still ringing from the bomb that had upset the first truck in the convoy. Please, God, and when he'd realised what he'd been thinking, the shock of it made him exhale sharply, which made the pain spike, and then he didn't know anything at all.
He still hasn't quite processed that shock. His dying thoughts had been a prayer, and it had been answered. Hadn't it?
If it had, what did that mean?
Before that, his general idea of God had been that of an absent-minded Creator, someone who had more to worry about in the infinite vastness of the universe than the petty, daily problems of his Creation. How else to explain the whole scope of Existence, in both its glory and absolute, grinding misery?
And yet …
During the confrontation with Moriarty, John tracked Sherlock's arm as he trained a gun on a pile of explosives. Silently, John closed his eyes and thought, God, please let us get out of this alive, hoping that if there was a fraction of Divine concern for his well-being there might be some to spare for Sherlock, too.
To be fair, he hadn't expected Moriarty to be covered under the unspecified 'us,' but John will take his miracles where he gets them and choose his words more carefully next time.
–if they are miracles, of course. He's still wavering, but vaguely grateful. And he'd rather take the long odds than no odds at all, when he's staring death in the face.
So his last thought, before the heat of the furnace finally puts him under, is Please God, don't let us die like this.
***
When he comes to in the ambulance, his first thought is, three for three, before he drifts out again.
***
"–glad you tipped me off about Marcus’ body when you did," Lestrade is saying. "You’d both have died if we hadn’t searched the building in time."
"Did you catch Lucy?" Sherlock asks, voice rough with dehydration.
"Yes," Lestrade replies. "Caught her at a train station, trying to leave the city. Are you sure we can’t pin both murders on her?"
"Absolutely," Sherlock says. "Marcus Gelder’s corpse has a cut on the right thumb from the burnisher he used to stab his son. Impromptu weapon; he didn’t know how to handle it. If Lucy had been using it, she wouldn’t have a cut, but as Marcus does, it points to his guilt. As for the ring: you retrieved it?"
"Took some doing, but yeah. Turns out, it's from one of Marcus' old jobs. Worth a hefty sum–no wonder they were all rabid for it."
Sherlock makes a small dubious noise, then says, "I think, in Lucy's case, it was sentiment that undid her. Sentiment and blind terror."
"H’llo, Lestrade," John interrupts, lifting himself up on the pillows.
"Oh, good, you’re not dead," Lestrade remarks. "I really do prefer arriving at a crime scene where you’re both conscious."
"We’ll keep that in mind," John offers. Lestrade gives him a dubious look.
***
They’re fine with another couple of hours of IV fluids and numerous fussing nurses and doctors taking blood-pressure and temperature readings so often that even John starts getting grumpy. Still, they have to stay until everyone is assured they’re well.
"Thai?" Sherlock offers once they’re released, and John’s stomach growls in agreement.
"What did I miss?" John asks when they’ve ordered. "Tell me everything." Sherlock complies with enthusiasm; of course, dramatic exposition is one of his favourite parts of a case.
Peter had stolen a costly engagement ring from his father to give to Lucy. Upon discovering the theft, Marcus threatened Peter, and when she heard about it, a panicked Lucy hid the ring in one of the still-drying statues. She set that batch aside for the painted six, hoping to retrieve it later.
Of course, she hadn't really thought it through, and under the watchful gaze of her employer, she never got a chance to 'accidentally' break the proper statue before it left the shop. So the artist was forced to turn burglar, with her more experienced fiancee lending a hand. Marcus caught on and followed them; they fought, and Marcus used one of the printmaking tools Lucy had in her kit–" … the so-called ingenuity of artists," Sherlock scoffed, "adapting their tools to any task at hand, in this case burglary. I noticed the scratches around the lock also had a triangular shape. Still, it worked." –to stab his son.
Lucy escaped but was again cornered by Marcus and killed him in self defence. "Almost the same way she got you, John; there were plaster fragments in his head wound," Sherlock points out. "I found his body last night in his bath, covered in ice."
"He got ice and we got fire," John says.
"But we survived," Sherlock responds with a smile.
***
They get back to the flat in high spirits after a good meal and another victory against London's criminal element, only to find the front door of 221 Baker Street locked. This is quite possibly another one of Mrs. Hudson's passive-aggressive reminders to keep regular hours, or at least to "keep things down after midnight, for heaven's sake." So John fumbles for his keys, while Sherlock mutters in a gently disgruntled way under his breath.
