Sherlock 1. Chapter 1

**Notes at the end of the chapter. Please check out Part One of the immortal series, Sherlock Holmes and the Immortal.**

**CHAPTER 1**

Flames licked around Sherlock's toes like golden tongues. Sighing, he slid deeper into his grey leather armchair. His best blue silk robe rose up around his neck, contrasting with his tailored black slacks and white dress shirt. He worried for a moment that his trousers would catch fire, so he tugged them up to his knees. A deep moan rattled out from his chest as the fire wrapped around his ankles.

John pounded up the entry stairs, shopping bags rustling in his arms. Sherlock closed his eyes and counted John's steps and heart-rate, both loud in his ears.

_Pulse a bit fast_, he thought, _John needs more cardio_.

"I couldn't find everything on your list," John said, puffing a little. "And I didn't fancy going to the medical supply—"

John broke off. Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced over.

Pointing one finger, bag dangling from his hand, John said, "Feet are on fire."

"Yes."

"Ah. Okay then."

Sherlock grinned and wiggled his toes.

"Bother you?" he asked.

"It's a bit disconcerting. Feel good?"

Sherlock sighed in contentment and slithered deeper into his chair. "Wonderful," he moaned.

John nodded and walked to the kitchen. "Is there anything else you discovered while I was doing the shopping?"

"Nope. Got a bit distracted with this."

John mumbled something about wishing Sherlock would get distracted with dusting.

So far, immortality was being a bit of a letdown. It had been one month after his rather spectacular display in the caverns under Buckingham. The only half-way interesting discovery had been how delicious fire felt on his flawless white skin. He deduced that intense emotion was the trigger of his previous stunts. God knew there was enough to keep him keyed up, but the heat soaking into his skin made a supernatural apocalypse seem like a minor issue.

"Any trouble at the shops?" Sherlock asked.

"No, it's still quiet out there. I keep expecting riots in the streets."

Flopping into his old burgundy armchair, John shook out the day's newspaper. He always checked the obituaries first. A habit he had started since living with the world's only consulting detective. His military short sandy blonde hair was a little ruffled, his plaid shirt collar uneven around his neck.

"Windy outside," Sherlock stated.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. You know. London."

Sherlock nodded and drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair.

"Any exciting deaths?"

"No more than usual."

"That's disappointing."

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, his denim blue eyes more than a little judgmental.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," John said.

"Oh come on," Sherlock said, "You're bored too. I was expecting excitement. All those terrible beasts unleashed on the world. Yet here we are. My feet in the fire and no one has had the decency to get torn limb from limb. Boring."

John tried to fight a smile. "You're awful."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Tell me something I don't know."

On the mantle, Sherlock's phone buzzed. Sherlock didn't move a muscle.

Paper rustled as John turned the page. "That could be something," he said.

"It's Mycroft. He's still too angry to call so he's taken up texting me."

John sat aside the paper and got up to check the phone. He laughed and Sherlock opened one eye.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"He says, 'John, tell my idiot brother that there are matters of a sensitive nature we need to discuss. If he continues to ignore me I will take action.'"

Sherlock huffed and said, "What a twat. What's he going to do, send the rozzers here and…" He trailed off and held out his hand. "Give me the phone."

Chuckling, John tossed him the phone and settled back down.

"You did say you wanted some excitement," John said.

"Don't rub it in, John. I'll have him come here. I don't want to get up."

Sherlock typed, "YOU KNOW WHERE I'M AT- SH," and slumped back into his chair, his full bottom lip pouting.

"You should probably take your feet out of the hearth. Mycroft may not understand," John said.

"Oh, who cares what he thinks," Sherlock replied, but he did as John suggested. His heels hit the red woven rug and smoke curled up around them.

"Mrs. Hudson is going to kill you," John said, waving away the smoke.

"If ever there was a thing to not fear, it's that."

* * *

When Mycroft arrived an hour later, the smell of singed wool lingered in the air.

Mycroft wrinkled his long nose. "How did you ignite the rug?" he asked.

"What do you want?" Sherlock replied, even more rude than usual.

"John," Mycroft said, "how are you?"

"Fine. I-"

"Are you really going to make me sit through this?" Sherlock interrupted.

John frowned over at Sherlock and offered his chair to Mycroft. There were days where John wondered how Sherlock had gotten to his age without being strangled. Probably because he was a fast runner.

"Brother mine," Mycroft started as he sat down, his mouth twisted in snobbish disdain as he looked around their somewhat ratty flat, "I'd have thought your newfound gifts would've sweetened your disposition. Anyone else in your situation would be at least somewhat pleased."

"Do I look like anyone else to you?"

Mycroft raised his chin and looked down his long, thin nose. "No, I suppose not. Not anymore, at any rate."

Mycroft was right. John looked over to Sherlock and, despite his churlish posture and rumpled dressing gown, he looked like a god come to earth. He'd been a good-looking man in life; tall, slender with almond shaped eyes and dark brown curls. Now his skin was porcelain perfection, his eyes glowed in shifting shades of turquoise and gold, and his hair a shining ebony that seemed to pick up every stray shimmer of light. Even John found himself staring sometimes, much to Sherlock's annoyance. Captivating, beautiful, and inhuman. Of course, he wasn't human any longer. Not after what she had done to him. _Vara_.

John cringed at the thought and drew up a chair between the brothers. He'd never seen them get physical with one another, but if Sherlock decided to blow something up, a doctor would be handy.

Clearing his throat, Mycroft pulled a manila folder from his briefcase and handed it to Sherlock. Unable to resist the temptation, Sherlock started leafing through a neat stack of photographs and reports. John couldn't tell what he was seeing, but it made Sherlock sit straight in his chair.

"What am I seeing?" Sherlock asked, his voice hushed.

"You're seeing the remains of seven victims of an attack we cannot explain," Mycroft said.

"Obviously, or you wouldn't be here."

"It's more than that," Mycroft said, his voice getting testy. "We suspect the attacker was one of the creatures you released from Master Rihat's hoard. You set them loose. It's your responsibility to clean up the mess you've made."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Or maybe," he said, "If you hadn't allowed your government to have been held hostage by a maniac these people and God knows how many others would still be alive."

"Alright boys," John said as he stood and gently pried the file from Sherlock's hands. "Why didn't you come to Sherlock sooner, Mycroft?"

Mycroft glared at his little brother for a moment longer and said, "There have been problems with the bodies. They were found-"

"In water," Sherlock interrupted. "Ruined."

Frowning, John flipped through the pictures and sat heavily. He'd been through several wars and seen injuries in his career as a doctor that would make strong men pale. What he saw now turned his stomach.

The remains were human. There was a human femur. Exposed bone shown through skin so thin and tight, there was no mistaking their origin. There a white shoulder socket. The lower half of a skull, a few teeth pushed crooked against a broken jawbone. But only pieces remained. None of the bodies looked complete. Bite marks, both large and small covered the remains. Great holes had been rent in the abdomen and skulls, entire faces gnawed away. It was as though something had burrowed into the bodies and sucked every ounce of moisture from them. There was no blood. There wasn't even any muscle or fat. Just a few scraps of skin and bone held by water softened tendons.

John swallowed back his gorge and handed the folder to Sherlock. "What's different?" he asked.

"We have a complete body. Not only that, we have a crime scene."

"Is it preserved?" Sherlock asked.