As he turns back to Sherlock, John notices that they're still covered in bits of clay and plaster from passing out on the kiln floor. He reaches out to brush it off his flatmate's expensive coat, and when Sherlock realises what he's doing he grumbles some more. John replies that perhaps quiet and a tidy front hall are acceptable expectations from the woman who turns a blind eye to hazardous waste in her rubbish bins.
It's around the time that Sherlock stoops over and combs through his hair with his fingers, bits of glazed ceramic shaking out of the curls with faint pattering sounds, that John starts grinning stupidly at his life. Perhaps before, even–this wouldn't be the first occasion he's done so and it won't be the last. Then Sherlock straightens up, an answering smile on his face, his hair a dishevelled cloud around his temples, and John thinks, quite clearly, I want to kiss him.
It also occurs to him that this isn't the first time he's wanted to; it's just the first time he's allowed himself to actually acknowledge the wrench of attraction without guilt, or confusion, or hesitation.
And, god help him, he does it. He doesn't even think about it. His keys are mashed against Sherlock's lapels and his cracked lips are screaming bloody murder where they're sealed against Sherlock's mouth, but there it is.
Sherlock pulls back, looking wild around the eyes. John has a moment to consider whether his attraction to danger has less to do with adrenaline addiction and more to do with an actual death wish before Sherlock exhales, "Yes," against his mouth. And then, "Finally," before they're kissing again.
Sherlock crowds him against the door and does his level best to drive John insane with his warm mouth and his slick tongue and just enough teeth against John's lower lip to send spikes of sensation jolting down his spine. John tangles his fingers in Sherlock's hair and hauls him closer till the heat of their bodies bleeds and mingles through their clothes.
John pulls back for air, his head knocking against the door.
Several things occur to him: one, they're on the wrong side of the door. They're still outside, exposed to any passer-by and any number of surveillance cameras (both official and unofficial). He's not entirely keen on the fact that Mycroft now has them on tape.
Secondly: what the hell?
"Of all the times for you to decide to start thinking," Sherlock huffs. "Although your point about the cameras is a good one."
"How–"
"You glanced up over my shoulder and then your forehead crumpled up. And yes, we'll probably have commemorative copies of the video files by morning."
John manages the door handle as best he can without looking behind him and stumbles back and in as soon as it's open, getting some necessary space between them. Sherlock follows, stripping his gloves off, stuffing them in one pocket while practically stalking after John. "Go on," he says. "Say them. All the stupid reasons you've thought up for why this is a bad idea."
"Flattery," John grumbles in protest and tries to sort it all out. "Married to your work?" he manages.
"Work seems to have taken a shine to you," Sherlock responds. "And if you can put up with me under all other circumstances, I think your ego can handle the same under expanded terms for our relationship." He hooks his hands around John's waist and just breathes against the edge of John's ear before adding, "Although I am open to negotiation."
"Oh my God," John says, and tries to remember how stairs work, dragging Sherlock along. He shrugs out of his jacket on the way, planning to sit down and talk with Sherlock once they reach the living room. But Sherlock's right there when they reach the doorway, so John has to pull him in and shove him up against the wall to get a bit of his own back. Naturally.
Sherlock crumples against the wall, his mouth open and pliant beneath John's, deft fingers rucking up John's shirt to stroke bare skin. John presses forward with a dirty roll of his hips, half hard and getting harder at the small encouraging noises that Sherlock is making in the back of his throat. He breaks away to shove at Sherlock's heavy coat.
When John pulls the scarf open, hoping to expose the pale skin of Sherlock's neck, he finds the white notch of the cassock's collar. He exhales sharply and closes his eyes, his head falling forward to rest against Sherlock's shoulder. "This is ridiculous," he says. "Why on Earth are you still wearing this?"
"I wore it to Marcus’ flat in case he was still alive. Devout Catholic like that, might’ve given me a psychological edge. Is that really your only remaining objection to this–to us?" Sherlock asks irritably. "Here I thought you were being noble or sensible or some kind of self-sacrificing rubbish." He slides one palm to the small of John's back and aligns their bodies. "When all this time, you simply didn't know." There is more than enough evidence to convince John that Sherlock's not the untouchable, unattainable figure he once appeared to be. Not a monk, not a celibate priest in the Church of Reason, and–oh. Nothing like a saint.
John hisses through his teeth, his hands fisting around the fabric of Sherlock's coat. "How–how was I supposed to–" he says against Sherlock's jawline, closing his eyes against the damning collar.
It is somewhat gratifying to hear Sherlock's breath catch as he answers, "D-don't be obtuse, John. Lestrade's been making comments for months."
Well. John's gotten somewhat accustomed to people making assumptions about them. Perhaps he could adjust his opinions of other people's intuition a bit. He laughs. The both of us could, at that, he thinks. "I did have a dream about you," he admits, dragging his teeth along the line of muscle in Sherlock's neck.
"Oh?" Sherlock asks in a voice more breath than speech.
"You were giving me Last Rites," John says without thinking, grinding his pelvis forward, the hot line of Sherlock's erection at his hip irresistible enticement. "And you brought me back to life." When he realises what he's said, he freezes in place, mortified.
Instead of reacting like a sane, normal person and oh, running for the hills screaming, Sherlock pants a laugh into John's hair. "Hah," he says, "I can keep the cassock on, if you like." John rolls his eyes.
"No, oh god, no, shut up–" John says, hooking his fingers around that damned collar and dragging Sherlock back in for a kiss. It's a long minute of shared breath and trying to crawl under each other's skin through their clothes before they part again. John pulls away, taking the scrap of white linen and cardboard with him–just a disguise, after all, a cheap costume Sherlock doesn't need any longer – and lets it drop to the floor.
"That's better," he says, and Sherlock gives him a wicked smile. It's the same smile he reserves for proposing they go into a known drug kingpin's lair or attempt to purchase extra bullets from the black market using Anderson's credit card.
"Not as good as it's going to be," Sherlock promises, and steers John backwards towards the bedroom.
***
The buttons on the cassock are a nightmare. And, beyond that, Sherlock has a vest and trousers and pants, all black and of course they didn't think to turn on the light.
John generally considers himself to be a very patient man., but this is simply unfair. It's only with Sherlock's help–and it usually takes more than this to make John properly clumsy–that they get undressed at all.
But then, finally, they are both rid of their offending garments, and John has Sherlock's hot, hard length in his hand. They're sprawled in haphazard, misaligned angles across the bed and John stares down at the sight below him, his own erection weeping trails against Sherlock's narrow waist. Sherlock arches up in time with his strokes, his eyelids flickering shut and his own touches becoming erratic over John's skin.
"John," he's saying, and "please," and "oh," and then "yes" when John bends down and takes one of Sherlock's nipples between his teeth. He comes in hot slick pulses over John's hand, his spine bending in a steep arc as he presses the back of one wrist to his mouth to muffle his ecstatic shout.
John lifts his head to just look at Sherlock, who is collapsed below him with heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips. Sherlock looks … well, John doesn't have words for it, but an image of baroque white marble flickers through his mind. Then Sherlock opens those pale-pale eyes of his and surges upwards, rolling them both over so that he can–
"Ohmygod," John says in a gasp, because he's pretty sure Teresa didn't have a mouth like this. Sherlock's lips are a brand, his flickering tongue a flame setting John's nerves alight. "I want–I, I want–" John says blindly, and Sherlock lifts his head for a moment to catch his eye.
"Yes," is all Sherlock says, and then he bends down again to take John completely apart.
***
Sherlock breaks the pleasant, companionable silence that follows with, "You never took the Lord's name in vain before Afghanistan."
John feels his diaphragm clench and his mouth stretch into a smile. He holds back the giggle. This is absurd. Of all the things to say … "Yes, yes, you're right." It had been one of the last behavioural strictures he'd kept for himself, but it had been absolutely, irrevocably broken with the crack of gunfire during his first terrifying skirmish. "How can you tell?"
"You have a faint touch of an accent when you blaspheme, as if you picked up the habit around others from … mm, I'd say southern America, but I don't have enough data to say for sure."
That's enough to set John off. "You–you were deducing me while we were–" He rolls onto his side and allows the laughter to bubble up out of him, post-coital endorphins and the sheer absurdity of it all seizing him. "Oh for–for heaven's sake," he manages when he can draw a proper breath, "How is this going to work?"