"It is," Mycroft said. He stood and straightened his jacket. "I'll let you deal with the people. The address is in the file. And do something about," Mycroft waved his hand at Sherlock's face, "that. You stand out."

Sherlock ran his hand over his face and nodded. "Yeah," he said, "I've been working on it. Don't worry, I won't embarrass my darling brother with my inhumanity."

"Hmm. Very amusing. John," Mycroft said, nodding his goodbye.

Sherlock stood and watched from their first floor window as his brother was driven away.

John had a sick feeling that things were about to get exciting.

* * *

**_I began this fic shortly after the conclusion of Series 3 in mid-January. As with a lot of Sherlock fic writers, the third season threw me for a massive loop and returning to writing came slowly. Not that I didn't love the new series, because I did. But drastic character changes and arc upheavals, from what I had imagined anyway, are bound to affect your own characters and arcs. That, and His Last Vow left me deeply unsettled, which I'm sure was the point. Thankfully, there are some amazing, intelligent, and dedicated fans of Sherlock who, through their meta, helped pull me out of my funk. So, to those who are far smarter than I will ever be, I dedicate this story. Your vision, your dedication, and perseverance in the face of near constant wank is an inspiration. _**

**_But, seriously, the flicking really freaked me out. WTF._**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Sherlock and John exited the tube station three blocks from the crime scene. Fresh air and sunshine hit Sherlock's face like a balmy caress.

He knew that the only way he would be able to mingle in society and not stand out like a burke would involve his using a certain degree of disguise. So, for the sake of anonymity, Sherlock wore coloured contacts that gave the world a slight tint of grey, as if he were wearing sunglasses. This muted the startling color of his eyes to a more human blue-green. He had rubbed his skin down with a mix of lotion and potash to dull its poreless perfection. The odd smell had made John wrinkle his nose, but Sherlock didn't find it too bothersome. It served its purpose. Even if he did smell a bit like burnt flowers. There was nothing to do with the hair. If anyone was stupid enough to comment, he'd just say he found a new shampoo.

John grumbled and rolled up his shirt sleeves. "God, this weather. If there's a body, it's going to be rank."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Just pray it hasn't exploded. Not good for finding evidence if it's all covered in bits."

"Thanks for the visual, Sherlock," John sighed.

Smiling, Sherlock slowed his pace. The sun was high and warm on his skin. He'd managed to disgust his flat mate. There was a dead body up ahead. The day was looking up.

* * *

"So this is…" John trailed off and consulted the printout Mycroft had left them, "Avalon Gardens? I've never heard of it."

"There are a few pubs with that name, but I didn't know this was here either," Sherlock admitted with reluctance. He had always prided himself on his encyclopedic knowledge of London, but this area was new to him.

From across the street, there wasn't much to see. Red brick, multi-level houses cheek to jowl along a quiet block. A few pitiful trees struggled up through the pavement, their weak branches barely supporting the few little leaves they wore. Sherlock assumed this was the 'gardens' part of the name. Optimistic for such a dreary neighbourhood. Even the midday sunlight was having a hard time finding its way down between the buildings.

They had both expected a typical crime scene upon arrival. Yellow tape, flashing lights, and police officers trampling his crime scene like a herd of elephants. But there was only one car, a non-descript grey sedan parked a few doors down. Someone sat in the driver's seat, calmly turning the pages of a magazine he had propped on the steering wheel. The only give-away that they weren't local was the fact that the car was too new and too clean to fit in properly.

"There's Mycroft's man," Sherlock said, nodding to the car. "I suppose we should get started."

"Do you see any evidence out here?" John asked.

Normally, Sherlock could suss out a crime by observing the surrounding area and finding the most minute of clues from amongst the general rabble of everyday life. And that was before he'd transformed into a demi-god. Now, even with his elevated senses, he could find nothing out of the ordinary. Which, in itself, was extraordinary.

"Not a thing," he replied as he started across the street. It was all too still. Too quiet.

The man in the car climbed out as they approached. He was average in every way. Average height, face, weight, even his grey suit matched the car. Sherlock allowed his senses to stretch out before him like an invisible hand. There was the slight scent of oil from the man's jacket indicating a pistol, but that was expected. Beyond that, nothing of note. Heart rate calm, no smell of fear or anxiety. At least Mycroft had sent a professional.

"Mr. Holmes the younger, I presume?" the man asked, his face blank.

"I am," Sherlock answered. "And this is my friend, Dr. John Watson."

Giving a tight smile, the man turned and started towards the building.

"My instructions are to let you in, and lock up behind you. That is all."

"That's all I need," Sherlock said, but he noticed that John flushed a little at the man's blunt demeanor. In all the years they had been together, Sherlock was always amused at how people's rudeness bothered John. The only one who got a pass in that regard was Sherlock. Of course, stopping Sherlock being rude would be like stopping a train with a fly swatter.

"Can you smell anything?" John asked under his breath. "Because I can't."

Sherlock shook his head. No clues, no smells, nothing.

The agent unlocked the door and went back to his car without a word. Already Sherlock was dismissing him and started focusing on his surroundings. He mentally cataloged the smudges below the door handle, the state of the window casings, even the type of brickwork used. None of it was giving him anything to work with at the moment, but could be useful later. He pulled a pair of surgical gloves from his blazer and absently noted John doing the same.

The front door swung open on silent hinges. Dry, hot air wafted out to greet them. It smelled of neglected woodwork and mouldering wallpaper. The interior of the small house was dark and had a sense of emptiness. More than if the rooms lacked furnishings, though they did. This was the emptiness of long abandonment. A house, but not a home. Dust motes stirred in the light from the open door, the only movement in the stillness.

"The file said that a kid, some trespasser, saw the body from a keyhole. Upstairs, I'd bet," John said, pointing up the narrow flight of stairs before them. "And that the body was, uh, grinning. Scared a few years off him. He panicked, called the cops, who called your brother. Lestrade was the first on the scene, thank God."

"Mmm. Yes, very fortunate."

Detective Inspector Lestrade was one of the few on the police force for whom Sherlock had even the slightest shred of respect. Sherlock always considered Lestrade the best of a bad lot. Guaranteed to damage a crime scene only minimally.

"Now," Sherlock said, "no more talking."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock took a moment to let his senses sharpen. One second. Deep breath. Two seconds. And open—

_Too much. It's overwhelming. Stop. No, look. The wood grain doesn't matter. Does it? No. LOOK. There, a scuff. The stairs. Size eight, boys, age 14, off-brand and worn. Streets mainly, no trace of clean earth. Doesn't matter. Only one set of prints leading up and a quick path heading down, tripped over the last few steps and out the door. I can almost hear him screaming. Don't touch or I may. So, whatever is up there didn't come up the stairs. Even Lestrade stayed in the entry. Why would he not look? Why would he call my brother at the first hint of something unusual? Obvious. This is larger than Mycroft is letting on. There are more. More than in the file. Why was I not told sooner? Worry about it later. FOCUS. Go up, don't mar the prints. The handrail is clean. Everything is clean, but dusty, abandoned. The house was built, wallpapered, painted, and deserted. Locked up immediately after completion. Why? Thirteen steps. Unlucky to some. The door is shut still. Mid-century, basic but not cheap design. Doesn't matter. Bad lighting up here. John will have trouble seeing. The keyhole though. There's the light like a beacon. Natural light. Someone has opened the shutters inside the room. Still no smell. There should be a smell. And the boy knelt down and saw… Ah, that's why he screamed._

"John," Sherlock said, his voice hushed, "come here and look. Don't touch anything, just tell me what you see."

Clearing his throat, John shot Sherlock a suspicious look and did as he was asked.

He, as predicted, screamed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2**

Sherlock and John exited the tube station three blocks from the crime scene. Fresh air and sunshine hit Sherlock's face like a balmy caress.

He knew that the only way he would be able to mingle in society and not stand out like a burke would involve his using a certain degree of disguise. So, for the sake of anonymity, Sherlock wore coloured contacts that gave the world a slight tint of grey, as if he were wearing sunglasses. This muted the startling color of his eyes to a more human blue-green. He had rubbed his skin down with a mix of lotion and potash to dull its poreless perfection. The odd smell had made John wrinkle his nose, but Sherlock didn't find it too bothersome. It served its purpose. Even if he did smell a bit like burnt flowers. There was nothing to do with the hair. If anyone was stupid enough to comment, he'd just say he found a new shampoo.

John grumbled and rolled up his shirt sleeves. "God, this weather. If there's a body, it's going to be rank."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Just pray it hasn't exploded. Not good for finding evidence if it's all covered in bits."

"Thanks for the visual, Sherlock," John sighed.

Smiling, Sherlock slowed his pace. The sun was high and warm on his skin. He'd managed to disgust his flat mate. There was a dead body up ahead. The day was looking up.

* * *

"So this is…" John trailed off and consulted the printout Mycroft had left them, "Avalon Gardens? I've never heard of it."

"There are a few pubs with that name, but I didn't know this was here either," Sherlock admitted with reluctance. He had always prided himself on his encyclopedic knowledge of London, but this area was new to him.

From across the street, there wasn't much to see. Red brick, multi-level houses cheek to jowl along a quiet block. A few pitiful trees struggled up through the pavement, their weak branches barely supporting the few little leaves they wore. Sherlock assumed this was the 'gardens' part of the name. Optimistic for such a dreary neighbourhood. Even the midday sunlight was having a hard time finding its way down between the buildings.

They had both expected a typical crime scene upon arrival. Yellow tape, flashing lights, and police officers trampling his crime scene like a herd of elephants. But there was only one car, a non-descript grey sedan parked a few doors down. Someone sat in the driver's seat, calmly turning the pages of a magazine he had propped on the steering wheel. The only give-away that they weren't local was the fact that the car was too new and too clean to fit in properly.

"There's Mycroft's man," Sherlock said, nodding to the car. "I suppose we should get started."

"Do you see any evidence out here?" John asked.

Normally, Sherlock could suss out a crime by observing the surrounding area and finding the most minute of clues from amongst the general rabble of everyday life. And that was before he'd transformed into a demi-god. Now, even with his elevated senses, he could find nothing out of the ordinary. Which, in itself, was extraordinary.

"Not a thing," he replied as he started across the street. It was all too still. Too quiet.

The man in the car climbed out as they approached. He was average in every way. Average height, face, weight, even his grey suit matched the car. Sherlock allowed his senses to stretch out before him like an invisible hand. There was the slight scent of oil from the man's jacket indicating a pistol, but that was expected. Beyond that, nothing of note. Heart rate calm, no smell of fear or anxiety. At least Mycroft had sent a professional.

"Mr. Holmes the younger, I presume?" the man asked, his face blank.

"I am," Sherlock answered. "And this is my friend, Dr. John Watson."

Giving a tight smile, the man turned and started towards the building.

"My instructions are to let you in, and lock up behind you. That is all."

"That's all I need," Sherlock said, but he noticed that John flushed a little at the man's blunt demeanor. In all the years they had been together, Sherlock was always amused at how people's rudeness bothered John. The only one who got a pass in that regard was Sherlock. Of course, stopping Sherlock being rude would be like stopping a train with a fly swatter.

"Can you smell anything?" John asked under his breath. "Because I can't."

Sherlock shook his head. No clues, no smells, nothing.

The agent unlocked the door and went back to his car without a word. Already Sherlock was dismissing him and started focusing on his surroundings. He mentally cataloged the smudges below the door handle, the state of the window casings, even the type of brickwork used. None of it was giving him anything to work with at the moment, but could be useful later. He pulled a pair of surgical gloves from his blazer and absently noted John doing the same.

The front door swung open on silent hinges. Dry, hot air wafted out to greet them. It smelled of neglected woodwork and mouldering wallpaper. The interior of the small house was dark and had a sense of emptiness. More than if the rooms lacked furnishings, though they did. This was the emptiness of long abandonment. A house, but not a home. Dust motes stirred in the light from the open door, the only movement in the stillness.

"The file said that a kid, some trespasser, saw the body from a keyhole. Upstairs, I'd bet," John said, pointing up the narrow flight of stairs before them. "And that the body was, uh, grinning. Scared a few years off him. He panicked, called the cops, who called your brother. Lestrade was the first on the scene, thank God."

"Mmm. Yes, very fortunate."

Detective Inspector Lestrade was one of the few on the police force for whom Sherlock had even the slightest shred of respect. Sherlock always considered Lestrade the best of a bad lot. Guaranteed to damage a crime scene only minimally.

"Now," Sherlock said, "no more talking."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock took a moment to let his senses sharpen. One second. Deep breath. Two seconds. And open—

_Too much. It's overwhelming. Stop. No, look. The wood grain doesn't matter. Does it? No. LOOK. There, a scuff. The stairs. Size eight, boys, age 14, off-brand and worn. Streets mainly, no trace of clean earth. Doesn't matter. Only one set of prints leading up and a quick path heading down, tripped over the last few steps and out the door. I can almost hear him screaming. Don't touch or I may. So, whatever is up there didn't come up the stairs. Even Lestrade stayed in the entry. Why would he not look? Why would he call my brother at the first hint of something unusual? Obvious. This is larger than Mycroft is letting on. There are more. More than in the file. Why was I not told sooner? Worry about it later. FOCUS. Go up, don't mar the prints. The handrail is clean. Everything is clean, but dusty, abandoned. The house was built, wallpapered, painted, and deserted. Locked up immediately after completion. Why? Thirteen steps. Unlucky to some. The door is shut still. Mid-century, basic but not cheap design. Doesn't matter. Bad lighting up here. John will have trouble seeing. The keyhole though. There's the light like a beacon. Natural light. Someone has opened the shutters inside the room. Still no smell. There should be a smell. And the boy knelt down and saw… Ah, that's why he screamed._

"John," Sherlock said, his voice hushed, "come here and look. Don't touch anything, just tell me what you see."

Clearing his throat, John shot Sherlock a suspicious look and did as he was asked.

He, as predicted, screamed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Indeed, when the forensics team attempted to examine the remains, head Scenes of Crime Officer Phillip Anderson was on the receiving end of what Sherlock Holmes considered a perfectly reasonable prank. The body had collapsed at the first touch sending a wave of powdered human straight into Anderson's gormless face. Sherlock treasured the moment and knew that he would revisit it when times got hard and he needed a laugh.

John was less amused, but Sherlock could tell that he found it at least a little funny. Especially when Anderson had to leave to vomit in the back yard.

Still chuckling, Sherlock helped guide his end of a long ladder to the corner of the room he suspected the murderer had entered to deposit the body. If he could get up there, maybe he could find some evidence to help them figure out what had done this.

"Should we even be in here?" John asked, skirting the empty chair and pile of dust in the middle of the floor. "I think we're inhaling the victim."

"What is dust but dried skin particulate? You'll be fine. Hopefully."

"Hopefully? Great. If I get some horrible lung disease from this, I'm going to throttle you."

Together they centered the ladder to Sherlock's specs. He went up first, knowing John was uncomfortable with heights. To the naked eye, there was nothing to give away this particular ceiling panel. It was more of a feeling. He knew better than to try describing it. A vague buzz just inside his perception. Energy. Life.

"You boys find anything, then?" asked a jovial voice. Sherlock looked down to see Detective Inspector Lestrade in the doorway. He wore protective blue coveralls and a mask covered the lower half of his face, but his dark eyes twinkled up at Sherlock.

"Working on it," Sherlock replied. "How's Anderson?"

"I think he threw up a lung. That was terrible. You should be ashamed."

Sherlock laughed and lifted the ceiling tile up and out of the way. "Well," he said, "you were the one recording him on your phone."

"Gathering evidence!"

"Have you put it on YouTube yet?"

"It's still uploading. So, what are you expecting to find up there?"

"Dunno. Stuff. Things. Don't worry about it."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and left them to their business. He called off his officers around the room to give Sherlock the space he needed to work.

"John," Sherlock said, "give me a minute up here alone first."

"The longer I'm on flat ground the better. Knock yourself out."

Nodding, he eased his way through the narrow opening and sat on a dusty crossbeam. His small torch didn't illuminate the cramped space particularly well, not that he needed it. His eyes were sharp enough to pick out even the smallest of details in the gloom.

Drawing to his feet, his head brushed the cobwebbed eaves. A part of him worried about the state of his hair. He frowned at himself at the inane thought. Where did that come from?

Following the dim light of his torch, he crept over rough beams and crumbling insulation. This was no attic as he had expected. It was a crawlspace. But there was energy here. That same buzzing through the air in a silent hum. It was a trail leading—

Sherlock stopped, his nose less than an inch from the wall. He'd had closed his eyes without realizing it, following his senses more than his sight. If the trail he had been following hadn't stopped cold, he would've smashed his face against the crumbling brickwork.

"Ah," he said quietly into the darkness. "That's weird."

* * *

Sherlock clambered out of the ceiling like a dust covered thundercloud. John knew that look.

"Nothing?" John asked.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, his voice clipped.

John nodded and followed him past the waiting police officers and out of the house. A trail of whispered comments, sly smiles, dark frowns, and muttered curses followed them. It was what always happened when Sherlock and he were at a crime scene together. Every time John saw those looks he had to resist the urge to knock them from their smug faces.

Glancing over his shoulder, Sherlock said, "Calm down. It's not worth it."

"I'll tell you what's worth nothing," a condescending voice called.

"Sally," Sherlock said, "lovely to see you, as always."

An embarrassed flush heated John's chest. Since day one, Sergeant Sally Donovan hated and feared Sherlock Holmes. John asked him once what he had done that had so thoroughly burned any bridges that may have formed between them. He had only shrugged and muttered something about a few of her unsolved cases. After that, he had clammed up and John knew that once he'd made up his mind to not talk about something, it wouldn't get talked about. So, going over his head a little, John asked Lestrade.

"It's stupid," Lestrade had said. "Sherlock just did what he always does. He came in, saw that there had, maybe, been a few mistakes made, pointed them out, and solved the case. Cases, I should say. There were a few."

"Let me guess," John replied, "he was less than gentle pointing out some of those mistakes?"

"Pretty brutal, to be honest. Listen, the Sherlock you know now… He wasn't always like he is. He was worse. A lot worse before you came along. Don't look like that, trust me, it's possible. I didn't take it personally. He was saving lives, I never cared how he does it, just that he gets it done. Donovan though, she always took what he said badly. So, she'd try to knock him down a peg only to get it thrown in her face. He never did anything specific that I know of to make her hate him like she does, but that doesn't mean nothing happened."

Taking Lestrade at his word, John hadn't pried further.

Sally had taken her dislike and painted a broad stroke across anyone who showed Sherlock kindness. John in particular she enjoyed needling. Questioning their sexuality was one of her favorite attacks.

"You and your little boyfriend trashed that crime scene, freak," she said, her pretty face screwed up with anger. "I hope it was worth it, but I'm betting it's not."

Sherlock faced her calmly and started dusting off his blazer. "As usual your tendency to make assumptions is making you look like an idiot. There was nothing more you could get from that room and there was no way to move the body. The photographers had finished and every inch documented and recorded. That your adulterous lover got more than he was expecting was just icing on the cake."

"You listen to me," she started.

"Rather not. Coming, John?" Sherlock interrupted. He turned his back to the sputtering officer and started down the block.

John went to follow him, but Donovan reached out and pulled John around to face her. He shook off her hand and snapped, "What?"

"I don't know what's going on," Donovan said through gritted teeth, "but it's not natural. Whatever it is, if these deaths have anything to do with that freak or with you I swear to God I will bring you both down if it's the last thing I do."

"When are you going to get your priorities straight and realize that we aren't the bad guys?"

"I know a monster when I see one, _Doctor_. I'm not the one that's slow here."

Her comment hit a little too close for comfort. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck and John shifted uncomfortably. He shook his head in disgust and went to catch up with Sherlock before he said something that got him arrested.

As he drew close to Sherlock, he could see the patchy sunlight shimmer in his ebony hair like captured moonbeams. His heart ached for his friend. While he knew Sherlock wasn't a monster, he also knew he was no longer a man.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_Her skin was molten caramel. Warm, soft, and sweet. The long sweep of her back as she lay on her stomach was a work of art. One pale finger traced a line between a sprinkling of freckles across her dark, golden shoulder._

"_Your hands are freezing," she muttered, her voice full of sleep and languid satisfaction._

_He gently pushed her thick black hair away from her neck and leaned down to place a kiss on the delicate skin just behind her ear. His lips were generous and softer than any man's had a right to be. She giggled and turned her back to him, cuddling close so he could wrap his arm around her and hold her tight. Her small but curvaceous body fit to his tall, lean frame perfectly. The smell of cinnamon and honey filled his nose as he buried his face in her hair._

"_Why am I so cold?" he asked, his voice a purring baritone against her skin, making her shiver._

"_Mmm," she sighed, "you know why."_

"_Huh-uh." One large hand swept down her arm to cover her hand, engulfing it completely._

"_Do to," she disagreed. "You've banked your fires, my love."_

_He laughed. "I haven't got any fires to bank," he said._

_She turned to face him, her eyes looked up like black pools he could dive into and drown and drown and drown until air was nothing but a memory. A delicate hand came up to cup his face, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone._

"_You're right," she said, "you don't have fires. You have infernos. Raging suns and supernovas. You burn white hot and furious. I just wish…"_

"_What?" he said. He drew her hand to his mouth, kissing her palm, tasting her._

"_I wish you had burned for me."_

_He watched as her eyes faded from black to blue. Denim blue._

With a gasp, Sherlock sat up and nearly fell off the living room sofa.

"Ah, you're awake," John said, his voice on the edge of laughter.

Sherlock flinched and, with a little pop, the light bulb in the lamp by his head blew out.

"Hey you did a thing! And you slept. That's the first time since last month, right?"

John sat in Sherlock's chair, his cheerful, careworn face illuminated by the screen of his laptop. It was dark out. When had that happened?

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked, his voice ragged.

"Half past eight. You okay? You look all… sweaty."

"I'm fine. Uh. Tea?"

"I assume you'll want me to get that, will you? Stupid question," John grumbled, but sat aside his computer and went to the kitchen.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair. A sweat-soaked, tangled mess. His shirt was sticking to his chest. He had an urge to rip it off. That would be foolish, of course. Rude. Maybe, he reasoned, just a few buttons. It was so bloody hot!

"Hey," John said, setting a mug next on the table, "you look like a mess. Seriously, what's wrong?"

"Dream. Just a bad dream," Sherlock said. He could feel his voice trembling and rage swept through his body. He'd be damned if he would let some foolish nightmare about a dead girl rule his emotions. To hell with what color her eyes were.

"Must've been. Well, I've got to dash. Date with Rebecca tonight. Maybe I'll get to see something nice kinda wash all that ugly we saw today out of my mind. You going to be alright here? I'll stay if-"

"No, no I'm fine. Rebecca. Is she the one with the, uh, cooking thing?" Sherlock said, grasping for some semblance of normalcy.

"Chef, yeah. Close enough," John said. "Though God knows if she saw the state of our kitchen she'd have a stroke. Call me if you need anything. And by anything I mean an emergency, not me passing you something across the room. Alright?"

"Yes, go. I'm perfectly fine," Sherlock said, his voice betraying him with a crack.

John raised an eyebrow, but left all the same.

As soon as he heard the door close downstairs, Sherlock ripped off his sweat soaked shirt and tossed it across the room. A wave of nausea turned his stomach and he reached under his cushion to fish out his hidden stash of cigarettes. His hands trembled as he lit the fag, but the nicotine settled his stomach and he felt a little less like dying.

"Jesus Christ, what's wrong with me," he mumbled. His tea had gone a bit tepid, but it was better than nothing. He leaned back, his sweaty skin sticking to the leather sofa. A bit of ash fell onto his chest and burned nicely. He brushed the embers away and wished like hell he still had his stash of downers. Though, honestly, he wasn't even sure drugs would work on him anymore. Now that was a scary thought.

Disgusted with himself and the universe at large, Sherlock forced himself up and across the room. Work was the best diversion as it had always been. Work, and possibly a very cold shower.

* * *

By the time John returned from his date, Sherlock had taken his freezing shower, smoked enough cigarettes to create a low-hanging cloud in the living room, and tacked on the wall the pictures and reports given to him by Mycroft. It was a grim sight, but allowed Sherlock the opportunity to clearly see what little facts with which he had to work.

"Good grief," John said, waving a hand in front of his face, "I thought you'd stopped smoking."

"Cancer's the least of my worries now," Sherlock said, but he put out his fag and opened the window. He may be safe from lung cancer, but John wasn't.

"I'm surprised you're home," Sherlock said. "Figured you'd be staying over at what's-her-names."

Flopping into his chair with a filled tumbler, John said, "Her name is Sarah. I mean Rebecca. Aw, shit. Well, that should tell you all you need to know." Toasting Sherlock with an ironic smirk, John knocked back his whiskey.

"Right. Er. Sorry 'bout that."

"Oh shut up," John said, "you couldn't care less whether I get a leg over or not. So, you going to tell me what all that was about earlier or am I going to have to beat it out of you?"

"We are in a state, aren't we? Alright, alright calm down. I don't know." Sherlock tacked one more photo to the wall and stepped back to take it all in. "I had a dream about… about Vara."

Sherlock heard John's heart skip a beat. He didn't want to turn and face him. John always got a fuzzy, pitiful look in his eyes whenever Vara's name was mentioned. They had both attempted to pretend she had never existed. Sherlock had a lifetime of experience in repressing emotions and memories so that he could function at the peak of his capabilities so the pain of her loss was bearable. Some things can't be removed though, no matter how hard you try. And poor John could no more hide his feelings than fly to the moon.

"What was it about," John asked, his voice rough.

"Nothing much," Sherlock lied. "It just caught me unawares. That's all, John."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. Let's just focus on the case. Sound good to you?"

"Y-yeah. I think I'm going to need another drink though."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

John pushed a stack of books over and sat beside Sherlock on the coffee table. The tumbler glass in his hands glistened in the reflected light from the kitchen. It was a prettier sight than the pictures and maps Sherlock had tacked to their walls. Mutilated corpses and muddy riverbanks. And the tortured face of the victim they had seen that day.

The whiskey wasn't doing a good job of blurring the edges of his memory. His family had a history of alcohol abuse, recent history in regards to his sister Harriet. Days like today made alcoholism seem like a rational response.

"May I?" Sherlock asked. John looked at his friend and tried not to gasp. Apparently Sherlock had taken out his contacts and his eyes were shimmering in shades of deep emerald and jade.

Frowning, he plucked the glass from John's hand. "You're staring again," he said and drank the last of John's whiskey.

"Sorry."

Sherlock shrugged and turned to face the wall.

"Do you see what I see, John?" he said.

Sighing John said, "Doubt it."

"I see the tip of the iceberg. Mycroft is lying to us. Nothing new there, of course, but between the crime scene and the way Donovan was reacting it's no great leap to assume the worst. Lestrade didn't even check the body when it was first found. He called Mycroft straight away. Obviously, a lot of unusual deaths and accidents have been occurring that haven't hit the papers. So many that anything out of the ordinary results in a direct call with the highest power in the government, in other words, my brother. And if Mycroft is nothing else, he is colossally lazy. If he's involving himself, then it's logical to assume that things out there are getting bad."

Sherlock waved a hand at the photos. "This is just what's leaking out around the edges. The question is, why hasn't my brother come to me sooner, and why has he decided to come to me now."

"Maybe because there was a witness? The boy who found the body."

"I agree. The crime scene was an art exhibit. The previous deaths, well, the ones you and I know about, were sloppy. Desperate. The bodies along the river were devoured, nothing more than food. Whatever did what we found today was different. It, or they, somehow entered the house and placed a delicate, artfully mutilated body. It also made it so that anyone entering that home would be drawn straight up the stairs to look in that keyhole. Drawn to the house itself- it was closed for fifty years and now it's broken into? There's no such thing as a coincidence, John. And I'd bet good money that kid has sold his story to every news blog on the 'net."

"So they want the word to get out. The killer."

"Tired of being in hiding maybe. Ready for a grand reveal."

"No ID on today's victim yet?"

Sherlock ran his fingers through is hair in obvious frustration. "Nothing," he said. "There's not any way to get even dental records and her face was destroyed beyond recognition. Some hair remained for DNA, but it's a needle in a haystack at this point. Same with the other bodies. All they can tell is that they were individuals and not one body ripped apart and spread over several miles."

With a groan, Sherlock stood and started pacing the room, his clenching hands folded behind his back.

John squinted up at the maps. Sherlock had dated and marked with a bright red 'X' every location where the bodies had been found.

"Sherlock," John said, "is it just me, or does it seem like there's a pattern here?"

Sherlock nodded. "They're being left East to West. Going up the river, a new body every couple of days."

"So the killer is moving?"

"I think it may be multiple killers, but yes."

"Well," John said, standing, "let's go to the river and check it out. My evening is blown to hell and you need to get out of the house."

"Good idea, John. Bring your gun."

"Do you think it'll be dangerous?"

"Yes, we may get lucky," Sherlock said and, with a cheeky grin, dashed down the stairs.

* * *

The Thames lay in a black ribbon, city lights glimmered on its dark surface like the invisible stars above. Sherlock loved London at night, for all his grumbling about the traffic and noise and people. At night she shone her brightest and the noise, while still present, was softened and bearable. There were still people, of course, but the night time crowd was a little more amiable. The frantic city-boys fast asleep in a drugged up haze, their BMW's tucked away to rage and blast through the streets later. But not now. Now was Sherlock's time. And under the beautiful, calm surface, London was getting ready to explode. His London, his fault.

John was still feeling the effects of his whiskey and rejection. Sherlock walked behind him observing that his slightly bow-legged swagger was a little more unsteady than usual. He had to smile. There were few things more entertaining to Sherlock than a drunk John Watson. He probably shouldn't have let John carry the gun, but even drunk John had a streak of responsible nobility about him. He wasn't likely to shoot up the streets unless provoked. And if it came down to it, John could still shoot straighter drunk than Sherlock could sober.

"Izzis the place where they found the last body?" John slurred.

Sherlock pointed ahead. "Up there by the pylon. That was the ribcage and spine remains."

"Do you think she was alive when they did it?" John blurted. He wobbled to a stop and faced Sherlock, his face cast in shadow.

"Hmm?"

"The lady. That dead lady in the room with the-" John mimed a hand pulling his hair back and gave a hideous grin.

The smell of fish and mud wafted up from the sluggish river, temporarily overwhelming Sherlock's senses. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Do you want my honest opinion?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded.

"There was evidence that, yes, she had been alive when it happened. The rips in her… It doesn't matter."

"Does to," John contradicted, waving a finger. "You've got to bloody hate someone to do that to them. I mean, there's crazy. I get that. But that was some next level shit. Those were some pissed off faeries."

"Oh," Sherlock said, grinning at his friend, "you think it's faeries now? I thought that was bollocks."

"You're bollocks. I'm serious! Lookit, I even bet that Mycroft knows who that lady was just he's not telling us because he's awful and I don't like him," John said. He attempted to wink, but managed only to blink enthusiastically.

"Ah, well, you might be right there. Come on, you, it's not much-" Sherlock stopped, his shoes slipping in the mud. "Can you feel that?" he whispered.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He could almost, but not quite, hear a tiny buzz of energy. It danced over his skin in an electric rush. It was the same feeling he had when he was in the abandoned house. And there was a trail.

Breaking into a jog, Sherlock followed the energy path to an indention in the mud, little different than the others but for the lingering stink of blood.

"Can you smell that, John?" Sherlock asked.

John came trotting behind Sherlock looking a little worse for wear, but he nodded. "Just a bit. Is it what I think it is?"

"Blood, yes. This is where the body was and the trail-"

"Trail?" John asked.

"Hard to describe. Like a path of energy."

John shook his head and followed as Sherlock dove along the river bank at a breakneck speed. Straight as an arrow, the trail led parallel to the water until it came to a shanty town cobbled together by a group of London's homeless. Sherlock slowed and began to feel his heart sink. Long had he been an employer of the homeless in the city. No one knew the goings on of the London underground better than those who lived in its stinking depths. They were a good lot to have on your side, more honest than most, and definitely easier to bribe. He was beginning to understand now why the disappearances weren't making waves in the news. If the victims had been homeless, chances were that few knew their names. And the police wouldn't normally busy themselves with transients.

The slap-dash city within a city was no more than a few lean-tos and weather beaten cardboard containers. From the footpath, Sherlock could tell that quite a few people once called this home, but there were no more than a couple of faces peering out from the darkness. This area had taken a hit. Whenever anyone made an effort to put down roots, no matter where or what they may be, you don't walk away from that without a damn good reason.

"They were taken from here," Sherlock muttered. He walked slowly, following the trail as it wound its way around the structures. The trail kept splintering. Smaller trails leading from the main like sparks drifting from a campfire. He felt a thrill of smug pleasure. Small bodies leaving the main group. Little humanoids.

John bumped into Sherlock's back and wobbled. Sherlock reached out and snagged his arm before he ended up arse first in three inches of mud.

"Ta," John said, gratefully. "Sherlock, what are we following? What energy? Is this a new thing, like the feet in the fire?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, "and it's hard to describe. It's like that feeling you get right before you touch something and shock yourself. Only laid out along the ground."

"Wow. Really?"

"No, but it's the best I can do. Right, the path is leading us to the water's edge. And then down into the water."

"Maybe we can borrow someone's boat? I think Greg mentioned-"

"Who's Greg?" Sherlock asked.

John rolled his eyes. "I swear to God, that mental block you have on people's names is ridiculous. Greg Lestrade! Anyway, he said he had a boat. He could loan us his and we could go out and check, erm, things."

"Check the water? It looks like water, as you can see. No, there's nothing for it. I'm going in." And with that, Sherlock took off his jacket, handing it to John.

"Oh, no you're not," John said, his arms rapidly filling with clothes, "you'll get sick."

Sherlock looked up at John as he untied his shoes. "Rewind that sentence in your head and see if there's anything wrong with it."

"Alright, fine, smart arse, you won't get sick. But there's probably something really dangerous in there. Superman or not, barging in blind is not the brightest thing to do. Actually, I might want to write this down as one of the dumbest things you've ever suggested."

"I like you better when you're drunk. Now, just stay here and-"

"No!"

"What?"

John tossed Sherlock's clothes into the mud.

"What the hell!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"You are not leaving me alone on this riverbank," John said, kicking off his shoes and ripping off his jeans. "I am sick to bloody death of you leaving me behind. _'Oh, you just stay there while I make sure everything is nice and safe_' like I'm made of fucking porcelain! I've served in two wars, I have killed for you more than once, and I will be damned if our new arrangement is that you get to chunk yourself in the firing line while I sit back on my laurels to watch. Now, we either do this together, or you call Greg about the goddamn boat!"

Sherlock stood unaffected in nothing but his pants on a cool London night. John, still mildly intoxicated, shivered and broke into full-body gooseflesh.

"John," Sherlock said, "I can hold my breath for a very long time and won't get sick from whatever god-awful diseases are in the water. You can do neither of those things. What, exactly, are you hoping to accomplish besides ruining our clothes?"

Crossing his arms over his bare chest, John looked down as his feet. His toes curled in the mud. "I just. I feel like if something were to happen to you and I wasn't there I would never forgive myself."

"Nothing is going to happen to me."

"Yeah, but what if it does?" John looked up at Sherlock.

"Do you really want to get into this now?"

"No, I don't. So you'd better call Greg."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Less boat and more glorified dingy, the _Gunslinger_ bobbed happily in the water as Lestrade went to park his truck.

"Oh yes," Sherlock said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "this is _much_ safer. I feel snug as a bug. Certainly nothing will attack us as we take the waters in this battleship. Monsters beware for you are about to be bombarded by the mightiest of Her Majesty's fleet, the HMS _Capsize and Sink_."

"Oy!" Lestrade shouted as he joined them. "I'll remind you that this is a favor, Sherlock. There's not many that would drag themselves out at this hour to take a pleasure cruise. She's perfectly seaworthy. I haven't had any complaints, at least."

"Yes, you have. This is me, standing here, complaining. Observe as I complain."

"Ignore him, Greg," John said. "He's just pissy because he's got mud on his trousers."

"Yeah, how did the two of you end up looking like you've been rolling around in it? Is there something I need to know? Because we have this pool down at the station and-"

"For God's sake," Sherlock growled, "let's just get this over with. The trail is getting colder the longer you two stand there gabbing like couple of hens."

Lestrade chuckled at Sherlock as he helped the bedraggled men onboard. The vessel gave an alarming wobble under their weight and Sherlock looked at John and mouthed, _We are going to drown_.

"Right, listen," Lestrade started, "John said you'd found a trail, but I'll be buggered if I can see how you're going to find anything in out here."

Sherlock handed John a life jacket that was stashed under a bench. "Well," he said, "I obviously have magical powers and am following an invisible trail that leads underwater, possibly left by faeries."

John choked and started coughing, rocking the little boat even harder.

"Ha-ha. Very funny," Lestrade said. He started the motor and they began chugging along the water at a blistering one knot. "Just point the way, magic man."

The way, it turned out, was a twisting route heading steadily west. Sherlock draped his upper body over the bow of the boat, his face as close to the water as possible. He was silent but for barked commands to Lestrade to bear left or right as they swayed along the Thames.

"What's he following," Lestrade whispered to John, though Sherlock could hear him clear as a bell. Lestrade wouldn't know that though, of course.

"Ah, well, you know Sherlock. There's always a method within the madness," John said, smugly, knowing damn well that Sherlock could hear every word he said.

Sherlock struggled to block out their chatter and focus on the trail. It was much harder to follow. It was as if the water were insulating the electricity. The disparate trails had managed to merge into one thick electric rope winding about a metre below the surface. He reached out a hand to slip through the cool water. A shiver of power vibrated up his arm. There was power here. More than in the room and on the riverbank.

"Ease up," Sherlock said. The power was gathering, heavier and heavier in a widening blanket stretching to either shore. He had to know more. Closing his eyes, he plunged his arm elbow deep into the water.

Deep thrumming reverberated through his bones as the boat slowed. He had suspected it was the boat motor interfering with his senses, but the more he reached into the water the more he began to feel a beat. Slow and steady. Like the very river had become alive.

With a quiet splash, Sherlock heard the anchor hit the water. He had time to look back, twisting over himself to raise a hand in warning. _No_, he wanted to scream. _Please, God, no! _

The water erupted around them, geysers blowing up with ferocious intensity. Roaring filled the air as the boat listed hard to port. The smell of fetid, deep water and mud overwhelmed Sherlock as he clung desperately to the hull.

In the moments when cold rationality is most needed, it's the farthest from grasp. Sherlock scrambled for calm as the world exploded around him. _We have to get that anchor out of the water_, he thought. _Iron, something about iron. Did John put on the lifejacket? I can't remember!_

Three seconds. Four. Sherlock threw himself across the heaving vessel. He couldn't see John or Lestrade. He couldn't see anything but water and the deck rising up to meet him for every inch he took. Gasping for breath, water filled his lungs and he hit his face hard on the edge of a wooden bench. Stars filled his vision and for a moment he wasn't sure if he would drown first or knock his own brains out. But there it was, the chain, the wicked iron chain leading to the anchor that could kill them all. He had no leverage, but he didn't need it. His hands scrambled for the sodden links and with a roar he pulled. The chain flew up from the water, filling the deck until the anchor pushed hard to the side of the boat, blessedly free from the raging Thames.

Slowly, very slowly the water calmed. Raging rapids eased to nauseating waves. Sherlock looked frantically behind him and sagged with relief when he saw John and Lestrade clinging to the wheel, soaked to the skin but alive.

Sherlock wrapped the chain around a peg the best his shaking hands could manage. Adrenaline and power surged through his veins and he was afraid of what he might do. One wrong move and he could snap the chain in half. Lestrade might not understand. He had to be calm.

"What," Lestrade gasped, "the _hell_ was that and if you say faeries so help me I will throw you overboard."

"That, I'm sorry to say, was our murderer," Sherlock replied.

"What?"

"Sherlock," John said, prying his hands from the wheel, "you can't be serious. You said they were small."

"Individually, yes, but en mass they'd be capable of practically anything. And maybe it's something else as well. I don't know. I might have miscalculated." Sherlock drew to his feet, his knees trembling. The deck was slick under his shoes and he worried for a moment about tripping and falling overboard like a fool.

Lestrade's face was a study in confusion. His eyes danced between John and Sherlock, his mouth agape.

"Shut your gob," Sherlock said, "you'll catch flies."

John made his way to Sherlock. "What do we do?" he whispered, not wanting to panic Lestrade more than needed.

There wasn't much they could do. The shores were within sight, light beacons shining for bearing. But the chance of starting the motor again and not upsetting the water was small. He cast about him, lifting the benches and scrambling around the boat like an overexcited octopus.

"First of all, keep that bloody anchor out of the water. And help me look for- Ah-ha!" he exclaimed, brandishing a pair of oars he'd located attached to the hull. "Now then, lifejackets the two of you. John, I'll need you to take the other oar, Lestrade you handle the rudder. One of the greatest minds in England and, well, you lot. I'm sure between the three of us we'll get out of this mess before dawn."

Lestrade hadn't moved, his knuckles were still white on the wheel. "The river just rose up and kicked our arses. Am I the only one that noticed that?"

Giving a condescending smile, Sherlock walked over and patted Lestrade on the shoulder. "Lifejacket and rudder. Leave the rest to me." He shoved the jacket at Lestrade's chest and went to stand opposite John at the side of the boat. He eased his oar into the water and waited for another explosion. Nothing came.

"Right," he said, "the near bank, nice and easy. And if anyone has an urge to sing a sea shanty, please resist it."

A boat the _Gunslinger's_ size wasn't meant to man powered, but desperate times called for desperate measures. With coordinated strokes, John and Sherlock managed to point themselves towards shore. John was already wheezing and Lestrade had the glassy eyed stare of a man in shock.

"John," Sherlock started, turning towards his friend, "You're puffing like a bellows. We really need to get you started on some cardio-"

A pale olive face peered over the edge of the boat behind John. Wet, pitch-black eyes met Sherlock's. Faster than even he could follow, a long fingered hand snatched out to grab John's leg. Its mouth opened in a snarl as it pulled at John, dragging him overboard. In an instant, a name flew up from the depths of Sherlock's memory as he leapt towards John, knowing he would be too late.

The monster that lived at the water's edge. Stories told to children to keep them from drowning. Don't go near the water. Don't let her get you. She'll drag you down and tear you apart. Black eyes and pointed teeth the color of slick algae.

_Jenny Greenteeth_.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Rage washed over Sherlock. He knew he couldn't let it control him, there wasn't time. No more than a heartbeat had passed since John hit the water with Sherlock hot on his heels. One huge leap and Sherlock was in the water.

He could hear Lestrade call out behind him and prayed the DI had enough sense to stay in the boat.

_Dark, too dark!_ Sherlock thought frantically. Black water surrounded him and tried to claw into his lungs, but he blocked out the pain. The desire to breathe was only an illusion. He knew from his at-home experiments that he could go hours without drawing breath. Vision was paramount.

Four heartbeats and light like a blessing began to spread out from him in a widening circle. He couldn't see a source and knew it must have been from him. Tiny bioluminescence potential within the microbes floating in the river. Maybe triggered somehow by his desperation. Didn't matter. All that mattered was John. He had been wearing the lifejacket and that would create drag, make it harder for the monster to pull him down.

Sherlock's mind screamed in need and the river burst into light as though the water had burst into flames.

_There! Not far, thank God._

His personal supernova lit up the reflective tape on John's lifejacket flickering in the silty murk. Sherlock shot towards him, arms and legs clawing at the cold, murky water.

Jenny Greenteeth's talons were dug into John's leg, blood trailed out from the wounds in pink ribbons. Her twisted, hideous face looked back over John's body. The sight of Sherlock, glowing with power and furious beyond reason must have made her prey not worth the fight. With a silent snarl, she ripped her hand from his leg, viciously tearing the muscles before disappearing into the deep.

Sherlock slammed into John harder than he had intended. Their limbs tangled together and Sherlock worried that he'd caused more damage than help. His friend was limp, knocked out by the sudden impact when he hit the water so there was no way to know. He grasped John under the arms and kicked his legs. The lifejacket helped Sherlock drag him to the surface, but they were deep, dangerously deep. He had to control their ascent or risk collapsing John's lungs. They'd been under the water for no more than a minute, but John's leg was wounded. There was no telling where the boat was, but he knew they were far from where they'd started.

His power fading with his adrenaline, Sherlock breached the river and gasped the cool summer air. John bobbed to the surface beside him, floating limply. The stink of fish and mud clung to both of them. He dreaded to think of John's leg and the fetid water getting into this blood, infecting him, killing him. The light was drawing back in an ever shrinking ring centered on Sherlock. It was still bright enough to see John's face; slack and cold. Sherlock's heart lurched in his chest.

"J-John," Sherlock said, sputtering. He held John tight with one arm and patted his cheek with his free hand. "Come on, come on. Lestrade!"

Twisting his head, he searched for the boat. Behind him, the _Gunslinger_ sat low in the water, flooded and slow. They were at least a hundred fifty feet away. He'd have a hell of a time explaining what had happened, but he had to worry about that later. John needed on that boat, his life depended on it.

"Start the motor!" he bellowed to Lestrade. "Hurry!"

Thankfully, the water remained calm when Lestrade started puttering towards them as fast as his pitiful boat could go. Sherlock grasped the straps on the front of the jacket and started pulling John towards their rescue.

"It's ok, John," he muttered as he kicked through the water, "it's ok. I've got you."

"What the _fuck_," Lestrade shouted as he drew up to them.

With a heave, Sherlock tossed John up and into the boat and dragged himself after. It had been dangerous to throw John in his state, but he had to take the risk. John still wasn't breathing. Panic lanced through Sherlock as he leaned over to start CPR, his wet, black hair getting in his eyes. He had to save John, nothing else mattered. And he had to be careful. He had enough sense to remember that normal people had a tendency of breaking ribs during chest compressions. He could easily push his fist through John's chest cavity if he wasn't completely focused.

John's skin was clammy under Sherlock's hand as he tilted his head back. He ripped open the lifejacket and pressed his ear to his chest, knowing he'd hear even the smallest of vibrations. Nothing. _Shit._

He filled John's lungs, careful not to blow too forcefully. _God_, he thought, _there are a million ways for John to die. I can't be the one to kill him trying to save him._

Chest compressions followed. One, two, three, four. And repeat. John's lips were cold under his. Water sloshed in John's lungs, and Sherlock eased him onto his stomach to push gently on his back, forcing a mouthful of the Thames to rush out onto the deck.

With a strangled gasp, John started breathing on his own. It was labored and he was still unconscious, but it was something. Sherlock fell back on the deck, shaking like a newborn lamb.

"S-Sherlock," Lestrade stuttered.

"His leg," Sherlock said. "Tourniquet. And call an ambulance and rescue boat. I'm going to…"

Black swarmed Sherlock. His hand reached out to John as the lights went out.

* * *

_Red, hot fire engulfed John's leg. He'd been shot in the war, he knew the feeling of torn muscle and broken bone. There had been shock to soften the blow then. Now there was nothing but pain as he was pulled overboard, hooks digging into his calf, ripping meat from the bone. There wasn't time to scream. The beast pulled him down. His head slammed into the water with enough force to knock him out, but he could feel the cold, dark water fill his lungs as he was pulled down, down, down into the Thames. He was dying. It hurt. His ears popped as they dove and ringing filled his entire world. Darkness and noise. The ringing. The—_

John jerked awake. There was an oxygen mask strapped to his head and more wires and tubes coming from his chest and lower body. His heart monitor was wailing and he wasn't surprised. Blood thundered in his ears as the last trace of his nightmare faded from his mind.

The fluorescent lights were too bright and his head felt fuzzy. He could only just make out a tall, dark form scramble up from a chair to his right to fiddle with the monitors, quieting the worst of the racket. A large, cold hand pressed to his forehead and probed under his jaw, checking his lymph nodes.

"Gah," he muttered, "still inflamed. And your fever isn't getting better."

"Sh-" John started, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask. His throat burned and he gasped for air.

"No, don't talk," Sherlock said. "We're at Bart's. You're okay now. Relatively speaking."

Sherlock sighed and adjusted the pillow behind John's head. He tucked the thin hospital blanket around John, even though he was sweating through the sheets.

"You were a bit drowned," Sherlock continued as he fussed, "so they're keeping you under observation. They're watching out for non pulmonary infection. Mental impairment. You're a doctor, you know the drill. Thankfully, you're oxygenation levels are up. They took you off intubation a few hours ago."

John tried to nod, but he could do little more than twitch.

"Don't, just…" Sherlock sighed. John could feel him pull away and tried to turn his head to watch, but moving was hard. His vision was still rubbish, but he could make out Sherlock, his shoulders slumped as he stared at the floor between his feet.

"John," Sherlock said, "that's the good news. The bad news is that your leg has been seriously injured. If it had just been lacerated that'd be one thing, but you were in the Thames. It's infected and they're having trouble reducing the swelling. They're also afraid to give you too many anti-inflammatories with your lungs being as weak as they are and I, uh. God. So there's that. I've got your morphine cranked. If I didn't, you'd start screaming."

John wanted to talk. He needed too. He had to tell Sherlock that it wasn't his fault. Whatever had happened. Whatever had done this to him. He'd known the risks. Hell, he'd been willing to swim into danger without hesitation to keep his friend safe. To help. Only he hadn't. He'd just gotten himself damn near killed. And possibly screwed up what information they could've gotten had he just stayed on the bank and done as Sherlock had asked.

The monitors started blaring again and John saw spots swim before his eyes. He felt sick from the morphine and now that he knew his leg was injured, he could feel the pain like a phantom bear trap digging into his skin.

Sherlock was up, fretting again and pushing the button to summon a nurse. Sherlock who had to have been the one that saved him. Sherlock who declared to anyone who cared to listen that he was a heartless sociopath. A former junkie. Sherlock who only cared about people if they had been killed in an interesting manner. Sherlock who despised bullies but was willing to reduce the innocent to tears to expedite his needs. Sherlock whose hands were shaking as he took John's pulse and had to be physically removed from the room so the nurses could work.

John knew then that he had done Sherlock a grave injustice. From the beginning, from the first moment they had met years ago in the hospital John now lay, he had thought Sherlock more machine than man. Since Sherlock's transformation, his opinion hadn't changed much. But he had felt Sherlock's hands shaking. He'd heard the tremor in Sherlock's voice as he told him his prognosis.

A smile ghosted along John's lips as he slipped into unconsciousness. Sherlock wasn't a monster. He was human. He was _human._


End file.

Sherlock, Fantasy, Mystery