Beside him, Sherlock props himself up on his elbows, frowning. "You don't think it will? Then why did you kiss me?"
"Oh, it will," John assures him, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's forearm, rubbing circles against the fine hairs with his thumb. "I know it will. I just don't understand how."
Sherlock looks mollified, but just barely. "Conclusions without even a hypothesis to support them are rubbish. You've no proof."
"Oh," John says, tugging Sherlock into a kiss. "But I have faith," he says, and Sherlock huffs a small, disbelieving laugh but kisses him back anyway.
***
John wakes alone in a tent of heavy and faded olive drab canvas, the sides stitched together with rope through eyelets that bleed rusty stains down the seams. There is a familiar silhouette at the entrance, one hand brushing the flap aside as if it is a window curtain. Beyond that are the brightness of the Afghani sun and the faint sound of gunfire.
"Who are you?" John hears himself asking, even though he knows the answer.
"Joan of Arc," Sherlock replies.
"You're not French," John points out. Because that's the major problem with what Sherlock's just said.
"I am, actually," Sherlock says, letting the curtain fall. "On my mother's side."
"Ah," John says as if this explains everything. "What are you doing up? Come back to bed." He feels a little thrill as he says this, because he can say it, can pull Sherlock down to the pile of blankets and pillows and do whatever he likes to him now. It's fantastic.
"In a moment," Sherlock says. "I want to see how the battle is going." He pushes the canvas aside again.
John pulls a sheet around his waist and pads across the room, toes digging into the thick plush Persian carpeting unrolled over the dirt floor. When he joins Sherlock, they're standing at the window in the living room of 221b, watching men in armour fight on the London street. The sounds of gunfire are now clashing swords.
Lestrade fells a giant in maille and a crimson tunic and pauses to wave up at them. John lifts a hand to wave back.
"He fights for justice," Sherlock is saying. "But he doesn't see the larger picture. He doesn't see what I see. I'm the only one, John. I see things that others don't and I–" His voice falters, and John looks at him, concerned. Sherlock's face is placid, but a line flexes in his jaw.
"Is that why I'm here?" John says.
"You are my sword and my shield and my solace, John," Sherlock says, stepping in close, looping his arms around John's waist and resting his chin on John's shoulder, still staring out the window. "You allow me to focus on what's important."
"Thought I'd be a distraction," John says lightly.
"No," Sherlock corrects. "You keep me grounded. You keep me from being blinded to what I overlook by those things only I can see. You keep me from being consumed by the hunt." And outside the window the street is a verdant field, far, far below, and Lestrade sits astride a horse, a swarm of hounds keeping pace as they chase a fox with Moriarty's face.
John turns in Sherlock's embrace. "Come to bed," he says, taking Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock follows without a word.
***
After the case wraps up, John visits Padre Byrne every Saturday afternoon. This time, Owen's outside in the courtyard, staring at a smallish square patch of earth thoughtfully. A faint hint of spring is creeping into the air, stronger every day. Time for planting. "Vegetables or flowers?" he asks without turning to look at John.
"Vegetables–carrots and lettuce and tomatoes, maybe? Get the students to help, send the results to the soup kitchen," John suggests.
Owen looks at him, smiling. "Such a generous soul you are, John … I just finished writing tomorrow's sermon. Would you like to hear it?"
"All right," John replies, already knowing how Owen will respond. It's become their private ritual, this exchange.
"Then you should come to Mass tomorrow morning."
John grins. "Maybe." He always says 'maybe,' and they both know he always means 'no.' But Owen will always offer–not prod or push, but offer, a fine distinction that John appreciates. It's why he says 'maybe' every week instead of ‘no.’ Maybe one Saturday, he'll actually mean 'yes.'
"Still living in sin with that detective of yours?" Owen says as they wander back inside, towards warmth.
John ducks his head and scrubs at the short hairs on the back of his head with one hand. "Yeah, I suppose you could call it that."
"You're not married," Owen points out.
"Not fair, mate," John says. "It's not like we could, not here, anyway." He still remembers the distressed phone call from Harriet, back when he’d been in Afghanistan. He'd arranged an eight-hour gap to catch up on rest between surgeries, and half of them had been spent on a phone because she and Clara couldn't have a 'proper wedding.'
Owen stops in the hallway to face him. "You're a decorated war veteran, not to mention a good friend of mine, and that madman you've fallen for is one of the most heroic civilians I've had the mixed fortune of meeting. I see his name in the papers more often than you think. A man could do a lot worse than you two, if he wanted a good example to fight his own superiors over."
John blinks, sets his jaw, and nods. "Bit early, still," he manages. "But thanks."
Owen nods curtly, and they continue on.
- END -
Post-fic note: this is what a burnisher looks like (the printmaking tool that Marcus used to kill Peter). Artists get the best weapons and the best chemicals, I sweartogod.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-10-05 01:02 am (UTC)From:This was excellent.
I really, really liked the story about John walking away from the Church. There's something just so very John about that- no huge confrontation, no urging, no congratulation, just him quietly doing what he thought was the right thing.
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Date: 2011-10-05 01:47 am (UTC)From:But thank you! I am thrilled that you enjoyed this! I may not always have given John enough attention elsewhere, but I tried to do right by him here. ^_^
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Date: 2011-10-05 08:21 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-10-06 03:24 am (UTC)From:And thank YOU for reading and commenting! I'm glad you enjoyed this! :D
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Date: 2011-10-05 09:30 pm (UTC)From:I liked the dream sequences; the dream-logic flowed well and had a beautiful mix of fantastic and realistic, especially with the remark about Sherlock being French. Did John already know this or is it being communicated to him there?
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Date: 2011-10-06 03:30 am (UTC)From:I know Sherlock's french lineage is canon, but I haven't decided how it works, here. One of those things that made perfect sense as I was writing it, but I never bothered to suss out the meaning... =/
I'm glad you liked it, though!
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Date: 2011-10-07 01:31 am (UTC)From:I will be back, after I've read it a few more times :)
You do marvelous things with words, my friend.
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Date: 2011-10-07 03:03 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 08:48 pm (UTC)From:THANK YOU. Sherlock in a cassock-- whoo boy.
I also totally understand why John left the Church, it makes a lot of sense, and I think A LOT of people have left for similar reasons.
Great tale, all around. Really enjoyed it. Will be reading it again. (And likely again after that!)
no subject
Date: 2011-10-08 06:37 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-10-08 11:54 am (UTC)From:(By the by, I love your icon. :)
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Date: 2011-10-09 05:11 am (UTC)From:(my icon quotes one of my own fics - slightly ridic, but I <3 it, too. XD)
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Date: 2011-10-10 03:59 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-10-10 02:31 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-10-13 01:10 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-10-13 04:49 am (UTC)From:If you decide not to continue reading, I completely understand and appreciate your reasons for doing so. Should you be interested, I have written other Sherlock fics w/out religious themes, archived either here or on lj.
Thank you for this - I am grateful that you decided to comment, rather than simply walk away from the fic. :)
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Date: 2011-10-16 02:20 am (UTC)From:I'll probably go get into Loren Ipsum, as I understand that's considered one of the fandom classics. Thanks again much for your help! Cheers
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Date: 2011-10-16 05:33 am (UTC)From:I hope you enjoy whatever else of mine you choose to read; I tend to write 'all over the map,' as it were, so I'm fairly certain that this is the only one with religious themes to be aware of... Thanks again.
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Date: 2011-11-24 09:20 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 04:32 am (UTC)From:Someone's gotta sass Sherlock from time to time. Because, *honestly*... lol
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Date: 2012-04-07 12:05 am (UTC)From: (Anonymous)And also, this fic - the Catholic!angst part of it, anyway - kind of summarizes my problem with my faith; not that I'm terribly religious in the first place, but my family does go to church regularly and I'm starting to find that I don't truly believe in what they believe... so finding this made me slightly relieved, for some reason I can't really explain. Um. So, just disregard all that rambling there and know that I LOVE THIS. :)
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Date: 2013-02-01 04:42 am (UTC)From: (Anonymous)no subject
Date: 2013-02-03 11:29 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-02-16 12:23 pm (UTC)From: (Anonymous)Ertal77
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Date: 2013-04-13 04:08 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-04-12 04:54 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-04-12 11:22 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-07-11 12:00 am (UTC)From: (Anonymous)no subject
Date: 2013-07-17 12:11 am (UTC)From: